.. -*- encoding: utf-8 -*-

.. meta::
   :PG.Id: 42459
   :PG.Title: Bernard Treve's Boots
   :PG.Released: 2013-04-01
   :PG.Reposted: 2013-05-14 (minor correction)
   :PG.Rights: Public Domain
   :PG.Producer: Al Haines
   :DC.Creator: Laurence Clarke
   :DC.Title: Bernard Treve's Boots
              A Novel of the Secret Service
   :DC.Language: en
   :DC.Created: 1920
   :coverpage: images/img-cover.jpg

======================
BERNARD TREVES'S BOOTS
======================

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.. pgheader::

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      BERNARD TREVES'S BOOTS

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      A NOVEL OF THE SECRET SERVICE

   .. vspace:: 2

   .. class:: small

      BY

   .. class:: medium

      LAURENCE CLARKE

   .. class:: small

      AUTHOR OF "A PRINCE OF INDIA," ETC.

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   .. class:: medium

      HODDER AND STOUGHTON LIMITED
      LONDON
      1920  

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.. container:: dedication noindent white-space-pre-line

   .. class:: medium

      DEDICATION

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   To Sir Emsley Carr, who suggested
   that I should write this book, and
   to whom I am much indebted for
   valuable first-hand incidents which
   figure in these pages.

   .. vspace:: 1

   .. class:: medium

   *January*, 1920.

.. vspace:: 4

.. _`CHAPTER I`:

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   CHAPTER I

.. vspace:: 2

"Are you sure your name is Manton?"

Captain Gilbert looked keenly across the table.  The
light in the little room was not good, and the expression
on the Captain's face was one of intense interest and
bewilderment.

"Quite sure, sir—John Manton," answered the man
standing at the further side of the table.

Manton was one of a number of recruits who had that
day presented themselves at the Ryde Recruiting Office—a
tall, well-poised man of twenty-six, dark-haired,
blue-eyed, firm-lipped and vigorous-looking, despite the
fact that his countenance was somewhat pale.  He wore
a well-brushed blue serge suit, noticeably the worse for
wear.  His bowler hat, too, had seen long service.

Captain Gilbert, still looking at him, drew forth a
sheet of paper, and took up his pen.

"John Manton," he wrote, then his eyes lifted, and
he looked once more and with a peculiar expression into
the tall young recruit's face.  For a moment he paused.
"Manton," he said, "I should like to see you privately
after the office closes."

The young man steadily returned his gaze.

"Very good, sir," he said, with an air of docility.  "At
what time shall I come?"

"At eight o'clock," returned Gilbert.  "Wait for me
outside."  His eyes followed the other as he turned and
left the building, but the moment the door had closed
Captain Gilbert plunged once again into his work.

"Next," he called to the line of men seated on the
far side of the room; and the man at the end of the
line rose and advanced towards the table.

Manton in the meantime paced the streets until eight
o'clock, then turned his steps towards the recruiting office.

"I wonder what he wants," thought the young man.

Possibly Gilbert guessed he had been in the army before,
and wished to question him upon that point.

"Whatever he wants," thought Manton, somewhat
wearily, "does not much matter.  If he refuses to take
me, and manages to find out everything, I can enlist
somewhere else."

As the clock struck eight Captain Gilbert, with an air
of haste, closed his desk, left the office and came striding
along the street.

"Ah!" exclaimed the Captain, catching sight of
Manton, "we'll come up here to the left; it's quieter."

He led the way as he spoke towards a deserted side
street.  It was already almost dark, and the dimmed
street lamps had been lit.  They had proceeded some
distance together in silence, when Gilbert halted suddenly,
and laid his hand on Manton's shoulder.

"Treves," he said, "so you had the grit to do it,
after all?"

Manton turned and stared in wonderment.

"Do what, sir?"  But he suddenly felt his fingers
seized in a cordial grip.

"Gad," went on Gilbert, "that'll make a man of you—eh?"

"I'm afraid I don't understand a word of what you
are saying, sir!"

"You don't understand a word!  Why, of course
you don't!  I like you for it—and I'll be frank, I thought
I never could like you.  Somehow," he went on, looking
into Manton's face, "you are the same and yet different,
but I'd know you anywhere, despite this shabby old suit
and your battered bowler.  You knew me, too, when
you came into the office."

Manton, still bewildered beyond measure, shook his
head slowly.

"I have never seen you in my life before, sir!"

"No, of course not," laughed Gilbert, who was jovial
and good-natured.  He slipped his arm through Manton's.
"Come along now, and we'll talk about it!"  Something
in the situation of the moment seemed to exhilarate him.
"So you've decided to make good after all?  Well, all
I can say is—I'm delighted.  For your own sake, for the
old Colonel's sake, for everybody's sake!"

Again he paused and looked into his companion's face.

"I'll admit, Treves, I didn't think you had it in you.
I thought——"

Manton freed his arm from the other's grasp.

"I am sorry, sir," he said, "but you are evidently
making a grievous mistake.  My name is Manton——"

"I don't care what your name is," retorted Gilbert,
irritated a little by what he believed to be the other's
unnecessary reserve.  "You can get rid of your name
and call yourself Manton or Jones or Smith or Robinson
or anything you like for all I care!  But I know you to
be Bernard Treves, and——"

But this time a note of firmness appeared in Manton's
voice.

"My name is not Treves, sir!"

Gilbert shrugged his shoulders.

"You needn't keep up that note with me," he said.
"I'm delighted to find you have the grit to try to make
some sort of reparation."

Manton moistened his lips.

"I still don't understand you," he said slowly.  "But
all I can do is to assure you I am not Treves.  If you
know some one who resembles me and whose name is
Treves, perhaps you would look at me again.  To
my knowledge, sir, I have never met you in my life
before."

As he spoke he took off his hat and turned his face
fully towards the Captain.

For a moment there was silence.

"In this half-darkness," said Gilbert, "you look
absolutely like Bernard Treves to me.  You looked like
him in the office.  I could see that you had been in the
army the minute you stood at my table."  He paused,
and for the first time a slight doubt crept over him.
"The only thing that seems changed to me," he went
on, "is your manner.  Come, now, Treves, you know
me well enough to confide in me; that's why I asked
you to speak to me out of the office.  Anything you care
to say will go no further.  I will accept it as unofficial,
and if you intend to make good I'm prepared to be a
good friend to you.  But in the first place admit that
you are Treves; it will make matters much easier."

For some moments Manton remained silent.  Gilbert
believed that at last he was about to admit his identity.

"I will tell you my history for the past three months,
sir," said the young man.

"I shall respect your confidence," Gilbert answered.

"I am sorry to disappoint you, sir, but my name is
really Manton, and, as you guessed when I came into
the office, I have been in the army before.  I was at
Scarthoe Head, Battery A.  I was a sergeant, and, being
a public school man, was made book-keeper to the acting
adjutant."  He fell into silence again, and went on after
a pause.  "Something went wrong in regard to the
delivery of stores to the fort.  There was a hundred and
forty-five pounds deficit in the accounts.  I was held
responsible, sir."

There was an intensity and a genuineness in the ring
of the stranger's voice that gripped Gilbert's attention.
He listened with the closest attention, and as Manton
narrated in detail his life during the past six months,
Gilbert's convictions faded and gradually vanished.  It
was impossible that the man could have invented the
story, a story so easy of verification.  It was some time,
however, before he let Manton perceive his change of
view; then he drew in a deep breath.

"Gad!" he exclaimed, "then you are not Treves
after all!"

"No, sir."

"Go on with your story."

Manton obediently resumed his discourse, bringing his
history down to that afternoon and his visit to the
recruiting office.

"It's amazing!" exclaimed Gilbert.  "I could have
sworn——  But, after all," he went on, as if communing
with himself, "there's something in your eyes that's
different."

"My one ambition in life," concluded Manton, "is to
repay that hundred and forty-five pounds.  I wanted to
do it for the honour of the battery.  But when three
months had passed and I found I couldn't manage it,
I decided to enlist again."

Gilbert, when his first surprise had departed, began
to feel an unusual interest in the young man, and as the
two strolled back towards the Captain's hotel, he dropped
his slight tone of authority, but was quite uncommunicative
as to the mysterious and evidently delinquent Treves.

"If you could come to the office in the morning," he
said at parting, "I think we can get round any difficulties
there may be in regard to your re-enlistment.  Do you
mind if I make inquiries about you, merely as a matter
of form?"

"Not in the least, sir."

A few minutes later Captain Gilbert put through a
trunk call to Scarthoe Fort.  The commandant of
Battery A, who was known to Gilbert by name, happened
to be on duty.  Gilbert explained that a man giving the
name of John Manton, lately of his battery, had that day
attempted to re-enlist at Ryde.

"I'd like all the information you can give me about
him," Gilbert asked.

"One of the best," came back the prompt answer from
Scarthoe Fort.  "Manton was a favourite here, and
quite unofficially, although matters got a bit muddled,
and the case went against him, none of us believed him
guilty.  A first-rate gunner and white clear through.  I
shall be glad to know that he's back in the army again."

Gilbert rang off, and all that night the amazing
resemblance between his friend Treves and Manton
occupied his thoughts.  As a result of this preoccupation,
and some time during the small hours, a startling idea
came to him, first as a nebulous, vague possibility, then
as an entirely practicable and simple solution of a
difficulty.  The thought was this: why should not the
singular resemblance between Treves and Manton be
turned to good account?  Manton had said he wanted
more than anything in the world to repay the money
due to the battery.  Treves, on his part, wanted——  Gilbert
broke off here, but his thoughts continued to
pursue the new, startling idea that had come to him.

"Gad!" he exclaimed, as the morning broke, "I
believe the plan would achieve miracles.  If Treves got
away under another name he might rouse himself.  He
might become a man again." ...

In the morning Manton came into the office looking
bright, vigorous and full of vitality.  Gilbert rose and
examined him.  Yes, there was a difference, a slight,
almost undetectable difference.  Something in the
eyes—nothing more than that.

"Are you convinced now, sir?" asked the young man,
smiling and standing at attention.

"I am quite convinced, Manton, and I have a
proposition to make to you."

He took his visitor into an inner room, and, seated
there, he unfolded a little of the plan that had come to
him during the watches of the night.

"Manton," he said, "I must get authority before I
can accept you as a recruit, but in the meantime," he
went on, "I have been thinking of our talk of last night.
I like you for trying to earn that hundred and forty-five
pounds, and they gave a good account of you at Scarthoe."

"I don't know who had the money, sir, but I'd do
anything in the world to pay it back for the honour of
the battery."

Captain Gilbert paused, then took a letter from the
pocket of his tunic.  The envelope was addressed:
"Lieutenant Bernard Treves, 15, Sade Road, Lymington."

Gilbert had written this letter earlier that morning.
With a certain air of formality he handed it to John
Manton and instructed him to deliver it to Lieutenant
Treves that evening after dark.

"I have a plan in regard to you, Manton, that I think
will work out to your entire satisfaction.  I won't tell
you what it is until you have seen my friend Treves.
But when Treves has read this letter he may, or may
not, think it worth his while to pay you the money you
need.  If he doesn't, please come back to me to-morrow,
and we will go on with the matter of your re-enlistment."

"In case Lieutenant Treves decides favourably, sir,
what must I do to earn the money?"

"You will learn that from him," answered the Captain.
"Go to-night, as unobtrusively as you can," he said.
He rose, held out his hand and gripped Manton's fingers
cordially in his.





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.. _`CHAPTER II`:

.. class:: center large

   CHAPTER II

.. vspace:: 2

That evening, when John Manton stepped off the boat
at Lymington, a heavy summer rain was falling.  In the
town itself the streets appeared to be deserted, and it
was some minutes before he encountered a workman
hurrying home, with upturned collar.  He inquired the
way to Sade Road, and five minutes later came upon a
row of small workmen's cottages with little gardens in
front.  Counting the houses until he came to number
fifteen, he entered the garden gate, and, striking a match,
discovered that he had halted at the right address.  A
woman came to the door in answer to his knock, and
stood in the dark, looking out at him, opening the door
only a few cautious inches.

"What do you want?"

Manton, with collar turned up and hat drawn over his
brows, answered that he brought a letter for Lieutenant
Treves.

"You'd better go up to him, then," said the woman,
drawing open the door.  "It's the front room at the top
of the stairs."

There was a candle at the stair-head, and Manton
passed her, ascended the single flight of steps and halted
at the door.  The smallness of the house, the shabbiness
of the woman who had admitted him, depressed his spirits.
He liked Captain Gilbert, with his sleek and buoyant
confidence.  This plan of his suddenly struck Manton
as the wildest piece of quixotism.

He lifted his hand and knocked quietly upon the door.
A voice from within instantly invited him to enter.  A
moment later he stood in a small lamp-lit bedroom.
The room was littered with trunks, suit-cases, boxes and
a general confusion of other articles.  The close air
reeked with the smell of Turkish cigarettes, and at a
table near the window, with a lamp before him, sat
a young man, busily occupied scribbling figures on a
sheet of paper.

Bernard Treves, whose back was towards the door,
wore mufti, and Manton, in the moment of entering,
noticed that he was well dressed and that his hair was
smooth and dark.

"If that's my supper, Mrs. Dodge," said Treves, "put
it on the bed."  He spoke without looking round, took
a drink of whisky from a glass at his side, then went on
with his figures.

Manton, standing near the door, coughed to attract his
attention.

"Hallo!" exclaimed Treves, and turned swiftly.  In
an instant at sight of Manton his expression changed.
He sprang to his feet in what appeared to be a state of
terror, and stood staring at his visitor without uttering
a word.  With brows drawn together, he passed a hand
over his eyes, then he turned, and, lifting his lamp from
the table, held it aloft.

"Who are you?" he demanded savagely, "and what
the devil do you want?"

John Manton took the letter from his pocket.

"I have come with a letter from your friend, Captain
Gilbert," he answered quietly.

With his eyes still fixed on Manton, Treves lowered
the lamp and replaced it on the table.

"A letter," he repeated, "from Gilbert?  Give it to
me."  He held out his hand.  "God!" he exclaimed,
as he snatched the envelope, "coming in like that, you
gave me a devil of a start.  I thought that I was looking
into my own face!  Come nearer; come into the light."

Manton advanced farther into the room.

"I suppose these figures I've been poring over," went
on Treves, "have made my eyes a bit wrong, but I've
never seen anything like it."  His nerve was gradually
returning, and his astonishment was turning to
amusement at the intensity of the resemblance between them.

"Look into the mirror there," he said.  "Don't you
think the likeness is amazing?"

Manton looked into the mirror, and then again at the
young man, who had replaced the lamp on the table,
and was tearing open Gilbert's envelope.  As he
scrutinised Treves's face and figure he, too, was astonished.
He began to understand now something of Captain
Gilbert's strange behaviour of the day before.  But
Manton had never been occupied over much with his
own appearance; he took himself for granted, and after
the first momentary flash of curiosity he thought no more
of the resemblance.  Besides, there was, after all, a
difference.  Treves wore a black moustache; his
complexion was flushed, whereas Manton, as a result of gas
poisoning at the Front, was still pale.  Treves's eyes,
moreover, were evasive and furtive in expression.
Nevertheless, it would have been difficult to tell the two men
apart.

"Sit down, Sergeant," Treves said.  "Help yourself
to a drink."  He waved towards the whisky bottle and
a siphon on the table.  Upon Manton refusing the drink,
Treves pushed towards him a box of cigarettes.  Then
read Captain Gilbert's missive through a second and a
third time, and seemed to be considering it deeply with
brows drawn together.  "Do you know what is in this
letter?" he questioned at last.

"No."

"Captain Gilbert told you nothing?"

"Nothing whatever, beyond saying that you might be
willing to make some sort of offer."

"Well, he makes an extraordinary suggestion," went
on Treves, leaning back in his chair.  "It's all brought
about by your resemblance to me."  His eyes sought
the letter again.  "He tells me you are a public school
boy and all that, and gives me here an outline of your
little trouble at Scarthoe Head.  Well, for certain reasons
known to himself and to me, he thinks you may be able
to make yourself useful to me.  That is," he added,
"if you are willing to undertake a somewhat delicate
piece of work."

Manton looked inquiringly at Treves; he was not sure
of the young man.

"Perhaps you will let me know the nature of the work."

"The fact of the matter is, Manton," Treves resumed,
dropping his voice confidentially, "I am in want of help.
Owing to certain peculiar circumstances, I want
somebody to make use of my name and my personality for a
short time."

He took up his whisky and Manton observed an almost
imperceptible tremor of his fingers as they closed about
the glass.

"Now, your extraordinary likeness to me, and the
fact that you are in need of cash—well, do you see the
point?"

"I'm afraid not," remarked Manton quietly.

Treves made a gesture of impatience.

"It's pretty plain, I should think.  You need cash,
I need some one to step into my shoes; somebody who
must take the name of Bernard Treves.  Now, do you
understand?"

"Your suggestion is that I should pass myself off as
you?"

"That's it exactly!"

His visitor stared at him in amazement.

"But I don't see," said he, "any advantage in that for
either of us."

"Perhaps not.  How much money are you in need
of?" Treves inquired pointedly.

"Nearly one hundred and fifty pounds."

Treves whistled.

"Lot of money," he said.

John Manton agreed with him, and for a space there
was silence.  John's hopes that had risen fell to
zero.

Then Treves poured himself another glass of whisky,
and drank it down.  He wiped his lips with a silk
handkerchief from his breast pocket.

"All right," he said at length; "carry out my wishes
and you shall have it."

"Then you are serious?"

"I was never more serious in my life.  You are to
take everything that is mine, and in return you shall have
the money you need."

A vague doubt stirred in Manton's mind; then he
thought of Gilbert.  The Captain was most obviously
a man of honour.

"If I accept, can I still enlist?"

"Enlist by all means."

"It seems to me to be an easy way of earning the
money, but what about your rank in the army?"

Treves flashed a suspicious glance at him; there was a
questioning expression in his eyes.

"If you accept my offer we can go into details later,
and as regards my rank, I—I happen to be leaving the
army."

"In that case," said Manton, "I am much obliged to
you; the money will be a great boon to me."

"You accept?"

"Like a bird!" smiled Manton.  "But there is one
thing I would like to ask."

"Well?"

"The terms are generous enough," he said, "but
what is to happen to my name; is that to disappear too?"

Bernard Treves lit a cigarette, and looked at him with
the expression of one from whose mind has been lifted a
heavy burden.  He made an expressive gesture with his
hand.

"For the time being," he answered, "the name of
Sergeant Manton will vanish into thin air."





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`CHAPTER III`:

.. class:: center large

   CHAPTER III

.. vspace:: 2

Six days later Manton found himself once more in
Lymington, alone in Treves's lodgings, in the crowded
room, littered with that young man's desirable
possessions.  Those possessions were, for the time being, his
own; even Treves's name was his, for, carrying out his
bargain, Treves had vanished from the scene.  Again
Manton fell to wondering why the other had been so
anxious to dispossess himself of name and identity.
There was nothing criminal in the matter, he was assured
of that, otherwise Captain Gilbert would not have had a
hand in it.  The idea that the Lieutenant had suffered
from shell-shock, and desired to hide himself from all who
knew him for a time until he had recovered, came to
Manton, and struck him as feasible.  He had himself
known quite a number of peculiar manifestations of this
particularly mysterious disease.  In any case, whatever
Treves's reasons, it mattered little to Manton at that
moment.

"I have simply got to make myself act as Treves,
and to do the best I can in Treves's shoes for the time
being."

A few days earlier the young man had written him a
letter in which he had said: "Use everything of mine as
if it were your own.  It is only fair if you get the kicks
meant for me, you should get the ha'pence as well.  I
have few relations, and none of them are likely to bother
you.  When we shall meet again I do not know, but, in
the meantime, *au revoir*.  I wonder what you will feel
like this time next year?"

Manton, in the quiet of the room, took some considerable
time trying to realise his new circumstances, and
gradually the sense of strangeness and mystery that
enveloped him began to fade away.  In all his life
Manton had been used to the buffets and hard knocks of
Fate; he began to wonder what his immediate future in
Treves's shoes held for him.  Both parents having died
in India, he had been educated from a small fund in the
hands of a guardian, first in Germany, and later at Rugby.
After that he spent two years at Bonn.  His resources
were at an end, and the guardian, feeling that he had done
his duty, left him to fend for himself.  A period of hard
going had followed, until the war broke out, whereupon
he precipitately enlisted in the first hundred thousand.
If he had waited a little longer a commission would have
been thrust upon him as it was upon all public school
men in any way eligible.  Treves's past, Manton
surmised, had not been of that nature, for despite the
poorness of the young man's lodgings, all his belongings
were of the costliest order.  And all these belongings
were now his, Manton's, to do with as he liked.  The
idea came to him to write to Captain Gilbert, thanking
him for the amicable intervention that had wrought
this change in his circumstances.  He sat down, drew
forth a sheet of Treves's notepaper, and had taken up
a pen when a knock came at the door, and the landlady
appeared.

"You'd like some tea, sir, wouldn't you?"

"Yes, thank you," answered the young man.

"I've dusted the room every day, sir, since you've
been away," said the landlady.

"It's exactly as I left it," responded he truthfully.
She was looking at him across the width of the little
room, but there was no doubt or curiosity in her gaze;
she had accepted him instantly on his arrival that day
as Bernard Treves, and even now, looking at him full and
closely, no thought of deception entered her mind.  "I
wonder what she'd think," he pondered inwardly, "if
Treves were to come in behind her now."

But no such dramatic event occurred; the landlady
brought up his tea, and later furnished him with a bottle
of whisky, a siphon of soda, and a glass.

Next morning, when she cleared these things away,
she was surprised to find that no more than one peg of
whisky had been taken.

"Wasn't you feeling well, sir, last night?" she asked.

"Quite," answered Manton, who was busy with an
excellent breakfast.

She went away wondering.  Until that day she had
never known Mr. Treves to drink less than half a bottle
of whisky in the course of an evening.

During the morning John went for a stroll in the town,
and on his return the landlady handed him a letter
which had arrived by the post in his absence.  Manton
took it up to his room, and noticed that the handwriting
was sprawling and shaky.  Twice he read the
superscription, "Bernard Treves, Esq., 15, Sade Road,
Lymington."  He hesitated several minutes before
breaking open the envelope.  He felt as though he were
stepping beyond the pale of decency in opening the
letter addressed to another man, then he recalled Treves's
admonition, "Everything that is mine is yours."  He
tore open the envelope.  Within was a single sheet of
paper headed, "Heatherfield Grange, Freshwater."  Manton
quickly scanned the contents.

.. vspace:: 2

"*Dear Bernard,—They tell me you are in hiding, as
well you may be, but if you have a spark of decency
left in you, you will come here to me at the first
opportunity.  There are things I have to say to you*.

"*You have dishonoured and disgraced the family name,
but I have still a faint hope that you will retrieve yourself
at the last moment.—Your affectionate father,*

.. vspace:: 1

.. class:: noindent

"R.T."

.. vspace:: 2

For many minutes John Manton sat staring at this
letter, staring from the stiff, sprawling writing out into the
little street and back again.

All that day he pondered upon the missive he had
received from Treves's father.  He wondered what it was
Treves had done, and why he should have been skulking
in hiding at that address?  A sense of uneasiness swept
over him, and was succeeded by a violent curiosity.  For
the first time he felt vividly interested in Treves and
Treves's history, and at the same time doubtful and
uneasy.  Unpleasant and difficult situations presented
themselves to his mind.

Next morning, as a result of a decision he had taken,
he was on his way to Freshwater by midday.  At three
o'clock in the afternoon he walked through the town and
out to Heatherfield Grange, which he discovered to be a
large, many-chimneyed, many-windowed Elizabethan
mansion, standing in a spacious, heavily-wooded park.
The mansion itself was approached by a long carriage
drive, too much overshadowed by trees, and when Manton
reached the lodge gates a bent old man, who was sweeping
leaves from the path, hurried forward and drew open the
gate for him to enter.  The man drew himself up and
saluted.

"Good day, Master Bernard."

Manton nodded and smiled.  As he walked along the
drive towards the grand old house, his pulse-beat
quickened.  After all, had he a right to act the part; was
it honourable and fair that he should thus step into
another man's shoes?  The under-gardener had taken
him for Bernard Treves; the whole world evidently was
prepared to believe in the deception.  But there was
Treves's father to face.  Naturally Treves's father would
detect an impostor in a moment.  But was he an
impostor; was it not probable that the elder Treves also
was aware of what had occurred?

The broad front door of the mansion was opened to
him.  A white-haired butler, with pouches under his
eyes, and a general air of world-weariness, looked at him
from the threshold, and slowly lifted his eyes in surprise.

"Good afternoon, sir," said the butler.  He took
Manton's hat and stick, and deferentially stood aside.
"Your father will indeed be pleased and surprised to
see you, sir," he said, as he closed the door.  His manner
was studiously civil, and yet somehow Manton felt a
lack of cordiality towards himself in the butler's tone.

"Possibly he's a privileged servant," he thought,
"and does not like Mr. Bernard."

"Where is—is the Colonel?" he asked after a moment's
hesitation.

"In the library, sir, as usual.  Will you go up at once?"

"Yes."  He wondered consumedly where the Colonel's
room might be, and experienced a pleasant thrill of
impending event.  He attempted a little harmless finesse
to discover the way.  "Perhaps you will go first and tell
him I am here."

"Very good, sir."  The butler looked at him meditatively
for a moment, then went to a side-table and took
up a silver salver containing three letters and a telegram.
Manton seized the moment to survey the heavy splendour
of the dark antique furniture, the wide spaces of the hall
and the richness of the rugs scattered over the polished
floor.  High above the mantelshelf hung a portrait in oils
of a personage in eighteenth century costume.  Descending
to the middle of the hall was a wide oak balustraded
staircase, carpeted in scarlet, a single flight ascended to
the first floor, then branched to right and left.

"Your letters, sir."  The butler was standing at
Manton's elbow with the silver salver extended.  John
took up the three letters and the telegram.  A renewed
and intensified disinclination to pry into Bernard Treves's
affairs seized him.  He was about to put letters and
telegram into his pocket when the butler spoke in his
firm, polite voice.  There was a note of reproach in his
tone, however, "The telegram came two days ago, sir."

"Oh!" exclaimed Manton.  And under the bleak
eye of the butler he disinterred it from his pocket, tore
open the envelope, and read the contents.  The telegram
had been dispatched from Camden Town, and ran:

.. vspace:: 2

"*Wire when you can come.  Of course I will forgive
you.*—ELAINE."

.. vspace:: 2

He was conscious, as he read the words, that the
butler's eyes were fixed steadily upon him.

Then the old servant turned and preceded him towards
the broad staircase.  They ascended to the first landing,
and here the butler wheeled to the right and halted
before a double green baize door.  The elderly man
knocked, paused for a moment, then pushed open the
door, and stepped into a room lined with books, a spacious,
luxuriously furnished apartment, with two mullioned
windows overlooking the park.  John, following him,
saw him cross to a deep, high-backed arm-chair near the
hearth.

"Mr. Bernard's here, sir," he announced, standing
before this chair.

There was a movement in the chair, then a tall,
soldierly, grey-haired man revealed himself, leaning on
a stick, and looked across at Manton.  He looked at him
with a cold, inimical gaze, and until the butler had closed
the door and departed, did not utter a word, Then he
spoke:

"So you've come, you dog, have you!"  The almost
savage intensity of dislike and contempt in his tone
struck the young man like a blow in the face.

"I got your letter——" he began.

"Oh, yes, I found out where you were.  Well," he
went on, harshly, "there is no need for us to waste
compliments on each other.  We will settle the business that
is to be settled at once."

He moved shakily towards a desk in the middle of the
room, using his stick as a support.  Manton, seeing his
frailty, hurried forward to assist him, but the old man
drew himself erect, raised his stick, and flashed a look at
him of utter repulsion.

"Do not dare to lay a hand on me," he said violently.

When he reached his desk he seated himself in a big
swivel-chair, drew out a drawer, and flung certain
documents on the table.  From under his eyebrows he
glowered at Manton.

"Sit down," he commanded.

John moved to the table side and occupied a chair near
his elbow.  Among a pile of documents Colonel Treves
searched for a certain typewritten sheet.  He found it at
length, a long, yellow piece of official paper.

"Listen to this," he commanded.  From the table
beside him he took up a square reading glass, and
deciphered the typewritten paper with faded grey eyes.
"This," he vouchsafed, raising his eyes, "is from my old,
good friend, General Whiston."  He paused a moment,
and John seized the opportunity to intervene, "May I
say a word, sir?"

"No," thundered Treves.  Then he read aloud in a
voice vibrant with emotion:

.. vspace:: 2

"*My dear Treves,—Your boy had every chance....  It
was the merest fluke in the world that he escaped as
easily as he did.  He is not of the right stuff, and my
condolences are with you.  I wish I could suggest
something, but I cannot.  I know, old friend, what a tragedy
this must be to you——*"

.. vspace:: 2

The Colonel stopped abruptly, flung down his reading
glass, and looked into Manton's face.  "Well?" he
demanded.  "What do you think of that?"

Manton said nothing.

"Can you read between the lines?" questioned the
elder man.

"It suggests," said John, after a moment's hesitation,
"that the punishment meted out to—to me, was a light one."

"I see you are as evasive as ever," retorted Colonel
Treves.  He turned and smote the open letter twice with
the back of his hand.  "In this letter, General Whiston,"
he measured his words slowly, "tells me, by implication,
that you are guilty of cowardice in the face of the
enemy—you, a Treves!" Then in a moment the anger that
had vivified him seemed to fade; he appeared to Manton
to become suddenly old, bowed, and pitiful, the expression
on his face was one of anguish.  The dishonour that had
befallen his name was no less than torture to him, but
once again he recovered himself, and gripped the arms of
his chair with both white-knuckled hands.

"You know the just punishment for cowardice in the
face of the enemy?"  He was leaning towards Manton
now; his mouth twitched, but there was a blaze in the
old grey eyes.

"I know it, sir," said John quietly.

The Colonel drew in his breath slowly and sat erect.

"Ah, you know.  And, having escaped that punishment,
and knowing yourself to be guilty, you skulk in
hiding!  You fail to seize the one chance that is open to
you to redeem the past!"

"What is the chance?" inquired Manton, forgetting
himself for a moment.

The Colonel stared at him in astonishment.

"The chance of re-enlistment, of course.  Instead of
doing that," he went on, "you write me a whining letter,
saying you can't stand the trenches, you can't face it,
your nerves—bah! nerves, my God, and you a Treves!"  He
hurled these words forth with a contempt and loathing
that was like a blow in the face.  But Manton noticed
that he was breathing heavily.  The emotional intensity
of his feelings was wearing on him, and the younger man
felt a sudden tenderness towards this old, stricken, bitterly
disappointed father.

"Is it too late now, sir?" he asked quietly.

"Eh?"

"Is it too late for me to make good?"

"Talk!" exclaimed the Colonel, in bitter derision;
"always talk with you.  You don't mean that any more
than you meant any of the lying promises you made to
me in the past.  You have always been a liar!  A liar, a
spendthrift, and a fool—and now, added to all these
things, to your gambling and your profligacy, you've
finished as a——"

He paused, and Manton ventured:

"In regard to a way out, sir?"

The Colonel looked at him with renewed ferocity, then
his expression slowly changed.  For some seconds he was
silent, and, without a glance at Manton, he began to
fumble at a drawer.  He drew it open at length, and
groped in its interior.  His hand shook visibly, but there
was something in his attitude, some strange intensity of
purpose, that riveted Manton's attention.  Presently
the Colonel discovered the object he sought, and revealed
from the depths of the drawer an automatic pistol.

"If you have a shred of honour left you will know
what to do," he said grimly.  He reached out, and laid
the weapon on the corner of the desk at the young man's
side.





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`CHAPTER IV`:

.. class:: center large

   CHAPTER IV

.. vspace:: 2

Then Colonel Treves rose slowly to his feet, took up his
stick, and moved towards the door of the room.  With
his hand on the door knob, he pointed his stick at the
weapon on the table.  Manton had remained motionless;
utterly at a loss.  Now the old soldier's meaning gradually
revealed itself.

"You want me to take this and——?"

"And," broke in Colonel Treves, "use it to recover
such shreds of honour as are left to you."

He drew open the door.

"Thanks," said Manton, taking the pistol from the
desk.  He slipped the weapon into his hip pocket.  The
Colonel halted, looking back at him in surprise.

"What are you going to do?"

"I am going to use it," answered John, "if occasion
arises."

He saw the Colonel hesitate.  Some deep emotion
seemed to stir within him.  Then with an effort he turned
swiftly, and was about to hurry from the room.  Manton
strode towards him.

"There was another way out?" he questioned, rapidly.

"There was, and you failed to take it.  You whined
that you couldn't face the army again—you, a Treves!
In the past, before my time and yours," went on the
Colonel, suddenly violent again, "there have been Treves
who have been fools and spendthrifts; there may have
been Treves who kept their honour none too clean—but
never in our long line has there been a coward until you
came, until you grew up to be a curse to my existence,
and made my life a shame to me!"  His lip trembled,
the old, proud head was held aloft, but a world of
desolation dwelt in the faded eyes.  On a sudden impulse, John
gripped him by the hand; he could feel the old man
resisting him, seeking to free himself.

"I want to make you a promise, sir," he said.  "I am
going to Ryde the first thing in the morning.  I have a
friend there who will help me to get back into the army."

The Colonel narrowed his eyes and tried to read the
expression on his face.

"There is a new ring in your voice, Bernard," he
said, after a moment's pause, "but I cannot trust you."

He turned and walked away.  John saw him go, using
his stick for support, and felt a renewed pity for the old,
broken father.  He spent that night at an inn in Freshwater,
and took the first train next morning for Ryde.
Here at the recruiting office he presented himself before
Captain Gilbert.  This plump and comfortable officer
was busy at his work when John stepped into the office.
His shadow fell upon Captain Gilbert's desk, and the elder
man looked up quickly.

"Great Scott!" he exclaimed.  He stared wide-eyed
at Manton for a moment, and John broke into a smile.

"I see you mistook me for Treves."

"I did," said Gilbert, leaning forward and looking into
his face.  "The resemblance is really closer than I
thought at first.  Well," he said, "you've done your
part of the bargain splendidly.  You earned the money
you needed, and you've lifted a great load off the minds of
several deserving persons, including myself."

"I should like to know how I've done that," said
Manton.  "It seems to me the only service I have
rendered has been to myself."

"You forget the battery at Scarthoe Head.  You
made up the deficiency, and the Colonel's delighted with
you, Manton."

"Thanks to you—and young Treves—I was able to put
matters straight there."

"You have probably saved young Treves from going
utterly to the devil," said Gilbert.  "I'll tell you about
that later; I'm busy till one o'clock, but come to my
hotel then and we'll have lunch together."

"But I am here on business myself!" protested
Manton.  He was feeling cheerful and particularly
satisfied with the course of events so far.

"What is your particular business?" inquired Gilbert.

"I want to get back into the army."

Gilbert looked at him for a moment.

"Of course—of course," he said hastily.  "I'd
forgotten that; we will discuss the subject at lunch
time."

Until lunch time Manton was free to stroll upon the
pier and consider his situation.  He felt a deep curiosity
to know what had happened to the man whose clothes he
was wearing; to Treves, whose money he was jingling
in his pocket, whose excellent cigarettes he had smoked.

At a quarter to one he threw his cigarette end over the
rail into the water, and turning, made his way to the
hotel where Gilbert was staying.  He found the Captain
already there, busy mixing a salad at a table in the
corner of a small dining-room.  There were half a
dozen tables in the room, none of which were as yet
occupied.

"Sit down, Manton," invited Captain Gilbert, as John
entered.  "I always mix my own salads.  What will
you have?  There's the menu."

John chose a dish and accepted his host's invitation to
divide with him a bottle of Chablis.  During the meal
Captain Gilbert talked on general matters.  But at
length the conversation appeared to drift round to the
subject of Treves.

"Old Treves took you for granted, eh?" asked the Captain.

"His eyesight isn't good," answered John, "but he
suspected nothing."

"And Gates, the butler?"

"He called me 'Mr. Bernard' the moment he saw me.
Also, he gave me Treves's letters and a telegram.  I didn't
read the letters, but the telegram——"  Manton put his
hand in his inner pocket.  "Perhaps I'd better hand them
all over to you now."

"Not so fast," Gilbert said, pushing the letters and the
telegram back across the table towards Manton.  "As a
matter of fact, I can't hand them to Treves just now, as I
have persuaded him to go to a nursing home for a time.
A very good friend of his father's, General Whiston,
recommended that something of the sort should be done
with him months ago."

"Treves did not give me the impression of being
actually ill," Manton observed.

"He wasn't, but his nerves were all to rags.  He was
in such a state of acute neurasthenia that I expected him
to lay hands on himself any minute.  Anyway, where he
is he will be safe for a while; he will be out of his father's
way and the discipline of this particular nursing home
may pull him together."

John lit a cigarette and smoked thoughtfully.  There
was evidently something on Gilbert's mind, something of
which he wished to unburden himself.  John waited,
and at last the elder man broke the silence again:

"Manton," he said earnestly, "I want you to do me a
particular favour."

John inquired the nature of the favour.

"I want you," went on the Captain, "to sustain
Treves's personality for a little longer.  He is in good
hands in the nursing home, and for the time being has
vanished from the public gaze."  Gilbert paused, and
again appeared to hesitate.  What he had to say was
very difficult to frame in words.  He wished to hint at
something that was the merest suspicion in his own mind.
Two or three times he was on the verge of putting his
thoughts into words, and each time the effort appeared too
much for his gift of expression.  Finally he leaned back
in his chair.  "Manton," he said, "I cannot tell you
all I think and suspect, but I will give you such
confidences as I can."

He paused for a moment, then went on: "Since Treves
came back from France, he appears to have got into the
hands of undesirable company.  One of his rooted ideas,
possibly the result of his drug habit, is that some one is
watching him, and that, for some reason or other, his life
is in danger."

John listened quietly; then, when the other had
finished, he observed seriously: "So far as I see it, you
want me to continue my impersonation of Treves until he
is cured and comes out of the nursing home."

"That is it, exactly," said Gilbert.

"You are putting a good deal of trust in me," answered
John.

At that Gilbert stretched out his hand and gripped
John's fingers heartily.

"Manton," he said, "you and I are in this together for
the good of the Cause.  Not only for Treves and the old
Colonel, but perhaps for bigger issues."

"I don't get your meaning," said John.

"Don't ask it, trust me as I trust you.  And now to get
back to the matter in hand," he said, resuming his
ordinary tone.  "Perhaps it would be worth your while
to open those two letters."

As John obediently tore open the envelopes and read
the contents of the letters, Gilbert called the waiter and
paid for the two lunches.  One of the letters was a
typewritten screed from a quack doctor in which he claimed to
cure any victim of the drug habit within the space of three
months.  John experienced a real feeling of pity for
Treves as he read the quack's fraudulent promises.  The
second letter contained two lines only on a single sheet
of paper with the printed heading: "208, St. George's
Square, S.W."  The letter ran:

.. vspace:: 2

"*Dear Treves,—I must see you at once.  You understand;
it is essential that you should come to me without
delay.  To-morrow night at nine o'clock I shall expect
you.—Yours,* G. MANNERS."

.. vspace:: 2

Manton handed both letters to Gilbert, who studied
them carefully.

"I haven't a notion who G. Manners is," mused the
Captain when he had read the letter through a second
time, "but he may be one of the friends Treves ought to
get rid of, and for that reason I should advise you to call
on him to-morrow."

Manton was thoughtful for a moment.

"What if he discusses matters I know nothing about?
Treves's past life is a blank to me:"

"Come," said Gilbert, touching him lightly on the arm,
"you are playing a part; you are not such a fool as not
to play it well.  I admit there are certain little precautions
you may find it wise to take.  In the first place, you
might have a go at copying Treves's degenerate
handwriting.  You might also keep in mind that Treves is
over-strung, lacking in will-power, and so much a victim
of the cocaine habit that he would do anything, short of
murder, to get the drug when the craving is upon him.
As to Treves's past life, it seems to me that a victim of the
drug habit can be afflicted with convenient lapses of
memory when occasion arises."

Manton glanced at the Captain's pleasant, fat face, and
the thought crossed his mind that there was a good deal
more cleverness behind Gilbert's amiable exterior than he
had at first realised.  He forthwith decided to go to
town that night.  London always held a vivid attraction
for him, and he had not had the pleasure of visiting it
since his journey through its streets in an ambulance
on his return from France.  Some weeks in hospital had
followed that visit, then had come his transference to
the R.G.A. at Scarthoe Head.  And now, with returned
health and in new, strange and portentous circumstances,
he was to visit London again.

Mr. Manners, the mysterious, imperative writer of the
letter, had demanded to see Treves at nine o'clock.  The
hour of John's arrival was eight, and he was in a hurry.
He was impatient to plunge into whatever adventure
awaited him.  Without bothering to engage a room for
the night, he deposited his bag in the cloak-room at
Waterloo Station, and set out to find St. George's Square.
He arrived at the corner of the square, the Embankment
corner, at precisely eight-thirty.  The square's decorous,
solemn-looking houses with heavy pillared porticoes
struck him as gloomy in the extreme.  The only
individual upon the long strip of pavement which ran the
length of the west side of the square was himself.  His
footfalls appeared to echo with inordinate resonance in
the areas as he made his way towards Number 208.

It was not his intention to ring the bell immediately.
In the first place he wanted to reconnoitre the house, to
see if it were possible to judge of the house's occupants
by its exterior.  This thought occupied his mind, when a
taxi sped into the square and drew to a halt within
half a dozen yards of him.  The taxi had stopped behind
him, and its occupant had alighted.

"That's all right; half an hour," said a curt voice in
a cultured accent.

The chauffeur nodded, and slammed the taxi door.
The young man who had alighted hurried forward,
passed John, and continued down the square.  Without
paying over especial attention, John noticed that he was
tall, that he wore a morning coat of distinguished cut,
that his light grey felt hat was of expensive quality, and
that the pearl in his tie-pin was also, if genuine, of
exceptional value.  He was of John's height and age,
fair-haired, blue-eyed, and with a slight tooth-brush
moustache.  His features were large and heavy-boned,
without being harsh.  Two things John noticed as he
hurried past; one was that he carried a silk-lined light
overcoat over his arm, and the other that he wore a
"service rendered" badge on the lapel of his coat.

"Invalided from the army," thought John.  "All the
same, he doesn't look as if there was much the matter with
him."

John continued to walk until he reached the corner of
the square, then he turned, and as he did so he saw the
tall young man flit up the steps of a house a considerable
distance away.  John fixed his eyes on the portico of
this particular house and walked towards it.  And as he
neared the door he realised that the young man had
entered the very house at which he also had an
appointment—Number 208.  For a moment Manton paused,
hesitated, then passed on.  Before making the plunge into
whatever adventure awaited him, he wanted still further
to consider the situation.

In the meantime the stranger, who had alighted from
the taxi, was now within the hall of Mr. Manners's
residence.  He had opened the door with a Yale key
and had admitted himself.  The hall was narrow and
somewhat dark, and the young man laid his gold-headed
cane noisily on a little table, and began to draw off his
grey gloves.  A door at the back of the house opened
noiselessly, and a sombre-faced, sallow-complexioned
butler advanced.

"Mr. Manners is in, of course?" demanded the young
man in a voice that rasped a little.

"Yes, Herr Baron, in the library."

The visitor nodded curtly, ran swiftly up the stairs,
turned to the left, and opened a door on the first landing.
He entered a room where the curtains had already been
drawn.  Two electric chandeliers, one on either side of
the hearth, illuminated the apartment.  A large bookcase
occupied one wall of the room, and in the middle of
the floor was a business-like table, scattered with papers.
On the table was a green-shaded reading lamp, and by
its illumination a man sat at work busily writing.  He
looked up as the stranger entered, then sprang quickly
to his feet.  He was a tall man of fifty, uncomfortably
stout, with a fleshy neck that protruded over his collar
at the back.  The big man's iron-grey hair was short,
his nose broad and short, and his lips thick and pouting.
Despite his inelegance of figure, he was dressed, with an
attempt at smartness, in a well-cut frock coat and
newly-creased trousers.  His heavy eyebrows shielded his eyes,
hiding his expression from any but the closest scrutiny.
For a man of his excessive bulk he showed extreme
activity on his feet.

"I didn't expect you to-night," he said.  He placed
a chair near the desk for the younger man to seat himself.

His visitor, however, stood still and fixed him with a
direct, cold stare.

"Well, Manners," he demanded, "what have you to
say for yourself?"

Manners shrugged his heavy shoulders, and displayed
the palms of his hands.

"Nothing, Herr Baron," he said, "except that I have
done my best.  Won't you sit down?"

The young man took a cigarette from his case, and
lit it.

"Your best is damned bad!" he said.

"I exercised such judgment as I have," returned the
other, in a tone of abasement.

"Judgment alone is of no avail," retorted the other.
"What we want is aggressive action.  We don't get that
from you—you talk, and think, and scheme——"

The other ventured a faint note of protest.

"I was chosen, Herr Baron——"

"I don't want to hear your history," returned the
younger man, coldly.  "I want to know about this
expedition that is being prepared by the Eastern
Command, that has been under preparation for the past six
weeks."

"I gave you such figures, Herr Baron, as I was able to
collect."

The young man crossed to the hearth and stood leaning
with his back against the mantelshelf.

"Doesn't it occur to you," he demanded, after a
moment's silence, "that figures are only a detail?
Figures are something any fool could gather.  What
Berlin wants to know is, what is this expedition's
objective, where is it bound for, also what port it sails from,
and when?"

The elder German—Gottfried Manwitz by name,
though he figured in the London directory as Godfrey
Manners—turned nervously towards his desk and began
to search among the papers.  An expression of relief
crossed his face as he took up a particular sheet of
paper.

"That is the date, Herr Baron," he said, "when the
expedition will sail, and also the place of departure."

The young man took the sheet, scrutinised it with
frowning brows for a moment, then lifted his eyes and
looked into Manwitz's fat face with cold, contemptuous
gaze.

"Excellent!" he said, cuttingly; "wonderful and
utterly useless!  You provide Headquarters with all
this detail, and fail to give the one vital, useful
piece of information—the sole item that Headquarters
requires."

"It is very difficult, Herr Baron," apologised Manners.

"You and I, Manwitz," retorted the younger man,
"are retained in London for the sole purpose of
overcoming difficulties."  He paused a moment, and
looked complacently for the first time in the elder man's
face.  "For instance, I myself have overcome quite a
number of difficulties."

"Indeed, that is true, Herr Baron," conceded Manners.

"I expect you to do the same.  Since you let the
*Inflexible* and the *Invincible* vanish to the Falkland
Islands without any one of us being aware of the fact,
Berlin doesn't think so highly of your attainments as
before the war.  For my part," he went on, "I find you
too much of a dreamer."  He paused; some one had
knocked lightly on the door of the room.  "Open it,
Manwitz!" he commanded.

The big man crossed lightly to the door and drew it
open.  Upon the threshold stood the sombre-countenanced
butler.  The tall young man from the hearth called aloud
to him:

"Well, Conrad, what is it?"

"Mr. Treves, Herr Baron, to see Herr Manners."

"Thank you, Conrad," said Manners.  He closed the
door and turned to his superior.

"This is one of my instruments, Herr Baron, arrived
to-night from the Isle of Wight.  You approved of him
when I gave you his *dossier* a month ago."

"He is the British officer who was cashiered," returned
the other, swiftly.  "Takes drugs, and generally gone to
pieces?"

"The same, Herr Baron."

"Is he quite"—he paused—"er, quite amenable to
your orders?"

"I flatter myself that I can do a good deal with him,"
Manwitz answered, with pride.  "He comes here for
cocaine, but he is of good English stock, and there are
moments when he tries to shake himself free of me.  For
the last three weeks, as a matter of fact, he has
disappeared entirely.  I had great difficulty, Herr Baron,
rediscovering his hiding place."

"I don't like that!" returned the Baron.  "How do
you know what he has been up to in the meantime?"

He was silent for a minute; then he looked with his cold,
pale eyes into his elder's face.  "Manwitz!" he exclaimed
suddenly, "this may be the man for our business!"

For the first time a flicker of triumph lit in Manners's
eyes.  He went to his desk, unlocked a drawer, and
produced a single sheet of notepaper.  "This is a letter in
his own writing, Herr Baron, signed by himself.  I think
it is satisfactory, eh?"

The younger man took the sheet and fixed his keen
eyes upon it.

.. vspace:: 2

"*My dear Friend,*" ran the note, "*the s.s. 'Polidor'
is due to leave H—— at four o'clock to-morrow, Tuesday
afternoon.  I had this on absolute authority; you can
rely on it.*"

.. vspace:: 2

The tall, fair-haired man came to the end of the brief
note, and his hard mouth tightened; then he read the
postscript: "*Don't forget the tabloids!*"

He looked up slowly, and fixed his keen gaze upon
Manwitz's apoplectic countenance.  Baron Rathenau, who
had taken his degree at Oxford, who spoke English like
an English gentleman, and possessed, on the surface, the
manners of an English gentleman, was quite five years
older than he looked.  His brain was subtle and keen,
and in the service of the Fatherland he was hard and
ruthless as steel.

"You have done not so badly here, Manwitz,"
conceded the Baron.  "This letter alone"—he folded
Treves's note carefully—"this letter alone would bring
our young friend, Lieutenant Treves, into the presence of
a firing party within forty-eight hours."  He paused a
moment.  "Our English enemies," he went on, "are
unpleasantly hasty in regard to spies.  But when it
comes to traitors, the celerity with which they put a man
face to the wall in their Tower of London, it is marvellous!"

He had folded the note carefully, and lifting his light
fawn coat, he slipped Treves's note into the inner pocket,
then he flung the coat back again on the chair.

"I'll see our young neurasthenic friend at once," he
said.  "You will leave him to me, Manwitz."  He
turned and pressed the bell twice.  When the footman
presently appeared at the door, Baron Rathenau was
standing with his back to the mantelshelf, toying with a
cigarette.

"Bring up Mr. Treves, Conrad," he said, briefly.





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`CHAPTER V`:

.. class:: center large

   CHAPTER V

.. vspace:: 2

"Do I introduce you as Captain Cherriton, Herr
Baron?" asked Manwitz, when Conrad had closed the
door and departed.

"Yes," said the Baron.  "I find the name of the
poor, dead Captain Cherriton an excellent recommendation
in even the best of homes."  He smiled his somewhat
derisive smile.

A moment later the door opened and John Manton
stepped into the room.  Manners rose and held out his
hand.

"My dear Treves," he said, "you have been away
from me a very long time."  He was thinking to himself
that Treves carried himself a little better than usual;
his gaze was more direct, his handgrip firmer.  However,
there was no suspicion in his eyes as he turned towards
the younger man at the hearth.

"Captain Cherriton," he said, "this is a young friend
of mine, Mr. Treves."

For a moment Rathenau's light blue eyes widened,
and then narrowed.

"We've met before, Mr. Treves?"

"In the square, half an hour ago.  I saw you come in."

"Oh, yes, yes," returned the Baron.  "My good
friend, Mr. Manners, has been telling me about you."

"I hope he had something complimentary to say,"
smiled John Manton.  He was thinking to himself:
"There is no doubt at all in my mind that this big, fat
man, Mr. Manners, is a German.  His finger nails are
cut neatly to a point."  John recalled the habit of the
Germans he had met at Feldkirch, of the masters of
his school, who had trimmed their nails in that
particular fashion.  Rather a Chinese fashion, John thought.
His eyes travelled from the fat man's face and took
in the younger man's hard countenance.  He was
recalling something he had read of Captain Cherriton.

"I think I remember reading something about you,
Captain Cherriton," he ventured.

"You mean my escape from the British officers'
prison camp at Celle," replied the German, easily.

"Yes," returned John, "that was it.  You had rather
an adventurous time getting across the frontier."

"I had a pretty hot time," laughed Cherriton.

The conversation between the three became general
after this, and presently Cherriton invited John to
accompany him to his hotel in the Strand.

"Come along and have a drink and a smoke with me.
I should much like to have a chat with you, Treves."

John considered the proposal for a moment, and then
decided to go.  He bade good night to Manners, and as
he shook hands with the big man, a little phial of white
tabloids passed from Manners's palm to his own.  For a
minute John felt inclined to ask a question, but caution
saved him.  He slipped the little cocaine tablets into
his waistcoat pocket, thanked Manners under his breath,
and followed Cherriton, who had taken up his light
overcoat, and was moving towards the door.

It was quite dark in the square when they emerged,
and in the distance, near the river, a taxi was moving
slowly.

"That is my vehicle," remarked Cherriton, standing
under the light of a shaded lamp, so that the distant
taxi-man could observe them.  A minute later the taxi
drew to a halt.  John stepped inside, and Cherriton
followed him.

As the taxi door closed, a man, who had been standing
in the darkness against the rails of the square opposite
stepped out into the road and signalled with his arm.
At that moment John was leaning back in the taxi,
giving himself up to thoughts of the swift events of the
last half-hour.  Who was this Captain Cherriton, who
appeared to have taken such a fancy to him?  Was it
possible——?  His thoughts received a jolt.

"Hey, stop!" a loud voice from the road echoed in
his ears.  John was projected forward almost upon his
face.  The vehicle came to a sudden halt; the door of
the taxi was flung open; two men appeared in the
aperture, and a heavy hand fell upon John's shoulder.
He glanced at his companion, and saw that, from the
other side, intruders were also laying heavy hands upon
him.  With a mighty wrench of his shoulder John
snatched himself free.  Scarcely knowing what had
happened, he attempted to dash after his companion,
who had been dragged out into the road.  He was
ignominiously pulled back by the leg.  He heard a voice
shouting:

"Don't bother about the other one—this is our man!"

Then, in a confusion of gripping hands, John was
flung back on the seat of the taxi; a voice spoke firmly
in his ear:

"You'll keep quiet, young man, or it will be the worse
for you!"

John saw Captain Cherriton flitting like a shadow
along the road and out of the square.  He looked at the
person who was seated beside him in the taxi, and was
surprised to find a big, typical police officer in plain
clothes.  Opposite John two other officers, who had
crowded into the vehicle, were seated, looking at him
with steady, interested gaze.

"Your name's Treves?" demanded one of the men.

"What of it?" returned John.

"It's all I want to know," answered the man, coldly.

As the taxi glided along John strove to gather his
scattered wits, but it was not until a plain,
quietly-furnished room had been achieved in Scotland Yard,
that any light broke in upon his senses.  He found
himself confronted by a tall, grey-moustached man in
civilian clothes.  The man was standing beside a table,
and beside him stood a distinguished-looking staff
officer.

As John entered the room, in charge of two detectives,
his senses were still in a whirl from the swiftness of his
adventure.  The grey-moustached man, whom the detectives
addressed as "Sir Robert," rose from his chair and
looked at him with stern, brooding eyes; then his gaze
turned to one of John's captors, who had entered the
room and was holding Baron Rathenau's overcoat on his arm.

"Have you his papers?" he demanded.

"That is not my overcoat," intervened John.

"Silence," commanded Sir Robert.

The detective went through the pockets of the overcoat.
He found a small time-table, two or three paid
restaurant bills, and finally the letter Treves had written
to Manners.  The grey-moustached police commissioner
took these articles, and laid them on the blotting-pad
before him.  Then, at a brief command, a second detective
stepped forward and searched John's pockets, taking
out the two letters that had been addressed to Treves
and the telegram signed "Elaine."  These also were
laid upon the desk.  The staff officer and Sir Robert
read them carefully.  When the officer, whom John
observed to be a general of staff, read Treves's incriminating
letter to Manners, he drew in his breath and whistled.

"My God!" he exclaimed.

The grey-moustached man took the letter from his
fingers, read it, then held it forth towards John.  His
tone was utterly aloof, cold, and forbidding.

"It was unfortunate, Treves," he said, "that you
should carry this letter in your pocket.  For this, added
to the information we have gathered about you during
the past three months, condemns you absolutely."  He
paused a moment, then went on.  "I can only say," he
added ruthlessly, "that I thank God we have been able
to lay our hands on you."

It was only in that moment that John for the first
time realised the appalling danger that was sweeping
upon him.

"I would like to make some explanation, sir."

"Your correspondence," retorted Sir Robert, with
sinister meaning, "has made all the explanation we
require!  General Whiston here is quite satisfied, and so
am I."

General Whiston, who had been looking fixedly at
John, now passed round the table and walked towards
him.  He was a tall, bronzed man, with a clipped
moustache, and a wide, strong mouth.  John had recognised
his name in a moment.  He was Colonel Treves's old
friend.

"Bernard Treves," said General Whiston, "you have
broken your father's heart already; you must now
make your peace with God.  There is only one thing
left for me to do for my old and dear friend, and I intend
to do it—he shall never learn that his son died as a
traitor to his country.  Even now," he went on, "though
I have had you watched for three months, I can still
scarcely credit it, you—a Treves!"

He glanced towards the door.  John felt a heavy
hand fall upon his shoulder from behind.

"This way, please," said a polite voice in his ear.

As the detective's voice sounded in his ear and the
detective's hand fell on his shoulder, John's scurrying
senses seemed to gather themselves together.  He became
calm in presence of the greatest danger his life had ever
known.  When next he spoke his voice was steady, and
his manner, despite its deep gravity, portrayed not the
slightest trace of nervousness.

"Sir," he said, "may I speak merely one or two
words before I am removed?"  He looked into the
bronzed countenance of Colonel Treves's old friend.
There was no pity for him on that strong, handsome face.
In General Whiston's eyes he had been guilty of the
blackest of all crimes.  The General answered in his
deep-toned voice of authority.

"You will be permitted to make a statement, but not now."

"I have a very important declaration to make, sir."

Sir Robert, who was still scrutinising the incriminating
letter that had been taken from Rathenau's overcoat,
looked up now, then rapidly pencilled a few words on a
slip of paper which he handed to Whiston.  The General
read the slip.

"Yes, perhaps so," he said; "I agree with you, time
is everything."

Sir Robert looked into John's face.

"Are you prepared," he went on, "to give us the
name of the person to whom this letter was written?"  He
lifted Treves's incriminating missive and held it for
John's inspection.  John had already been permitted to
read the letter, though not to hold it in his hand.

"Certainly," answered Manton.

A slight flicker of surprise lit in Sir Robert's eyes.

"His name," answered John, "is either Manners, or
Cherriton."

Sir Robert laid down the letter with an impatient
gesture.

"That is no answer to my question.  You wrote the
letter yourself.  To whom did you write it?"

"I didn't write it!"

"You suggest that it is a forgery?"

"Either you wrote the letter or you didn't write it,"
pursued Sir Robert.  "Your statements contradict each
other.  You say, in the first place, that you did not
write it.  In the second place, you say it is not a
forgery."

General Whiston now spoke, his stern gaze on John's
face.

"This letter," he said, glancing towards the sheet,
"is in your own writing, which I happen to know very
well.  Your attempt at mystification," he went on, "will
be of no avail, either now or later."

John felt in his tones intense antagonism.

"If I might be permitted to speak to you gentlemen
alone," he said, "I will in three minutes explain the
mystery."

General Whiston glanced at the Commissioner of
Police.

"It is for you to say, Sir Robert," he said.  "To-night
the affair is in your hands."

Sir Robert pondered the subject for a moment, then
glanced at the detectives who stood behind John; with
his hand he made a slow, significant gesture.  John, who
was standing at attention before the table, heard the
detectives move away, and a moment later the door
softly closed behind them.

He was alone with the Commissioner of Police and the
General.

On his accusers' faces John read a stern and
determined intention that the law should take its course,
not the tortuous, long-drawn old law of pre-war days,
but the swift justice which is meted out to traitors.

"You shall have three minutes in which to speak!"  Sir
Robert's voice smote John's ears.

Manton knew that if he held his peace and the law
moved with its inexorable swiftness, he would by
to-morrow have expiated the crime of another man.  He
was in another man's shoes.  Innocently, he had taken
up that other man's identity.

But he had not shouldered everything, he had not
rendered himself liable for that other man's treachery.
And yet, at the back of his mind, there was pity, even
for Treves.  He thought of the man's weakness, of his
shattered nerves, of Manners's obvious power over him.
Perhaps, even in uttering the truth to these two stern
judges, he might put in a good word for Treves.

"The statement I have to make, gentlemen, is an
amazing one."

"It will also have to be a brief one," retorted Sir
Robert coldly.

"Well, out with it," interposed General Whiston.

John turned towards him.

"I wish to say, sir, that I am not Bernard Treves!"

A flash of anger lit in General Whiston's eyes.

"You say that, despite the fact that I am prepared to
identify you as Bernard Treves."

"My statement," returned John, "is, I admit, an
amazing one.  Nevertheless, it is a fact, gentlemen.  My
name is Manton."

The Commissioner of Police pulled at his moustache.

"A statement of this kind," he said, "is ridiculous
in presence of General Whiston, who knows you and
recognises your handwriting in this letter."  He leaned
back in his chair and struck the letters that had been
taken from John's pocket with the back of his hand.
"These letters, taken from your person, this telegram
addressed to you, and this letter conveying information
to the enemy, are sufficient in themselves to identify you."

"There is nothing you wish to say, General?" asked
Sir Robert of Whiston.

The General shook his head, and Sir Robert put his
thumb on the bell-push at the corner of his desk.

John heard the whirr of a bell in the room beyond.

"I am prepared, sir," he said hurriedly, "to prove
every word I say.  My name is Manton, and I undertook
to assume Treves's identity merely to please a friend who
wished to help him."

"You are ready to give us the name of your friend,
of course?" interposed General Whiston.  He had been
utterly unmoved by this statement of John's.

"His name is Gilbert, sir; Captain Gilbert, of Ryde,
Isle of Wight."

General Whiston answered nothing; there was no
softening in the harshness of his expression.  For a
moment he was silent.  Then, with a glance at Sir
Robert, he moved towards the door.

"Just a few minutes, Sir Robert," he said.  "This is a
matter easy of proof."

He passed out of the room.  At the door, as he
drew it open, John heard him speaking to two men
outside.

"Sir Robert will be ready for you in five minutes," he
was saying.

The door closed.

Sir Robert tapped his fingers upon the surface of his
desk.

"You wish to affirm that Captain Gilbert is prepared
to prove the truth of your statement?"

"I am sure he will be prepared to prove that my name
is Manton," answered John.

In his long experience Sir Robert had come across
many singular and dramatic events.  The great police
force of which he was the chief was dealing always in
drama.  In his experience he had interviewed every
quality and degree of criminal, from affluent company
promoters downward.

John's bearing and manner struck him as nothing
unusual.  John's statement that his was a case of
mistaken identity, that Scotland Yard had for once made
a mistake, meant nothing to the Police Commissioner.
Such a statement was one of the commonest in his
experience.

He felt no sympathy for John, and believing explicitly
in his guilt, was determined to listen no further.  He
leaned forward and began to make rapid notes upon the
writing pad.

Manton, in the meantime, stood motionless beyond
the desk.  Save for the movement of Sir Robert's pen,
and the tick of a small travelling clock on Sir Robert's
desk, no sound disturbed the heavy silence.  Despite his
calmness, John felt the tension grow upon him; the
waiting seemed to draw itself out.  He glanced at the
clock, and observed that it was only a little after ten.

The whirl of events that night sped through his mind
in rapid panorama, but of one thing he was certain—Manners
and Captain Cherriton were either spies or
traitors, and Scotland Yard in laying hands upon him,
and allowing Cherriton to go, had made a mistake.

He had already guessed that General Whiston had
gone to telephone Captain Gilbert.  He recalled now the
letter General Whiston had written to old Colonel Treves.
The letter which said that he had done for Bernard
Treves everything that was possible.

His mind then turned again to Gilbert.  He wondered
what the Captain would do when he heard of the
extraordinary outcome of his visit to St. George's Square.
He had gone there at Gilbert's own suggestion.  He felt
that the situation for himself at that moment was delicate
in the extreme.  But it was not yet fatal.  A miscarriage
of justice was impossible if Gilbert spoke up, as no doubt
he would do.  He knew that all Gilbert's sympathy for
Bernard Treves would vanish the moment he heard to
what depths that young man had descended.  He recalled
what Gilbert had said:

"Treves is afraid.  He imagines that some one is
watching him."

Then it suddenly occurred to John that at the back
of Treves's mind there had been a subtle idea against
himself.  Treves had desired that he, John, should step
into his guilty shoes and should not only wear those
shoes, but should suffer for his crime.

"I stepped into far deeper water than I knew," mused
John, and as the thought passed through his mind, the
door opened and General Whiston re-entered.

The General walked behind John, then turned and
looked keenly into his face.

"Treves," he said, "you will be examined again in
the morning."

Sir Robert's finger was suspended over the bell upon
his desk.  In answer to his inquiring glance, General
Whiston nodded.

Again John felt a man's hand laid on his shoulder,
and for the second time a voice uttering polite words:

"This way, please!"

This time, however, there was no pause; he was led
out into the corridor, with a tall, heavily-built man at
his side and another walking behind him.

The door of Sir Robert's room closed with a soft click.





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`CHAPTER VI`:

.. class:: center large

   CHAPTER VI

.. vspace:: 2

The moment the door closed upon John, General Whiston
flung himself into a chair beside Sir Robert's table.
There was an expression on his face that puzzled the
Police Commissioner.

"Well, Sir Robert," began the General, "it is an
amazing thing, but Captain Gilbert corroborates our
prisoner's statements entirely."

Sir Robert flashed a glance at the incriminating letters
on the table.

"That's impossible!"

"Nevertheless, Gilbert, who is a very sound officer,
corroborates every word this young man has said.  I
have ordered Gilbert to present himself here first thing
in the morning."

Sir Robert was staring in utter bewilderment.

"You mean we have got the wrong man?"

"I don't know," answered the General, impatiently;
"the thing is beyond my capacity.  I've known this
young blackguard for years.  Only slightly, of course,
but I would have sworn to him anywhere.  Gilbert,
however, tells me an extraordinary story.  He says our
prisoner is a thoroughly honest fellow, by the name of
Manton.  He gave me a minute history of the man, who
was formerly at Scarthoe Head.  I have ordered the
adjutant from Scarthoe to report himself here to-morrow.
We can then get to the bottom of this extraordinary
tangle."

"But," protested Sir Robert, "these letters must be
explained; and you have had this man watched for
months."

"Precisely; that complicates matters enormously."

"Was Treves guilty of the crimes laid against him, or
was this man guilty?" inquired Sir Robert.

The General shook his head in bewilderment.

"Don't ask me; I don't know," he said, "to-morrow
will settle everything."

The night that followed was the longest that John had
ever spent.  What if by some awful mischance Captain
Gilbert disowned him entirely?  However, he could not
think that of Gilbert.  He was prepared to swear by the
Captain's honesty.

A police officer called him early next morning.  He
dressed and was served with a satisfactory breakfast.
A morning newspaper was brought to him, but at ten
o'clock he was peremptorily summoned to present
himself in Sir Robert's room.  Under escort he made
his way along various passages.  The door was opened
and he stepped into the room and stood at attention.

Sir Robert was not present.  General Whiston stood
at the window, and near him was a sleek-looking,
smooth-haired, clean shaven man in a morning coat, well cut
trousers and patent leather boots.  John could feel the
stranger's eyes steadily upon him.

Then Whiston turned from the window.

"Captain Gilbert," he said, "has been here.  He has
made certain statements on your behalf which are so
far satisfactory."

A silence fell; the stranger moved to Sir Robert's
desk, seated himself in Sir Robert's chair, and beckoned
John to a chair opposite.

Dacent Smith was the head of a great branch of the
Secret Intelligence Department, but there was no air of
authority in his manner.

"Sit down, please," he said.  His voice was smooth
and agreeable.  He glanced at the window, then again
at John.

"Will you kindly tell me the name of your officer in
command at Scarthoe Fort?"

John promptly gave him the name.

"How many men were in the fort?"  The quiet
gentleman, who possessed one of the subtlest brains in
England, glanced at a slip of paper on his desk.  He was
putting John through an examination such as many a
suspected person had failed to survive.

"One hundred and fifty, sir—eighty at the lower fort
and seventy at the upper, exclusive of officers."

"Can you recollect the calibre of the guns?"

John gave the exact dimensions of the guns at both
the lower and upper fort.

"Can you possibly recollect," inquired the other,
"from your books, what store of six-inch ammunition
there was?"

Fortunately John recollected the number of shells
exactly.

"I see," commented the cross-examiner.  "But your
statement doesn't tally with my present knowledge."

"I am speaking of six weeks ago, sir; since then there
would have been a heavy gun practice," John added
promptly.

The elder gentleman leaned back in his chair.

"These are all details which a spy would make a
great point of observing."  He looked steadily into
John's face, until John became conscious of nothing but
his keen, grey eyes.  They were kindly eyes, but the
intensity of his glance was something that John had
never before experienced.  He looked back frankly into
the elder man's face.

"I suppose they are, sir," he answered, "but they
came to me in my ordinary course of work."

"How many fort candles were there in the storeroom?"
asked the other, casually.

"Eight dozen, sir."

Dacent Smith nodded, as though satisfied.

"We will now come to another matter," he said.
"You were educated in Germany?"

John admitted the fact.

"Have you been in Germany since your boyhood?"

"Never, sir."

"What is your opinion of Captain Gilbert?"

"I took a great liking to him."

"You trusted him when he asked you to assume
another man's identity?"

"Absolutely, sir."

"So do I," said Dacent Smith, suddenly changing his
tone.  "I trust him absolutely.  I will only try your
patience just one moment longer."  He pushed a clean
slip of paper towards John.  "Would you mind writing
on that these three words, 'Deceive,' 'parallel,' and
'nursery.'  Just scribble them quickly, without care."

John wrote the words and handed them across the
table.  The elder man took the sheet and immediately
compared it with Treves's incriminating letter, and a pile
of other letters in Treves's handwriting, which lay beside
him.

He glanced up at the General, who stood near the window.

"The handwriting is totally unlike, General.  Moreover,
our young friend here can spell the words, whereas,
from letters supplied us by Gilbert, Treves could
not."  He turned again and looked at John.  Then he broke
into a smile that John found charming.

"Well, Manton," he said, "you have come through
the ordeal excellently.  But as a matter of formality
you must be identified both by Captain Gilbert and
your adjutant from Scarthoe Head."

"Thank you, sir," answered John.  "I am sorry to
have caused so much trouble."

"No, not at all," protested the elder man.  "Your
desire for adventure placed you in a very nasty position.
But such trouble as you have caused us may yet be
turned to good account."

John hesitated a moment, then ventured:

"If I may, sir, I would like to make a statement in
regard to the man Manners, at 208, St. George's Square,
I am certain he is a spy, sir—a German spy."

"My dear Manton," said Dacent Smith, laying his
hands on the desk, "we know that already."

"And the other man," continued John, "Cherriton.
I don't believe he is all he pretends to be."

At the mention of Cherriton the lightness of mood
vanished from the elder man.

"What name?" he inquired.

"Captain Cherriton, the man with the fair hair, who
was in the taxi with me.  The police officers allowed him
to escape."

Beyond the table the great man of the Secret Service
who had been cross-examining him, eased his spectacles.
For, without knowing it, John had made a statement
which aroused all his interest.

"This afternoon, Manton," he said, "you must come
to my room.  It seems to me," he continued, "you can
be of very great use to my department."

"What is your department, sir?" asked John politely.

The elder man smiled.

"I think we need not give it a name, Manton.  But
perhaps you can guess.  Perhaps, indeed, you are
destined to make further acquaintance with my department
and with your friend, Mr. Manners."  He paused a moment.

"Captain Gilbert tells me that you wish to rejoin the
army?"

"That is so, sir," answered John.

"An excellent intention," continued Dacent Smith.
"But it has occurred to me that there is other work of
national importance which may suit you better."  He
glanced at Whiston.  "With General Whiston's aid I
think we can arrange that you do not appear in uniform
for some time.  Another thing Captain Gilbert reported
to me," he went on, quietly, "is that you are a young
man with a taste for adventure."

John smiled.

Dacent Smith extended his hand in farewell.  "You
are a free man, Manton.  But I shall expect you to
come to my rooms at 286, Jermyn Street at three o'clock
this afternoon."  He gave John a card.  "You will give
this to my servant at the door."

The card read: "Mr. Dacent Smith, Savile Club"—that
and nothing more.

.. vspace:: 1

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   \*      \*      \*      \*      \*

.. vspace:: 1

At the time when John was undergoing his cross-examination
at the hands of the great Dacent Smith,
Manners and Captain Cherriton were seated in a back
room at a house in Hampstead.  Cherriton, who had
read half a dozen morning papers, glanced at his companion.

"There is no word in any of them about our friend
Treves."

"There was scarcely time for an announcement,"
Manners answered.  "Perhaps it will be in the evening
papers."

The two men waited till evening, but still the papers
contained no line about Treves's capture.  Cherriton
was still not sure on what charge Treves had been arrested.
If the charge had been an ordinary one, other than
treason, there would already have been an account of
some kind.

"We must find out some other way than through the
papers."

"I have an excellent way of finding out," observed
Manners.

"Well, put it into execution at once," returned his
superior.

Manners looked at his watch.

"That way won't do until after six o'clock.  After
six o'clock, Herr Baron, I will take you into the presence
of the most beautiful girl in England."

"I do not admire English beauty," answered Rathenau,
caustically.

Manners lifted his hands.

"Ah, but this one, she is wonderful!"

"How will she know about Treves, any more than we do?"

Manners looked across at him.

"Leave that to me," he said, "I can assure you she
will know."  He took out his pocket-book and looked
up an address.  "If we go now," he said, "we shall
get there a little after six, in time to interview the lady
on her return from business."

Half an hour later a taxi sped along Kentish Town
Road and turned into Bowles Avenue, Camden Town.
The street was a particularly respectable one, with
windows and doors freshly painted.  Judging from the
cleanliness of the curtains and the brightness of the
door handles, the inhabitants of this thoroughfare each
took a pride in his residence.

The taxi containing Manners and Cherriton drew to
a halt before the door of No. 65.  Cherriton paid the
driver and dismissed him.  The two men crossed the
pavement, and Manners lifted the bright brass knocker.
Three times Manners knocked.

He was that day attired with particular smartness
in a grey, soft felt hat, a grey frock-coat, and light fawn
linen gaiters.  The Baron was wearing a navy-blue suit,
made for him at the Army and Navy Stores.  He also
wore a grey felt hat, set well back on his head.  In his
hip pocket he carried a Mauser pistol, but this was
always part of his apparel, as it were.  Manners carried
other little aids to his personal safety.  But upon that
evening their mission was pacific.  They had only a
desire to ask a certain lady if she had news of Treves.

Three times Manners applied the knocker; then
footsteps came rapidly along the passage.  The door
was opened by a tall, brown-haired girl, wearing a white
blouse and blue skirt, both of which Cherriton noticed
were well cut.  The girl's complexion was not pale, yet
tended towards pallor.  Her cheeks were softly rounded,
her chin small, yet firm.  Her eyes were grey, frank
and steady in gaze.  Cherriton, noticing her long, curved
lashes and finely-arched brows, conceded that here, for
once, he was looking upon a truly beautiful English
woman.

"Good evening," Manners was saying.  He had lifted
his hat with extreme politeness.

"Good evening," responded the girl, looking with
puzzled eyes from one man to the other.

"You have no doubt forgotten me," Manners spoke
again, and then a faint recognition came to the girl's
eyes.

"Oh, not at all," she said.  "Will you come in?"  She
led the way to a little parlour, a bright little apartment,
where she lived alone.  She had made it as pretty
and comfortable as possible with her small means.

The two Germans entered the room, and Manners
closed the door.  After some preliminary conversation
he broached the subject of his visit, but artfully and
cunningly hiding it in a veil of words.

"I have some business, madam," he said, "with"—he
paused a moment—"with Mr. Treves.  I have lost
his address; I wonder if you could give it me?"

The girl looked at him a moment; an expression of
reserve came into her face.

"I am afraid I cannot oblige you," she said.

"You have heard from him lately?"

The girl hesitated a moment, and pushed back the
fine brown hair from her brow.

"Not lately," she answered.

"You will be seeing him again shortly, no doubt?"
pursued Manners, smiling amicably.

"I don't know," said the girl.  "I am afraid," she
said, "I cannot give you his address, and if that is all
you wish to see me about——"  She rose quite politely,
but firmly.  And as she did so some one lifted the knocker
of the front door and smote it thrice.

Manners started visibly.

"You have visitors?" he asked quickly.

"I don't know who it can be," said the girl.  "I am
expecting no one."

Manners sprang up and stood between her and the
door.  He looked into her face as she came towards
him, then moved politely away.  He felt that her candid
eyes held no secrets.

When the door had closed he turned to Cherriton.

"She has heard nothing of him; she knows no more
than we do."

"She is a beautiful woman, I'll admit," said Cherriton,
who had been deep in thought.  He raised his strong,
supple hand and pointed towards the door.  "Just
open that," he said quietly, "and see who it is who is
coming to visit her."

Manners, with his usual swiftness of step and dexterity
of movement, approached the door and noiselessly
drew it open.  Quietly he put his head out and looked
along the passage.  Then he drew back and gently closed
the door.  His face, when he turned towards Cherriton,
was deathly white.

"Who is it?" demanded Cherriton, who had come
swiftly to his feet.

"Bernard Treves!" answered Manners, moistening his
lips with his tongue.  The thought that Treves had
betrayed them blazed through his mind.

In an instant Cherriton sprang to the window and
peered furtively up and down the street.

"He's alone," he said, with a note of relief in his voice.

"Gott in Himmel!" exclaimed Manners under his
breath.  "How did he get here?"

"Either escaped or acquitted," answered Cherriton,
curtly.  "Our business," he went on swiftly, under his
breath, "is to express great delight when we see him.
In the meantime I'll compose myself with a cigarette."

"I don't know why his coming back like this should
make me feel so nervous," mused Manners.  "I am more
psychic than you are, Herr Baron."

Cherriton looked at the big, fat figure in the chair
opposite him.  He curled his lip in faint contempt.

Meanwhile John Manton, having knocked at the door
of 65, Bowles Avenue, found, to his astonishment, that
that door was opened by a girl of most extreme beauty.
He had come there under orders from Dacent Smith to
discover the identity of the sender of the telegram signed
"Elaine."  He had been given many instructions during
that afternoon, but as he stood upon the threshold of
No. 65 a swift admiration leapt into his eyes for the girl
who confronted him on the doorstep.

"May I come in?" asked John.

"Of course," answered the girl.  To his amazement,
she seized his hand as she spoke.  "Oh, how long you
have been!" she said.  She drew him into the hall and
closed the door.  Silence and caution were the parts
John had been ordered to play.  He did not withdraw
his hand from her warm grasp.  "You never came, you
never wrote," continued the girl.

"I wasn't able to," John answered, truthfully.

"And yet I told you, Bernard," she went on, looking
up into his face—he was glad that the light in the hall
was not intense—" and yet I told you, Bernard, that if
you confessed everything to your father he would forgive."

"He has forgiven a great deal," answered Manton,
vaguely.  He looked down at her—a little colour had
come into her cheeks, and, as for her eyes, he had never
seen eyes which evoked in him so much admiration.
At that moment Manners put his face out at the door
of the inner room; then swiftly withdrew it.

"Who's that?" John asked, quickly.

"It's a man who has come to see you, Bernard; but
before you go in I want to say"—she laid her hand
softly on the lapel of John's coat—"I want to say,
Bernard, that I forgive you—everything."  She was
smiling at him, a smile of wonderful beauty.  "After all,
Bernard," she whispered, "I am your wife, and it is a
wife's privilege to forgive."

"Yes," answered John.  He could think of nothing
else to say.  Here was the most beautiful woman he had
ever seen, holding his hand warmly in hers, and telling
him she forgave him everything.  The situation would
have been delightful if he had only been the other man!

"Bernard, for my sake, you will try, won't you?"  She
paused, and this time he was obliged to frame some
sort of answer.

"I'll do the best I can," he said, lamely, then added,
to turn the subject, "Who is your visitor?"

"It's Mr. Manners, the big, stout man you brought
here a long while ago.  He has a friend with him, a
younger man."

"Captain Cherriton?" asked John, lowering his voice.

The girl nodded.

"They came to ask where you were, and wanted your
address, but I remembered what you told me and would
not give it."

Then for the first time John looked keenly into her
face.  He had never seen her in his life before, and at
any moment she might recognise him.  But even with
that danger hovering over him he could not help
wondering if she loved Treves.

"Come, Bernard"; she took his hand in hers.  "You
must see your friends and get rid of them."

John walked with her along the narrow passage.  At
the door of the parlour the girl halted.

"When they are gone," she whispered, "I have whole
heaps of things to tell you."

She pushed open the door and followed John into the
room.

Manners, who was seated at the hearth, sprang up
and rushed towards Manton.

"Come in!  Come in!" he cried, drawing John
forward.  "It does my eyes good to see you again, eh,
Captain Cherriton?"

Baron Rathenau, who had also risen, enclosed Manton's
fingers in his hard, cold grip.  "I, too, am glad
to see you," he said, fixing his eyes steadily on John's.





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`CHAPTER VII`:

.. class:: center large

   CHAPTER VII

.. vspace:: 2

Things were not as they seemed.  The situation in
the little parlour was delicate in the extreme, and as
John's gaze passed from the fat countenance of Manners
to the cold forcefulness of Cherriton, whose strong hand
but a moment ago gripped his own in greeting, he told
himself that if he could creep from that situation with
credit he could escape from anything.  Both Cherriton's
and Manners's welcome rang false.  They were not
pleased to see him.  They were startled and puzzled,
and Cherriton, at least, was more than puzzled.  John
knew that whatever occurred between himself and these
two men must occur privately.  Moreover, there was a
second danger, which he knew to be ever present.  The
light in the bright little parlour was quite strong.  The
fact that he had dexterously placed his back to the
window might not serve him for more than a few minutes.
What if Elaine Treves suddenly discovered her mistake?

Somehow the teeming possibilities of the moment
gave steadiness to John's nerves.  He thought of a plan,
and put it into execution on the instant.

"Elaine," he said—he used her name for the first
time, and as he spoke he took her slender hand in
his grasp—"I have business to discuss with Captain
Cherriton and Mr. Manners."

"I promise we shall not keep your husband more than
a few minutes," intervened Cherriton.  "Yes, old
Manwitz for once is right," he thought; "here is an
Englishwoman possessed of beauty."

He made across the room, intending politely to hold
open the door for Elaine to pass out.  John, however,
was quicker, and as he held the door wide Elaine lifted
her grey-blue, beautiful eyes and searched his.  Her
expression, John thought, was one of surprise—surprise
at what?

He closed the door, and instantly Cherriton laid a
hand on his shoulder.

"Well," he demanded, "what happened to you last night."

"You were present at the beginning of the happening,"
returned John.

"The four men were police officers, were they not?"

"Detectives from Scotland Yard.  They took me
there, cross-examined me, and discovered that a mistake
had been made."

Manners drew in a deep breath of relief.

"Ah—a—mistake!" he exclaimed.

Cherriton, who was busy with a cigarette, looked at
John under his brows.  He had retreated to the hearth,
and-was leaning with his back against the mantelshelf.
"A very unpleasant incident for you, eh, Treves?" he
inquired.

"Very," responded John.

"And my overcoat—my very excellent summer
overcoat—what happened to that?"

From the moment of John's appearance in the room
he had been leading up to this question—had his overcoat
been searched, had Treves's incriminating letter been
discovered?  It occurred to him that if John, immediately
after his arrest, had established his identity no search of
his overcoat was probable.  And yet caution was bred in
him.  His deeply subtle mind prompted him to probe
the matter to its depths, and at the same time to convey
no suspicion of his anxiety to John.

"Cherriton, your overcoat is quite safe," John said
quietly.  "I left it on your behalf in the cloak-room at
Charing Cross Station."  He put his hand into his
pocket and drew out the ticket.  Cherriton took it from
his extended fingers.

"I am particularly obliged to you, Treves," he said.
"I have a special fondness for that overcoat?  So the
Scotland Yard people were for once mistaken."

"Entirely," said John, with truth; "they mistook me
for another man."

"Were you made acquainted with the charges against
the real person?" probed Cherriton.

"He was wanted for misappropriation of military funds."

Both Manners and Cherriton exhibited increasing
interest in the unknown culprit.

"You heard the person's name?"

"His name was John Manton.  He was a sergeant at
Scarthoe Fort."

"That is in the Isle of Wight?"

"Yes," John answered; "that accounts for them
seizing me—they traced me from the Isle of Wight."

Cherriton and Manners exchanged glances; neither man
felt at all comfortable.  But Cherriton felt that he had
pressed the matter enough.  He suddenly assumed his
air of bland amiability, but it sat ill on him.

"Well, Manners," he exclaimed, looking at his
confrère, "you were mistaken—you assumed that our dear
friend Treves had escaped, and were in a great fluster of
anxiety on his behalf; whereas the little misfortune that
occurred to him was all a mistake."

"All a mistake," repeated John.

"And now, I think," Cherriton remarked, taking up
his grey felt hat and denting it carefully with his hand,
"I think we will not keep you from your wife any longer."

For the second time that day he gripped John's hand
in his, and John, looking back into his cold blue eyes,
felt the steady, penetrating power of Cherriton's gaze.

"Here was a man," thought John, "used to
command—a man possessed of exceptional powers of mind
and physique.  You are a daring fellow," thought John;
"a subtle and cunning worker of evil, but for once in your
life you are mistaken.  I am not the man you think,
either in name or in character."

Then a singular thing happened to John.  On the very
instant when his fingers slid away from the other's touch
a flaming instinct ran through him—a passionate impulse
to leap upon the other's throat and squeeze the life out
of him came upon him as a definite and conscious wish.
Though he had known Cherriton only for two days, he
felt a great hate swirl up in him against this serenely
poised, potent enemy.  Against Manners, whom he
knew, and whom Dacent Smith knew to be a spy, he felt
nothing of this.  That afternoon he had been instructed
well and thoroughly by Dacent Smith.  Dacent Smith had
talked much with him, drawing him out, subtly examining
him as to his aspirations and his powers.  And gradually,
during the talk of that afternoon, Smith had come to
realise that in John Manton he possessed a keen and
highly-wrought weapon.  Here was a young man who
had fought for his country, who was willing to fight for
it again in any circumstances.  And long before the end
of that interview the chief of a great branch of the Secret
Service had laid his hand on John's arm.

"Manton," he had explained, "you were wasted as a
sergeant at Scarthoe Head.  There are big things
awaiting you.  You have fought the enemy in the open;
from to-day you shall fight him in the dark.  You will
find him more tricky and subtle and dangerous than he
was in France"—then he had paused a moment, looking
at John.  "Accidents sometimes happen, Manton, my boy!"

"One must be prepared for accidents," John had
answered, quietly.

"I have lost two or three splendid fellows during the
past year.  I am telling you this," the chief resumed,
"that you may remain always on your guard.  Fate or
Providence has placed you in a wonderful position with
the aid of your acquaintance, Manwitz.  I have the
complete dossier in that cupboard over there."  He pointed to
a cabinet against the wall.  "Your acquaintance with
Manwitz gives you a splendid start.  You will use it to
acquire such information as will be useful to the Department,
but in the first place you must discover all there is
to know about the amiable and unexpected Cherriton.
We shall at the same time be working to discover things
from our end."

John thought of this conversation as Manners and
Cherriton took their departure.

"You will come and see me again soon, will you
not?"  Manners had remarked at the moment of departure.
He looked cunningly and meaningly into John's eyes.
In effect he had been saying: "You will come and see me
again immediately those cocaine tabloids have been
consumed."  Bernard Treves's craving for cocaine, both
Manners and Cherriton knew, held that young man as by
bonds of steel.

"I'll come again soon," John had answered, slipping
the new address Manners had given him into his waistcoat
pocket.  He watched the two men pass into the street,
then closed the door, and re-entered the empty parlour.
The daintiness, the cleanliness, and the perfect taste of
the little apartment had already won his appreciation.
He wondered when Elaine Treves would descend from
above, and what would happen then.  Until now only
a few fleeting words had passed between himself and the
beautiful girl who was Treves's wife.  What was to happen
now in the intimacy that would ensue when she re-entered
the room?

John was smoking one of Treves's cigarettes, with his
back against the mantelshelf, when the door opened and
Elaine quietly entered.

"So you have got rid of them, Bernard?"

She looked at him, he thought, a little shyly, with
something of reserve in her glance.  He watched her as
she crossed to a chintz-covered wicker arm-chair, with its
back to the window.  At her side was a small work-table.
She took out a needle, a thread, and various bits
of coloured silk.  A silence drew itself out that became
awkward.  John moved from one foot to another;
then he made an effort to pick up the thread of what he
believed to be Treves's life in relation to the girl who was
so industriously sewing, with bowed head.

"I am sorry I wasn't able to come in answer to your wire."

"I think, Bernard, you might have answered it,"
returned Elaine, quietly, without raising her head.

"Well, you know, I was not able to.  Circumstances
did not permit me to answer it."

"I was afraid of that."

She suddenly looked up at him with an expression of
hopelessness in her fine eyes.

"Bernard," she said, "sometimes I think you will
never, never be able to keep your promise to me!"

"Why not?" John asked, feeling his way cautiously.
He could see that she was stirred, that something had
moved her deeply.  He was more than ever assured of
this when she rose, stood before him, and looked steadily
into his face.

"Oh!  Bernard, if you could only, only fight!"

Under the close scrutiny of her eyes John felt
extraordinarily uncomfortable.

"Other people have fought and have conquered," went
on the girl.  "Why should not you?  Sometimes,"
she went on, "you are quite as you should be, just as you
are now—the man who once won my love.  And then,
again——"  She broke off.

Accidentally John had put his fingers in his waistcoat
pocket.  He felt the contact of the little bottle of cocaine
tabloids Manners had forced upon him.  He had guessed
that Elaine was referring to Treves's enslavement to this
drug, and he drew out the bottle, holding it in the palm
of his hand.  He saw the girl look at the tabloids with
an expression of loathing; then something seemed to
pass through her that drew her rigid and erect.

"I wonder," she said, "in our very short months
together, how often you have promised, have sworn, to
give it up!"  Her manner suddenly changed again, and
she held out her hand imploringly.  "I wonder, Bernard,
if you have the courage to give them to me?"

"Certainly," John said, "I will give them to you!"

He unscrewed the top of the little bottle, and poured
the white tabloids one after another into the palm of her
hand.  She looked at them for a moment, then into his
face.  John was still standing with his back towards the
small fire.  He felt the girl's hand on his arm; she was
thrusting him aside.  A moment later she had flung the
tabloids into the red embers, and before John knew it
she was holding his hand in hers, looking up into his face.

"Bernard," she said, in a low voice, "I believe—I
believe you have changed!  I think strength is coming to
you—you will win yet!"

"Yes," John answered, "I swear I'll win."

The words came from him almost without volition,
and at the same moment an instinct came to him
that matters were drifting too far.  He turned the
conversation with a laugh, and for some minutes they
were discussing general topics.  He helped her to
prepare the supper, going into the little kitchen and
bringing out plates and dishes, under her direction.

Daylight faded, much to John's relief.  They took
supper together in the little parlour; John noticed how
deft and womanly she was.

"Our friend Treves is a lucky man, if he only knew it,"
thought he.

"I am afraid there is nothing to drink, Bernard."

"That doesn't trouble me," John answered; then saw
her pause with the teapot uplifted in frank surprise.
"I mean," said John, striving to recover the situation,
"if you haven't got it, I don't mind."

The meal passed off in an air of general cheerfulness.
Elaine's little clock struck nine, and when the meal was
at an end John took the seat opposite Elaine and her
little work-basket.  She busied herself with her
fancy-work, and occasionally John caught her eyes resting upon
him with a thoughtful and somewhat puzzled expression.
He strove to gather from her manner what her feelings
really were towards her husband.  "She can't love him,"
thought John; "he's too much of a brute and a waster
for that.  And yet women are strange creatures."

Elaine had been silent for some minutes, but
presently she spoke, uttering something that appeared to
have dwelt for long in her mind.

"Bernard," she said, "I am not so hard as you think,
but I am sure the way I am acting is the only right
way."  She paused.

"I am sure it is the right way," answered John,
looking into her candid, girlish face.

He noticed again the flicker of surprise.  He was
always making false steps.  The situation was difficult
beyond everything he had experienced.  Dacent Smith
had impressed upon him the importance of tact and
finesse.  Here was a situation thrust upon him requiring
abundance of both.

"You seem to have changed your point of view?"

"Well——" John began, cautiously.

"You were so violent with me," interposed Elaine.

"There was no intention on my part to be anything of
the sort towards you," John answered.

He wondered what Treves had done, what Treves had
said.  He began to experience pleasure in the situation;
he began to wonder what was to happen next.  But very
soon after that the clock struck ten.

Elaine put away her needlework and rose somewhat abruptly.

"You must go now, Bernard."

John looked at her for a moment in surprise.

"Oh, yes," he said, "I see—of course."

Then Elaine crossed the hearthrug and laid her slender
hands on the lapels of his coat.

"To-night, Bernard," she said, "I have almost felt as
if you were your old self again."

"Thanks," answered John, awkwardly; his position
at that moment was awkward and utterly false; he was
like a man who walks blindly on the edge of a precipice.
He wondered if she was about to kiss him, or if she
expected him to salute her in that way.  This doubt was
still upon him when Elaine reached up and touched his
cheeks lightly with her lips.  There was no passion, no
love—nothing but a sort of sisterly affection in the
embrace, but John was glad when it was over.  If she
had been a less beautiful woman the situation would have
been so very much easier.

Elaine accompanied him along the passage, handing
him his hat and stick as they went.  In the darkness at
the door, as they shook hands, John felt that the
impression of her fingers was warmer and infinitely more
cordial that the greeting she had given him upon his
arrival.  He could see her face only dimly.  She had
seemed surprised that he had departed so easily; he felt
that he must say something, utter some remark that
possibly might have been uttered by Bernard Treves.

"I am sorry to have to go," he said.

Then Elaine's voice came to him quietly in the darkness.
There was a new note in her words.

"You must come again—soon, Bernard."

The door closed softly, and she was gone.





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`CHAPTER VIII`:

.. class:: center large

   CHAPTER VIII

.. vspace:: 2

Dacent Smith, busy in his luxurious bachelor
apartments in Jermyn Street, was going through a pile
of documents, all relating directly or indirectly to
the multitudinous activities of his department.  He
had continued his work for, perhaps, half an hour after
his brief luncheon interval when the man-servant entered
and announced a visitor.  Dacent Smith's man-servant
was discretion itself.  He looked like a walking secret,
and was a big, pallid man, with high cheek-bones and a
grim, hard mouth.  He was devoted body and soul to
Dacent Smith, and no tortures ever devised could have
ever wormed a word from him of his master's activities.

"Well, Grew?"

"Mr. Treves, sir."

"I'll see Mr. Treves at once."

Grew, the man-servant, departed, and a minute later
John was ushered into the apartment.

Dacent Smith greeted him with brief cordiality, then
indicated a chair.

"Well, Treves," he said, with a smile, "what is your
news?"

"There is very little to tell you, sir, so far.  The
person who wrote that telegram signed 'Elaine,' is
Bernard Treves's wife!"

Dacent Smith lifted his eyebrows; a twinkle of humour
was detectable in his expression.

"What happened?"

"She was quite deceived, sir!"

"A piquant situation," smiled Dacent Smith.

"Very!" answered John, seriously.

"You see how quickly you find yourself in deep
waters, my friend."  Dacent Smith was looking at him
with an expression of raillery in his keen eyes.
Nevertheless he was saying inwardly: "I like you, Manton;
you are a man after my own heart.  There is a good deal
of humour, as well as courage and intelligence, hidden
behind that good-looking face of yours."

"Now, Manton," he said, "tell me about Manwitz.
Are you in touch with him again?"

"I have his address, sir, and an invitation to go to
him whenever I wish—that is, whenever the cocaine
habit seizes me violently."

"I see," remarked the elder man.  "Whenever the
craving is violently upon you, you go to Manwitz and he
supplies your want?"

John nodded.

"It is amazing," went on the chief, "the way these
fellows manage to secure these drugs.  Perhaps, later,
Manton, you will be able to enlighten us upon that little
matter; but in the meantime Cherriton is your chief
responsibility."

"Cherriton showed a particular anxiety about his
overcoat, sir, containing Treves's letter."

John gave a brief report of the events of the previous
evening, and Dacent Smith made one or two notes on a
slip of paper marked M. 15.

When John had finished, the elder man leaned back in
his chair.

"It will take you some days—perhaps weeks," he
said, "to get the hang of things with us.  At present you
are to play a lone hand.  There is a chain of German
emissaries working against us—some traitors and some
spies—who pass information from all our dockyards to
London, and thence to Germany.  I want you to get
into contact with one of the links of this chain—any link
will serve our purpose.  You must do all you can to keep
the confidence of Cherriton and Manwitz.  If they set
you upon any task, carry it through absolutely.  If
papers or documents are given to you to be delivered
elsewhere, don't fail to act absolutely according to their
instructions.  If you can get a sight of the documents,
and memorise them during transit, do so, of course.
This applies to letters or documents which may be
handed to you by strangers—other German spies.  Do
you understand the importance of all this?"

John assured him that he did.

"It appears to me, sir," he added, "that by doing this
I shall myself become a sort of link in their chain."

The great man looked at him with eyes of approbation.

"Exactly," he responded; "that is what you will be.
Information is leaking out of England day by day, hour
by hour—rippling along these chains of which I speak."

Half an hour later, John took his departure from the
chief's sumptuous bachelor apartments.  He had learned
many things that amazed him, and one of these things,
which filled him with fury and loathing, was that there
were indeed traitors in unexpected places, that there were
British-born people, few, but active, who were willing to
sell their country into the power of the enemy.

"I hope it won't be my destiny to run across one of
these gentry," thought John; "for even the chief
himself would find it hard to make me keep my hands off
him."

And yet that night, in a few brief hours, he was to find
himself in contact with just such a traitor.

Reaching the corner of Jermyn Street, after his
departure from Dacent Smith's rooms, John hailed a taxi and
drove to Hampstead Tube at Tottenham Court Road.
Here he took train to Hampstead, and made his way
towards the address Manwitz had given him.  The
address was Cherriton's, and when John arrived there he
found that the unamiable captain occupied a suite of
rooms in a large, old-fashioned house near the Heath.
The house was maintained by a retired butler, who
received John at the door.  The butler ascended to a
handsomely furnished, spacious drawing-room on the
first floor.  Here Manners was seated at a grand piano,
and Cherriton, deep in an arm-chair, was reading an
English Pacifist pamphlet.

"Is that a telegram?" asked Cherriton, as the door
opened.

"No, sir," answered the man; "it is a Mr. Bernard
Treves called in to see Mr. Manners."

Two minutes later John stepped into the room.

"Did you get your overcoat?" he asked, shaking
hands with Cherriton.

The fair man nodded.

"Many thanks," he said.

He had spent the earlier part of that day inquiring into
the existence, status, and habits of John Manton.  He was
still not quite satisfied as to his visitor's release from
Scotland Yard, and at that very moment he was awaiting
a telegram from the Isle of Wight which would either
increase his suspicions or remove them altogether.  In the
meantime, he preferred to trust John to a certain extent.

"You have come at an opportune time, Treves," he said.

John was seated now, and this time accepted a cigarette
from the Baron's case.  Suddenly, Rathenau looked him
full in the face.

"You and I, Treves," he said, "have both been
treated damnably!"

"Damnably!" answered John, wondering what was
coming.  The other continued:

"But there comes a time, Treves, eh, when the worm
turns?  You turned and I turned!  You cast in your
lot with our friend Manners, who knows how to appreciate
loyalty!  Manners," he continued, in the ironical tone
that was his general habit, "fat and stupid and lazy as
he is, is always willing to pay for loyalty!"

John looked into the Baron's thick-skinned, pallid
face, into the steel-like eyes, and smiled inwardly.  A
pause came.  John leaned forward.

"Cherriton," he said, "what are you leading up to?"

Manners, from the piano-stool, spoke up.

"Ah, you see, Cherriton—he is sharp, our friend Treves.
Tell him what you want, Cherriton, straight out!"

He rose, came, for all his great bulk, softly across the
room.  He laid a fat hand on John's shoulder and looked
down at him.

"Bernard," he half whispered, "you shall have all
you want of everything.  Money—and the other thing.
I want you to throw in your lot with me as the good
Captain has done.  That note," he continued, still in the
half whisper, "you gave me in regard to the sailing of
the *Polydor* was well appreciated in certain circles."

"I am glad to hear that," John answered.

"That was good service," continued Manners, "but
there are bigger things afoot."  He paused a moment,
then walked round John, and seated himself on a sofa
quite near.  "You have heard, no doubt," he continued,
"of the *Imperator*——"

"You mean the new Grey Star liner?"

Manners nodded.

"A monster ship—a wonder ship!  Forty-eight
thousand tons."

He uttered the words slowly, rolling them unctuously
over his tongue.

"Nearly as big as the *Vaterland*," John said, and for
the life of him he could not help looking across at
Cherriton's face.

But Cherriton was quick as lightning.

"The *Vaterland*?" he repeated.  "You mean the
German ship?"

John returned his attention to Manners.  He could feel
the web closing about him—the web in which Dacent
Smith had ordered him to entangle himself.

"The *Imperator*," said Manners, "is to sail one day
quite soon, but your Admiralty has grown doubly cunning
of late.  As yet we know not either her port of departure
or the hour of departure!"

John noticed that the fat man's tones deepened as
he spoke; excitement gleamed in his eyes.  He leaned
forward and laid a fat hand on Bernard's knee.

"Treves, my boy, I trust you—eh?"

"Certainly!" answered John, truthfully.  "I want
you to trust me."

"Good!" exclaimed Manners, uttering the word
thickly in his throat.  "Now, you will understand
Cherriton and I cannot appear in certain places, but
with you—it is different with you—eh?"

"Quite," said John.  "I can appear anywhere without
suspicion."

Cherriton, who had remained silent, again took control
of the situation.

"What Manners and I want you to do," he said, "is
to stay a few days at the Savoy Hotel.  A Dutch
gentleman is giving up Room 104C.  You are to take that
room, and stay at the hotel at Manners's expense."

"Thank you," said John.

"There will be no need for you to stint yourself.
What is more, you will have no duties whatever to
perform!"

John lifted his eyebrows in genuine surprise.

"I don't quite see what help I can be in that case!"

"We are hoping that the matter will resolve itself,"
said Cherriton.

"Yes—yes!" intervened Manners, "everything will
resolve itself beautifully.  All you have to do now, my
dear boy, is to say that you accept the——"

"The invitation," intercepted Cherriton.

John thought there was nothing easier in the world
than to accept an invitation to stay, free of expense, at
a first-class hotel, and with no duties to perform.  He
said as much to Manners, and two nights later found
him the occupant of the room 1046, a delightful Louis
Seize bedroom overlooking the Embankment.  He had
spent a day and a night at the hotel, and no incident
whatever had occurred.  On the evening of the second
night, however, after dinner, John seated himself in the
foyer and ordered coffee and cigarettes.

Presently, in the great crowd moving, laughing and
talking near him, John observed a politician who at
various periods in the past had loomed importantly in
the public eye.

"He is even more ugly than his photographs," thought
John, watching the important personage move among
his friends.  John did not like Beecher Monmouth's
smile; altogether he disliked the man on the instant,
and was the more astonished to notice that a strikingly
beautiful woman of thirty, wearing a glittering diamond
necklace and diamond ear-rings, moved towards him
and slipped her arm through his.  The woman wore a
deeply decollété evening dress of a shimmering silk that
looked to John now green and now blue.  He noticed
her flash a smile into Beecher Monmouth's face.  He
saw the politician put her hand into his.  Then
recollection came to John.  The woman was Beecher Monmouth's
wife, a beautiful woman thirty years his junior, who had
appeared from nowhere and married him.

"She certainly is a beautiful woman," thought John.
"A case of Beauty and the Beast!"

Then, to his utter amazement, Mrs. Beecher
Monmouth's eyes met his.  She slid her arm from her
husband's, and made her way quickly through the crowd
to John.  He felt his heart-beat quicken.  A moment
later Mrs. Beecher Monmouth was holding out her hand
towards him.  She flashed a smile into his face.

"My dear Mr. Treves," she said, in a voice that was
low and intimate, "I have been looking for you all the
evening!"

A moment later she was shaking hands with John.

"I must fly now," she added, "but you must come
and see me to-morrow—six o'clock."

A moment later she was hurrying back towards her
husband, her gown shimmering and gleaming as she went.
There was something in the palm of John's hand—something
that had passed from Mrs. Beecher Monmouth to
himself.

Holding his hand below the table and free from
observation, John saw that the something Mrs. Beecher
Monmouth had passed into his hand was a slip of paper on
which was pencilled: "*Imperator*—three o'clock
to-morrow.  Route 28."

John was conscious of a quite definite thrill.  His
nerve was of the best; he had accepted the momentous
slip of paper without any outward sign of disturbance.
Indeed, he had smiled back into Mrs. Beecher Monmouth's
eyes in a manner that had won that lady's sincerest
approbation.  Nevertheless, he was not inwardly calm.
He felt that fate, or destiny, had seized him suddenly in
its relentless grip.  The slip of paper was still in his right
hand, concealed beneath the level of the table.  For
some minutes he drew at his cigarette, then, carefully
taking out the pocket-book, laid the slip in its leaves,
and replaced the book in the inner breast pocket of his
coat.  For some minutes longer he retained his seat,
leaning back in the delicate gilt chair.  His gaze wandered
among the brilliant and fashionable crowd moving about
him.  The gentle murmur of music mingled still with
the chatter of voices, and twenty feet away he caught
the gleam of Mrs. Beecher Monmouth's ear-rings, the
scintillation of her superb diamond necklace.  She was
talking to her yellow-skinned and unprepossessing
husband, but her attention was entirely and solely fixed
upon John.

Their eyes met, and John was obliged to concede, for
the second time, that she was a woman of exceptional
beauty.  The art of her coiffeur, and, possibly, the art
of her complexion expert, had wrought its best for her.
Nevertheless, she would have stood out among any
assemblage of young and prepossessing women.  Her
husband quite visibly adored her, and every word she
condescended to transmit to him was received with a
quick, responsive smile on his part.

John was thinking rapidly, wondering and speculating.
Was it possible that Beecher Monmouth knew of the
existence of the little slip of paper that reposed in his
pocket-book?  Beecher Monmouth, who had sat on
numerous committees, who had more than once stood
in the running for an under-secretaryship?  The thing
seemed utterly incredible!

As these things flashed through John's mind, realisation
slowly came to him that Mrs. Beecher Monmouth was
observing him with close intensity, under slightly lowered
lids.

John rose, and as he did so the lady flashed a brilliant
smile towards him—an intimate, understanding smile,
full of meaning.

"I wish I knew what you meant," thought John, as
he made his way through the throng out towards the
cloak-room.

The circulating door received him, and he passed out
into the dim light of the Strand.  There was a crowd, as
always at that hour, and a young man who followed
closely at his heels found difficulty in keeping him in sight.

John was burning once more to look at the information
Mrs. Beecher Monmouth had conveyed to him.  But
caution forbade anything of the sort.  He was determined
that this, his first swim in deep waters, should achieve a
successful issue.  His chief desire in life was to make good
in Dacent Smith's eyes, and, moreover, obeying his chief's
instructions, he had already indelibly impressed upon
his memory the portentous sentence: "*Imperator*—three
o'clock to-morrow.  Route 28."

The word "treachery" floated into his mind, and filled
him with rage.  Until now he had been outside—one of
the public.  But to-night the curtain had been drawn
aside.  He felt himself engaged in the secret fight which
is for ever taking place beneath the surface—the fight
between our own secret service and the spies and traitors
in the pay of the other nations.

At Hampstead, John emerged from the Tube and
made his way through the darkness of Well Walk.
Presently he turned to the left, through an alley, crossed
a square of shabby-looking houses, and ascended a further
closely-built, narrow street, leading towards Cherriton's
residence.

The young man who had followed him from the Savoy
was still in his wake.  At this point, however, he
apparently ceased his pursuit, and vanished up a side alley.

John, who had been aware of footsteps for some
minutes, halted and looked behind him.  The road was
empty, and the suspicion that had been growing on him
vanished.  Nevertheless, he laid a hand on his hip
pocket, assured himself that he was prepared for
eventualities and moved forward again.

"I'll give this nefarious bit of news to Cherriton, then
hop down to Dacent Smith and report the fact as quickly
as I can," thought John.

He reached the top of Christ Church Road and
paused to recollect which turning was the right one.
At that moment some one moved in the shadow of
the church railings near him, and before John could
turn his head a doubled fist smote him heavily.  The
attack was so sudden, unexpected and swift that before
he could in any way retaliate a second blow had been
delivered.

His assailant leaped through the air, clasped two
strong hands round his neck, and fell into the road, still
gripping for all he was worth.

The two struggled ignominiously, and John became
aware that the stranger, who had released one hand
grip, was groping for the precious pocket-book.  For
the first time John was able to aim a blow, then, with a
violent twist, he drew himself uppermost, and plunged
his knee heavily into the other's chest.  In the dim
light he observed that his opponent was young.  John
was already aware that he had met no mean antagonist,
and he was taking no chances.

The downward blow he now delivered on the other
man's countenance staggered him for a moment.  He
wrenched himself free and stood upright on his feet.

His enemy was prone, but only for a moment.

"You've got a good deal of spirit, my young friend,"
said John, through his teeth, "but you'll get nothing
from me, except another punch like the last!  Now,
get up!"

"Thanks," returned the other.

He rose and began to dust his clothes carefully.  John
did not like the man's attitude.  He was quite obviously
preparing to make another attack.

"Now," commanded John, moving back a pace,
"don't try that with me!"

He stepped back and reached for the Colt weapon that
reposed in his pocket.

"I should hate to do anything drastic," he continued;
"but if you make it a habit to leap at people in the dark,
and to aim half-arm jolts at strangers, you must take the
consequences."

"I am prepared to take anything that is coming to
me!" responded the young man.

He spoke almost jauntily, and John admired his spirit.

"I evidently did not hit you quite as hard as I
thought," John remarked.

"Quite hard enough," responded the other, "but
please don't shoot, because——"

Then, to John's amazement, and with the utmost
daring, he leapt forward like a flash and seized John's
pistol.  There was a swift, fierce struggle.  The moment
was one for quick decisions.  The stranger held the
weapon by the wrong end, and John knew it.
Unexpectedly he let go, and simultaneously landed a heavy
left on the young man's downbent jaw.  He followed
with a right, and then another left.  He was as busy as
he had ever been, and he knew he was fighting for his
entire future, possibly for his life.

"I've had enough," gasped the stranger.

He reeled away, and seated himself on the farther side
of the narrow street.

John searched about, picked up the weapon from the
middle of the road and pocketed it.  Then he buttoned
his coat, after carefully satisfying himself that the
pocket-book was still in its place, and prepared to go.

"Good night," called the other, seated on the edge of
the pavement, as he went.

Manton, however, was in no mood for persiflage.  He
took himself off, walking as swiftly as he could.

"He certainly doesn't lack pluck," mused John.

Five minutes later he reached the large house wherein
Cherriton had his abode.

"I want to see Captain Cherriton at once," he said,
when the door was opened to him.

He found Cherriton alone in the big drawing-room.
He was in evening clothes, and was wearing comfortable
house slippers.

"So it's you, Treves?" exclaimed the German as the
door closed.  "Come in, and I'll give you a drink of
whisky; that is always acceptable, eh?"

"Always," answered John.

Cherriton was looking at him intently.

"There is a slight cut on your forehead."

"Is there?  It must be a scratch."

John applied his handkerchief to the slight abrasion,
then slipped off his overcoat and took a drink of whisky
and soda.

"I have some news for you, Cherriton."

"News?"

The other flashed a swift glance at him.

John slowly drew out the pocket-book and produced
the slip of paper.

"You wanted to know when the *Imperator* sailed out,
and by what route."

Cherriton was suddenly and unfeignedly impatient.

"What is it you know?" he demanded.

"At the Savoy to-night," John said quietly, "this
was handed to me."

He passed the slip of paper into the German's eager
fingers.

"Gott!" exclaimed Cherriton, utterly absorbed.
"You got this from——"

"Mrs. Beecher Monmouth."

"Three o'clock to-morrow," mused Cherriton.  "There
is not much time for us to act!"

He looked suddenly into John's face.

"What a woman she is!" he exclaimed.  "Invaluable—invaluable!"

"Invaluable!" echoed John.

Cherriton laid a hand on John's arm.

"Keep your hold on her, my dear Treves.  Your work
to-night has been excellent!"

Excitement had brought an unusual gleam into his
hard eyes.

"We will do great things for you yet!"

He crossed the room and rang the bell imperiously.

"My coat and hat," he commanded of the butler when
the man appeared.  "When Mr. Manners returns, ask
him to wait up for me."





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`CHAPTER IX`:

.. class:: center large

   CHAPTER IX

.. vspace:: 2

The hour was eleven o'clock.  Dacent Smith was, as
usual, up to his ears in work.  Very little of the real
work, conducted by him on behalf of the Department,
was dispatched at the office.  If he possessed a weakness
at all, it was a weakness for the luxury of his own suite
of rooms and for the benign, competent aid of Grew.
Servant and master were each equally devoted to the
other, and yet even Grew was only vaguely aware of
the greatness, of the importance of the stoutish, bland,
keen-eyed gentleman who was his master.

At Dacent Smith's elbow a green-shaded electric lamp
cast a bright light on the papers beneath his hand.
The chief wrote neatly and carefully, and when the door
opened and Grew came softly in he did not lift his head.

"Mr. Treves to report, sir."

"I'll see Mr. Treves immediately."

"Very good, sir."

Dacent Smith raised his head.

"Oh, Grew, please ask the gentleman who is in the
other room to wait a little longer."

"Very good, sir."

Two minutes later John found himself alone with the
chief.

Dacent Smith motioned him into one of the deep,
leathered-covered arm-chairs, opened a silver box of
Egyptian cigarettes, and pushed it towards him.

"Well," he questioned, wheeling his chair and looking at
John much as an astute physician might look at a patient;
"I can see by your expression," he went on quickly,
"that you have something of importance to report."

"I think so," said John.

"Well, what is it?"

"In the foyer of the Savoy to-night, sir, Mrs. Beecher
Monmouth"—an almost imperceptible change of
expression occurred on Dacent Smith's smooth
features—"Mrs. Beecher Monmouth," continued John, "passed
a slip of paper into my hand.  I assumed at once that
the paper was meant for either Manners or Cherriton,
and, obeying your instructions, I delivered it at once."

"You memorised it first?"

Dacent Smith's tone was almost sharp.

"It was very short, sir.  I can remember it exactly."

Dacent Smith pushed a pencil and block of paper
towards him.

"Perhaps you had better write it down immediately,"
he said.  "If you visualise it in writing you will be less
likely to have forgotten or misplaced a word."

John rose, and bending over the desk wrote the exact
words of the message Mrs. Beecher Monmouth had
conveyed to him.  When he came to the word *Imperator*,
Dacent Smith whistled softly.

"You have done very well, Treves," he said.  He
suddenly looked into John's face.  "You must better
your acquaintance with Mrs. Beecher Monmouth."

"I have an appointment with her for to-morrow night,"
answered John.

Dacent Smith glanced at a little gilt clock on the
mantelshelf.

"I think we shall be in time!"

"That is exactly what Cherriton said," John answered.

Dacent Smith was silent for a moment.

"Treves," he said, "if the *Imperator* sails to-morrow
at three o'clock by Route 28, which is their code for the
North Ireland route, there will be another disaster for us."

He was silent a moment and John put a question that
had troubled him somewhat.

"But if she doesn't sail at that hour," he said; "if
she is suddenly delayed or dispatched by another route,
won't that arouse their suspicions?"

Dacent Smith looked at him for a moment, then smiled
quietly.

"Oh," he said, "we shall not be quite so obvious as
that, Treves, otherwise they would come to suspect a
leakage.  What will occur is this: I shall communicate
with the Admiralty at once, and some time to-morrow
morning an accident will happen—quite a small accident—to
the *Imperator's* boilers.  The news of the accident
will be well spread throughout the crew and the deck
hands.  Thus the *Imperator* will be unavoidably delayed
and will not sail at three o'clock to-morrow."

He rose as he finished speaking and went quickly out
of the room.  When he returned he was obviously much
easier in his mind.  With slow deliberation he replaced
himself in his chair at the desk.

"Now give me details of your interview with Cherriton."

John stated what had occurred.

"Anything else to report?" asked Dacent Smith,
looking at him with a penetrating glance.  "I see you
have a scratch on your forehead."

"Yes," answered John.  "It occurred in Hampstead;
a young man attacked me and endeavoured to get my
pocket-book!"

"Oh, that is rather alarming!"

"It was rather sudden," John confessed, "and he
was a particularly energetic person."

"Would you know him again if you saw him?" asked
Dacent Smith.

"I think I should," answered John.  "He was about
my own height, but more slenderly built.  Rather a
good-looking fellow, well dressed.  He was a most
energetic and audacious opponent," he continued,
becoming unexpectedly expansive.

"Audacity is sometimes a fault!" observed Dacent
Smith.  "Just sit where you are a minute, Treves; I
want to introduce you to some one."

He crossed the room and opened the door.  John
noticed him beckon to some one, and a moment later
a young man in evening clothes stepped into the room.

Dacent Smith led the new-comer towards the hearth.

"Captain," he said, speaking to the young man,
"this is Mr. Treves, who is now a member of our service."

John rose to shake hands, and found himself looking
into the smiling face of a young man of twenty-eight, a
young man with dark brown, daring-looking eyes, a
sun-browned skin, and a dark moustache.  The stranger's
face was humorous, and on the lower part of his left
cheek was a contused redness.

As John and he shook hands, John uttered an
exclamation of astonishment.

"Why, you're the man who attacked me!"

"Well, I don't know about that!" smiled the Captain,
cheerily; "it looks to me as if the attacking was
mostly on your side."

"I must say," John continued, "you put up quite a
good fight, but I don't quite see the point.  If you were
acting on behalf of the Department, why did you attack me?"

He glanced at Dacent Smith, and the great man undertook
an explanation.  "The whole thing was a slight
mistake.  Your new acquaintance, known to us as
Captain X., was under my orders, his avocation to-night.
He saw Mrs. Beecher Monmouth shake hands with you.
He also observed you—and he says, very neatly—put
something in your inner breast pocket.  He had never
seen you before, but he naturally jumped to the
conclusion that you were in league with this particular
fashionable lady, whom he had been sent to watch, hence
his mistaken attack on you."

John turned again to his late antagonist.

"I am sorry if I hurt you!" he said.

"You did hurt me abominably," retorted Captain X.
"I am not much of a pugilist and that half-arm jolt, or
whatever you call it, has my sincerest admiration."

"The luck was on my side," returned John politely.

"And the misdirected energy on mine," smiled the
Captain.

Dacent Smith moved to the table, took up a sheet of
paper, folded it, and handed it to Captain X.

"Now," said he, "we will return to business."

.. vspace:: 2

At nine o'clock the following evening John found
himself in a lady's boudoir, a room heavy with the odour
of Russian cigarettes.  The neat, capped foreign maid
who had ushered him into the apartment had removed
herself, closing the door softly behind her.

The room was not large, and every effort of a
somewhat exotic taste had been put forth to create an
atmosphere of intimacy.  It was a room, as it were, planned
and arranged for secret meetings.  The carpet was thick;
a while polar bear rug extended itself from the hearth, and
beyond the hearth, running along the wall, was a divan
covered in heavy silk of Chinese blue.  A Chinese
*kakemono* of brilliant colours—red, orange, azure, green, and
gold—covered the wall behind the divan.  The general air
of the place was one that did not appeal to John in the
least.  He did not care a button about exotic boudoirs.
Neither did he care for Mrs. Beecher Monmouth, who
to-night was wearing a Chinese overgown as brilliant and
sumptuous in hue as the *kakemono* that covered the wall.

She had been seated on the divan when John entered.
She rose now and came towards him, with the pink light
softening the cold splendour of her beauty.  There was
no doubt about her beauty—John was prepared to admit
that even at this second meeting.

"You bad boy to be so late!" breathed Mrs. Beecher
Monmouth, squeezing his fingers in hers.  She drew him
towards her.

The moment was a delicate one for Manton.  What
Treves's relations had been with this woman he could not
guess.  But it was his business to find out.  It was
indeed his business to find out many things about her.
For months the Intelligence Department had held her
in suspicion, but Dacent Smith's most brilliant assistants
had failed to make headway in her case.  She was
slippery as an eel—quick-witted, cunning, daring and
resourceful.  In that moment, as she drew John towards
her, she suspected a ruse.  But there was no ruse.  She
looked up, her brilliant eyes searching him.

"Have you nothing for me?" she whispered.

There was only one thing to do, only one safe course
to take, and John took it.  He, as it were, plunged, and
risked the consequences.  He put his arms about her shapely
shoulders and pressed a kiss upon the upturned lips.

"No, no!  I didn't tell you you could kiss me!"

"You said something very like it!" laughed John.

"You are a bad, daring boy."

"Faint heart never won anything worth having,"
returned John.

Mrs. Beecher Monmouth returned to her divan and
disposed herself comfortably.  "You bad Bernard, you
must sit in that low chair at once, and tell me all you
have been doing lately!"

She lifted a cigarette case from a low, ivory-topped
table.  John took one, noticing that they were the
excellent cigarettes Treves had been in the habit of
smoking.

"Tell me what you have been doing."

John mused, and the woman went on:

"Do you know, you looked rather handsome last
night at the Savoy."  She paused and became coyly and
softly wistful.  "I dislike handsome boys; they are so
conceited as a rule."

"If I can keep her talking like this for a while,"
thought John, "I shall not get into deep water!"

There was a silence, during which the lady luxuriantly
smoked her Russian cigarette.  Then she looked at John
with her slow, low-lidded smile.

"Talk," she commanded.

"I prefer to hear you talk," said John.  "Tell me
what you have been doing lately—to-day, for instance."

The lady pondered.

"Oh, to-day the Ogre gave a luncheon party."

John guessed that the Ogre was her unprepossessing
husband.

"The Ogre gave a luncheon party, and among others
we had Lady Rachel Marlin, a delightful chatterbox.
Her husband's in the Navy, you know.  I could listen to
her talk for hours."

"I don't doubt it," thought John.

"After tea," resumed she, "I went to my Red Cross work."

John was wary.  The fact that she did Red Cross work
surprised him, but possibly Treves had been aware of the
fact, and it would be unsafe for him to express his surprise.

There was silence for a moment until John hit on a
safe question.

"Do you go to the same place?" he inquired.

"Oh, yes, the Officers' Hospital, you know.  They are
such dear, delightful fellows."

She told him no more about the Officers' Hospital,
and he put another question.

"What have you done this evening?"

"I have been boring myself to death until you came.
And now you make poor me talk and don't entertain
me in the least!"

Suddenly she lifted her head.

"I hope you aren't in one of your moods?"

"Oh, no," said John, quickly.  "What makes you
think that?"

She looked at him long and steadily.  He sustained
her gaze; her brilliant, hard beauty smote his
consciousness again.

"Do you remember how awful you were at first, Bernard?"

"I suppose I was pretty awful," answered John,
wondering what Treves had done to earn himself that
character.

Suddenly Mrs. Beecher Monmouth ceased her scrutiny
and broke into a laugh, a long tinkle of laughter that
showed all her fine teeth.

"What a boy you are," she said.  "Do you remember
that night when you swore and tore about this room
like a madman?"  She laughed again, as though in
memory of a scene that had been grotesquely ridiculous.
Somehow, in that moment John felt his instinctive
dislike of her intensify.  He saw her as an utterly
cold-blooded traitor to her country.  Only forty-eight
hours earlier she had slipped into his hand information
that had been intended to doom a great ship to disaster.
The slip of paper that had so astoundingly come into
his possession had in itself constituted a vile blow at
the safety of England.  And here was the woman who
had safely engineered that atrocity, who had acted as an
intermediary in Germany's pay.  And this same woman
was smiling at him in her Grosvenor Place boudoir,
surrounded by all the luxuries of life, the wife of a
politician of some eminence, who had only recently been
in the running for an under-secretaryship.

The thought flashed into John's mind—was Beecher
Monmouth, M.P., also a traitor?  He did not know.
But he was prepared to risk a good deal to find out.

Once more he turned his attention to the woman before
him.

"It was rather weak of me," he said, "to act the
way I did."

"It was as good as a melodrama," replied she.  "You
said you were ruined, and swore you'd end everything!
I forget whether it was to be the river or in some less
pleasant manner.  Called yourself a traitor——"

"Traitor!" repeated John—he wanted to know more of this.

"Melodrama again," responded Mrs. Beecher Monmouth.
"However, you calmed yourself in the end.
You became your own delightful, foolish self again."

"Thanks," said John, and for the life of him he could
not help saying aloud, "and you were able to twist me
round your pretty fingers!"

She looked at him with one of her quick looks.

"Now, that is delightful of you to say pretty things
to me.  Do you know," she continued, leaning towards
him, "you have improved immensely—you are quite
changed!  Before you really came to us," she adopted
a note of seriousness, "you were really too dreadful for
words.  You raved against the army, that had treated
you so abominably, and yet would not throw in your lot
with us.  Oh, you were very difficult, *mon ami*!"

"And now?" inquired John.

"Oh, now, you are quite another man."

"I'm glad you think that," said John aloud, and to
himself he added, "my clever lady, you never spoke a
truer word in your iniquitous life."

"The change in you is so marked," went on Mrs. Beecher
Monmouth, "that Captain Cherriton actually
doubted your loyalty to us.  He regarded your escape
from Scotland Yard authorities as so sudden."

"Ah," protested John, "but I was mistaken for
another man."

"Of course, I know that, you silly boy!  But Cherriton
could not rest satisfied until he had discovered that
there actually existed a person called John Manton, and
that you had really been mistaken for this personage."

John made a mental note that in Cherriton he had an
adversary of no mean order.

"I hope," said he, "now that Captain Cherriton has
discovered my story to be true, he won't suspect me
again."

"As for that," responded the lady, "he suspects his
own shadow.  But you are very high in favour just at
the moment."

"His favour is worth having?" probed John.

"We shall discover that," said Mrs. Beecher
Monmouth.  Her tone suddenly became fervent, almost
exalted.  "After the war there will be great things for
us all.  Now is the time to sow; then will be the time
to reap the harvest!"

The expression of her face had changed.  A dark,
fierce light seemed to illumine her features.

"We shall win yet!  We are winning now, but the
end will be swift!"

"The end of some people," thought John, "will be
devilishly swift!"  He was thinking of Manners, of
Cherriton, and of the lady before him.

"What do you think will happen?" he inquired.

"They will come here, of course," she retorted,
suddenly standing erect beside the divan and speaking with
fiery and passionate intensity, "they will come
here—my people!"

"Your people?" interjected John, quickly.

"My people," droned she, with a lift of her head.
"You didn't know that before?  But you are one of
us, and I can trust you now."

"But everybody thinks you are an American," observed
John, recalling what Dacent Smith had told him.

"Quite true—they do think that, and for convenience
sake I am an American—a rich American who married"—she
lifted a scornful lip and pointed towards the
door—"who married the Ogre."

"Were you working for the—the cause when you
married him?" inquired John.

But the sudden flame that had animated her appeared
to die away; she became once more her beautiful exotic
self.

"I have worked for the cause since——" she stopped.

She, as it were, returned to earth.

"Bernard," she said, when she had smoked a few
minutes in silence, "I have something to show you."

She rose, crossed the room, and unlocked a buhl
cabinet.  A moment later she returned to John, and
handed him an envelope.  Within was a closely written
letter beginning: "Dearest Alice."

As John glanced at the writing Mrs. Beecher Monmouth
came behind him, and laid her manicured finger-nail on
the bottom four lines of the first sheet.

"That is all you need read," she said.

The four lines at which she pointed ran:

"If you think Treves has the courage for the task
I will take your word for it—he shall be the man!"





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`CHAPTER X`:

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   CHAPTER X

.. vspace:: 2

John looked up quickly.

"Is this from Captain Cherriton?" he asked.

Mrs. Beecher Monmouth shook her head.

"From a far greater one than he," she answered slowly.

John pricked up his ears, then flashed a glance at the
contents of the letter.  But Mrs. Beecher Monmouth
was very quick; he caught only the words, "secret
session," and "ready by the twenty-eighth," when
Mrs. Monmouth dexterously laid her white hand over the
writing and drew it from his fingers.  She folded it and
placed it carefully in the bosom of her dress.  She wore
evening dress beneath her gorgeous Japanese rest gown,
and John noticed the coquetry with which she concealed
the letter from his view.  He was young enough to be
affected by her beauty, and was yet old enough to suspect
she was playing a part—was, in fact, seeking to entangle
him for the benefit of the cause.  He put her down in
that moment as a passionate, unscrupulous, dangerous
woman, to whom adventure was the very breath of
life.  Moreover, he doubted her statement that she was
German.  She was certainly not his idea of a woman
of Teutonic nationality.

Her arm that had been resting upon his shoulder still
remained there.  The lady's handsome face was very
close to his; he could see deep into her smiling eyes,
and was not comfortable under the closeness of her
scrutiny.  His resemblance to Bernard Treves was
striking, but it was not perfect enough, he feared, to
deceive the watchfulness of a woman who had evidently
been closely intimate with that young man.  He
endeavoured to break the intensity of her gaze by leading
her back to her chair.

"Well," she whispered tenderly, "have you nothing
to say to me?"

"There are a thousand things I would like to say,"
returned John, promptly.  "Let me light you a
cigarette."  He struck a match and placed one of her
buff-coloured Russian cigarettes in her fingers.  As he held
the light, Mrs. Beecher Monmouth spoke on a new note
of seriousness.

"Bernard, I have been kindness itself to you."

John assured her that she had.

"When the others doubted you I clung to my belief
in you."

"You have been wonderful!" said John.

"You are changed, Bernard."

"That's impossible," answered John, "where you are
concerned."  He again experienced the sensation—a
common one with him these days—that he walked upon
the edge of a precipice.

"I have shown my confidence in you."

"You mean," proceeded John, "you have spoken up
for me to the great personage who wrote the letter."

"Yes.  Are you grateful?" inquired she, looking at
him quizzically.  She had disposed herself upon the
divan in a graceful, languid poise.

"I am more than grateful," said John.  "But, tell
me, who is this great personage?"

The lady's laughter sounded musically in the little pink
lighted room.

"Oh, my dear Bernard," she protested; "that comes
much later."

"I suppose," John said, feeling that a bold plunge
was worth while, "the personage is the head of the
German secret agents in England?"

"What makes you think that?"

"My dear Alice, you would not stand in such awe of
anyone less important than that."  For some minutes—since
the time he had caught sight of the letter, in fact—he
had resolved to call her "Alice" at the earliest
opportunity.  He was playing a part.  He had taken up
another man's love affair at an unknown state of
development—a dangerous thing to do.  However, the duel
between them, he believed, was to his advantage.
Mrs. Beecher Monmouth had made a false step.  She had
already revealed to him the existence of a high secret
power—a power far above and beyond Cherriton and
Manwitz.

"Alice," he said, suddenly, drawing his chair a little
nearer and laying a hand on her arm, "tell me who is the
Great Unknown?"

"Patience, patience, Bernard.  You will hear, all in
good time."  She lifted his hand from her arm and
pushed him gently away.  At the same moment there
came a low knock at the door.  A discreet pause followed
before Mrs. Beecher Monmouth's foreign maid, in cap and
white apron, entered.

"The master's returned, ma'am."

The girl spoke in a low tone, intended for her mistress's
ear alone, and immediately went out, closing the door
behind her.

"Sit over there," commanded Mrs. Beecher Monmouth,
waving John towards a chair at the hearth.
"Sit over there, and be very good."

John moved to the hearth.  He wondered if Bernard
Treves had known the Ogre, or if an introduction was to
take place.  The awkwardness of the situation was
solved for him a moment later, when the door behind him
opened.  In a slender strip of mirror on the opposite wall
John saw the reflected figure of Beecher Monmouth,
M.P.  The pink light softened a little the bilious yellow
of his skin.  But he was still an unprepossessing object,
with his bald head, his long, pointed nose, and his
thin-lipped mouth.

Mrs. Monmouth rose as her husband entered, and went
towards him with hands outstretched.

"William, darling," she exclaimed, "how nice of you
to come home so early.  I must introduce you to Mr. Treves."

John rose and bowed.  Beecher Monmouth put a
large bony hand in his.  He had just returned from the
House of Commons, and looked weary and old; he
looked every one of his sixty-four years.  John wondered
whether he ought to stay or not, but Mrs. Beecher
Monmouth solved the situation by holding out her hand.

"You must come and see me again, Mr. Treves."  Her
tone was almost motherly.  He shook hands with her,
and saw her move towards her husband and slip her arm
through his.

Husband and wife were standing together as the maid
conducted John downstairs.

"What a monument of treachery and deceit she
is," thought John, as he stepped out into the starlit
night.

In the meantime Mrs. Beecher Monmouth had pressed
her ungainly husband into a deep arm-chair, had
commanded that whisky and soda should be brought, and
was already holding the match that lit his cigar.  Beecher
Monmouth watched her with admiration in his tired eyes.
He was prepared to sell his soul for her, and was never
weary of telling her that he was the luckiest man in the
world to have won her love.

"And what did my William do to-night?" she inquired,
softly, when the whisky and soda had been placed
at his side, and he had helped himself to a somewhat
liberal dose.

"A most boring evening," said Beecher Monmouth.
"Irish question!"

"And you saw no one interesting?" asked she.

"I saw Brackston Neeve in the lobby," answered her
husband.  "There is some talk of a military expedition
to ——.  I don't know whether it will come off or not.
The Cabinet, I believe, discussed it yesterday."

"What did Brackston Neeve say?"

Beecher Monmouth took a sip of whisky.

"Why should I bore you with stupid politics?"

"They aren't stupid to me," she said.  "You know
every tiny bit of your political life interests me
intensely."  She settled herself in a low chair beside him.  "Now you
must tell me everything Brackston Neeve said.  He is
in the confidence of the Cabinet, is he not?"

Her husband nodded.

"He has the confidence of several members of the Cabinet."

"Tell me everything, William...."

Half an hour later, when Monmouth had finished his
cigar and whisky, he rose wearily, kissed her, and went to
his room.  Mrs. Beecher Monmouth waited until he was
safely out of the way, then, going to the telephone on the
buhl writing-desk, rang up a number.

"Is that Doctor Voules?" she inquired.

At the other end of the telephone a deep voice answered
in the affirmative.

"May I call upon you at eleven o'clock to-morrow?"
inquired Mrs. Monmouth.

"Is it important?" asked the voice.

Mrs. Beecher Monmouth, in the solitude of her room,
smiled slightly.

"I shall leave you to judge of that," she replied.

"Very good," answered the voice.  "I shall expect you
at eleven precisely."

On the following morning Mrs. Beecher Monmouth,
quietly, but expensively, dressed, presented herself at the
hotel bureau.

Three minutes later the lift door closed upon her and
she was wafted swiftly upward to the third floor.  A
page boy conducted her along a corridor, opened a door,
and departed.

The apartment into which she had been shown overlooked
the Haymarket.  Decorations of white and gold
caught Mrs. Monmouth's vision.  Seated at a desk from
whence he could look down upon the busy life of the
street below was a broad-shouldered, elderly man, who
laid down his pen as his visitor entered.

Mrs. Beecher Monmouth hurried towards him.

"It is so good of you to see me, doctor," she exclaimed,
effusively.

"Oh, not at all.  I am charmed to see you," he
answered.  He moved a little farther into the room, so
that prying eyes from the building opposite could not
observe him; then, with an air of great gallantry, he
bent over Mrs. Beecher Monmouth's hand and laid his
lips upon it.

"You will sit down and tell me your news," said the
doctor.

Mrs. Monmouth accepted the offered chair.

Doctor "Voules" was of middle height, sturdily, but
not heavily, built.  He carried himself well, holding his
head high and looking squarely and masterfully before
him.  His head was round, his strong, heavy-jawed face
was clean shaven, and his wide mouth drooped at the
corners.  Both physically and intellectually the doctor
was a formidable figure, but the harshness of his countenance
was belied by a surface air of politeness—a politeness
which appeared to be assumed, and which sat ill upon
him.  His air, despite his efforts of concealment, was one
of lofty authority.

"You will tell me your important news," he said quietly.

"I don't know that it is important," admitted
Mrs. Monmouth, "but my husband heard accidentally in the
House of Commons last night that there is talk of an
expedition to ——."

Voules's eyebrows moved very slightly.

"I shall be grateful to know everything your husband
heard."

Then Mrs. Beecher Monmouth told him exactly, word
for word, all she had managed to worm from her husband.

"He considers, then," inquired Voules, "that the
expedition is to become an accomplished fact?"

Mrs. Beecher Monmouth nodded.

"Did your husband learn anything else in regard to
this most interesting little adventure?"

Mrs. Monmouth shook her head.

"Ah," exclaimed Voules, "it would be most useful to
us if you could learn the name of the officer who is in
command of the expedition.  You will keep that in
mind?"

Mrs. Beecher Monmouth assured him upon that point.

"Now, in regard to your protégé, Mr. Treves," observed
the doctor.  "This young man, I understand, is very well
connected, and is the son of Colonel Treves?"

Mrs. Monmouth nodded.

"My information is that his disappearance from the
British Army was somewhat rapid, and that fact, together
with his propensity for drugs, gradually brought him into
our service.  I should like to see him," went on the
doctor, "to judge for myself; but in the meantime I can
make much use of him.  I shall take you at your word
and give him important duties to perform."

"Thank you," observed Mrs. Monmouth.  "That is
extremely kind of you, doctor."

Voules, who had seated himself, rose now and held out
his hand.

"My compliments to you upon your excellent work."

Two minutes later, with much politeness, he accompanied
her out of the room, along the corridor, and saw
her into the lift.

When he returned to his own room, he opened the
door of an inner apartment and summoned a thin young
man, wearing tortoise-shell-rimmed spectacles.  The
young man was clean shaven and was possessed of a
somewhat small and receding chin, which gave him a
foolish aspect.  He was not foolish in the least, however;
he was, on the contrary, extremely fox-like and alert.
The doctor's politeness vanished as he confronted the
young man.

"Baumer," he commanded, "come into the other
room, please."  He crossed to his desk near the window
overlooking the street, and seated himself.  The young
man entered and stood at his side, awaiting instructions.
"You will make a note," said the doctor, "that
a Mr. Bernard Treves is to come to my house to-day week."

"Very good, Excellenz," answered the young man
deferentially.  He began to write a note in pencil on a
small writing block he had produced.

"You will also," went on the doctor, "inform Hauptman
Rathenau that I wish to see Mr. Treves's dossier
again."

"Yes, Excellenz; but if I might be permitted to
suggest so much, Lieutenant Treves, whose family is well
known, would be a safer person to use for purposes of
association with the officers at Fort Heatherpoint."

"But our excellent Cherriton was educated at Oxford,"
said the elder man.  "He is to all outward seeming an
Englishman."

"Nevertheless, Excellenz," Baumer insisted, "I feel
we should be safer to employ an Englishman.  There is
much freemasonry among the English, and there is
always danger, Excellenz, that some one who knew the
real Captain Cherriton may meet Herr Rathenau."

"But Heatherpoint," said Voules, "is one of our key
positions.  You forget that, Baumer."

"No, Excellenz, I remember it perfectly."

His superior was silent for a moment, then said,
quietly, "I have decided that Cherriton shall do this
work; he has greater experience.  This time our
movements must be all perfect.  Our staff work here, Baumer,
must be even superior to the staff work in France.  We
must in no degree underrate our enemies."  He was
silent a moment, pondering the great scheme that had
grown in his brain months earlier—the scheme that was to
strike a blow at the very heart of England.  His orders
were to restore new confidence throughout Germany in
the failing U-boat campaign.  Minutely, piece by piece,
he had worked out his daring and masterful plan.  The
success of his country in discovering the sailing of British
ships; the strength and equipment of our distant
expeditions; the amount of munitions and arms being
manufactured—these things were in the daily routine
of espionage.  But General von Kuhne was no believer
in defensive operations.  He, like his friend Bernhardi,
was a disciple of Clausewitz—a believer in offensive
warfare.  To strike, to strike hard and unerringly, after
minute preparation, was his ideal of strategy.  Already,
for many weeks, he had been placing his pawns ready for
the great coup.  Cunningly and with infinite patience he
had prepared for the great blow that was intended to send
a shudder through the British Isles.





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.. _`CHAPTER XI`:

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   CHAPTER XI

.. vspace:: 2

The little clock on Dacent Smith's mantelshelf chimed
the hour of seven.

"I am as empty as a drum," exclaimed Captain X.
His slender figure occupied one of the Chief's deep
armchairs.  He was smoking one of Smith's cigarettes, and
his handsome face and audacious-looking eyes were
upturned as he watched the smoke ascend.  "How long
have we been here, Treves?" he inquired.

"Three hours," answered John.  He too occupied one
of Dacent Smith's deep chairs and smoked his Chief's
cigarettes.

"What about asking old Grew if he knows anything,"
continued Captain X——.  He leaned over and pressed
his thumb upon the electric bell push.  Almost
immediately, and quite noiselessly, the door opened and
Dacent Smith's big-boned manservant came into the room.

"Look here, Grew," said the Captain, twisting his head
to get a view of the tall servant.  "When do you think
the War Council will break up?"

"I couldn't say, sir," answered Grew, looking at him
with a wooden expression.

"You mean if you could, you wouldn't," returned the
Captain.  "But I would like to tell you, Grew, that both
of us are most devilish hungry.  Can you tell us anything
about food?"

"I have orders to serve dinner at 7.30," answered Grew.

For three hours John and his companion, acting upon
orders, had been waiting in Dacent Smith's room.  The
Chief had been called suddenly to a meeting of the War
Council, and had not returned.

"I expect there are big things afoot," observed John,
glancing at the other.

"It's a bit unusual," answered the Captain, "for him
to stay so long.  Perhaps he has ferreted out something
new, and is communicating what he knows to the mighty
ones."

He suddenly turned and looked close at John.

"How do you like our sort of work, Treves?"

"There is nothing to beat it," John answered.  "My
only trouble is that I am apt to lose my temper.
Somehow I cannot stomach spies, but traitors always make
me see red."

The Captain looked at him with smiling eyes.

"Mrs. Beecher Monmouth.  The Chief would never
trust me there.  She is too beautiful by far, eh, Treves?"

John agreed that Mrs. Monmouth's beauty was undeniable.

"In my opinion," went on John's companion, "the
Department ought to put her out of harm's way.  But
the Chief knows better.  He has ordered supervision of all
the letters she posts, and she posts a good many."

The door opened at that moment and Dacent Smith
himself came hurriedly in.  He apologised politely for
his absence.  The fact that he was head of a great
department, that he was indeed a great man, never
weighed with him in regard to his subordinates.  Socially
he treated them all as his equals; only in matters of
discipline was he superior.  He laughed as he looked at
his depleted cigarette-box, and then seated himself at his
desk.

With a brisk movement he switched on the light.

"I have had three hours of the War Council," he said,
speaking to both Treves and the Captain.  "Now, Treves,
what is the news?"

John told him that Mrs. Beecher Monmouth was in
communication with a person whose name was unknown
to him; this person was evidently of great importance
to the German secret service, and was considering the
employment of John in a great undertaking.

"Who is the great unknown?" inquired Dacent Smith.

"I don't know, sir," John admitted.

The elder man tightened his lips.

"Mrs. Beecher Monmouth's acquaintances are becoming
increasingly interesting to us, eh, Treves?"

"I believe so, sir," said John.

"We have been a little late in supervising her letters,"
said Dacent Smith, looking across at Captain X.  "However,"
he said suddenly, turning the conversation, "that
is a matter outside Treves's duties.  I have other and
more important work for both of you.  This afternoon,"
he went on, "I have submitted a number of reports to
the War Council, showing that certain of our defences are
in a sensitive condition.  Something is occurring, and
news is leaking out at a serious rate."  He was speaking
particularly to John.  But it was evident that he wished
Captain X. to listen to the conversation.  "There is a
leakage of news from certain fortified zones on the South
Coast.  In the case of some of the lesser forts it matters
not a brass farthing what the enemy discovers, but at
other places—well," he continued, "it has been decided
this afternoon that a department is to direct its special
attention to the South Coast.  Both of you gentlemen will
resume uniform almost at once.  You will like that, eh,
Treves?"

"Very much indeed, sir."

"The War Council," went on Dacent Smith, "was
inclined to treat my fears a little lightly, but I am sure
I am right.  There are secret operations preparing against
us on the South Coast, which are of a greater magnitude
than anything that has yet been attempted by German
espionage.  I want you"—he suddenly rose and took
John's hand in his—"I want you, Treves, to put everything
into this—all your shrewdness and all your tact.
You will need every quality of nerve and mind in the work
I am going to entrust to you.  And believe me," he said,
lowering his voice a little, "matters are very serious
indeed.  We are out against a secret enemy, who has of
late increased his power amazingly.  There is some one—a
new power—directing German espionage in this country,
which is a real menace to us.  Up to now we have done
very well, but at present, I will quite frankly admit to
you, our position is delicate in the extreme.  I dislike
preaching," he concluded in a lighter tone, "but I think
you know what I mean."

John, who had gripped his hand cordially, answered
simply, "Yes, sir; I think I appreciate the danger."

The clock on the little mantelshelf chimed the half-hour.
Grew knocked at the door.

"Dinner's ready," exclaimed Dacent Smith.  "Come
this way, and I'll show you how a miserable old bachelor
lives."





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.. _`CHAPTER XII`:

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   CHAPTER XII

.. vspace:: 2

On the Saturday following John's first experience of his
Chief's excellent bachelor cuisine, two men sat in a little,
barely furnished room, four hundred feet above the sea.
There was no view from the single window of the little
apartment, the one-story building of which it formed a
part was deeply embedded and concealed between high
grass-covered mounds.  Both men were beyond middle
age, one of them, in fact, wearing the gold stripes of
a naval commander, was over sixty years of age, a
trim-bearded, well-preserved officer, drawn for war service
from the reserve.

Lieutenant-Commander Grieves was chief naval officer
attached to the fort.  His companion, Colonel Hobin,
was ten years his junior—a sharp, nervous, over-strung
little man.  Hobin held the reputation of a first-class
officer; he knew every yard of Heatherpoint Fort,
which was his present charge.  His big guns were as
children to him, and in regard to his subordinates he
was a strict disciplinarian, with a reputation for fairness
both to officers and to men.

At the present moment he was consuming marmalade,
which he took from its jar with a dessert-spoon and
spread on thick bread and butter.  There were none of
the refinements of home in the mess-room at Heatherpoint.
A tablecloth existed, and a limited number of
knives, forks, and spoons.  The chef of the fort was a
gloomy looking individual who had joined up at Liverpool
and plain and good was his motto.

"I don't like it," exclaimed Hobin, suddenly.  He was
pouring the Commander another cup of black-looking tea.
"I don't like the look of things at all."

"Nor do I," said the Commander, "but the responsibility
is yours, and I think you did well to communicate
with the powers that be."

"The powers that be will do nothing," complained
Colonel Hobin; "they never do."

"If things are wrong at all," said the old naval
lieutenant, "somebody in the fort's wrong, for I'll bet
my hat nobody can get in and out without us knowing it."

"That's what is really troubling me," said the Colonel,
the frown deepening on his brow.  "It's damnable,
Grieves, to think that we are being outwitted.  I have
turned every man in the fort inside out, and they all seem
to me honest as the day."

"Wasn't one of the men in the lower fort reported to
have a foreign accent?"

"He was," answered the Colonel, with a bitter laugh,
"and I had him up and put him through a third degree
examination, with the result that his accent turned out to
be nothing more dangerous than an Irish brogue.  He's
as loyal as I am, and when I mentioned the fact of the
signal book I believe if I hadn't been in uniform he would
have hit me."

"If we were one of those tin-pot forts over there,"
returned the Lieutenant-Commander, jerking his thumb
contemptuously in a certain direction, "I wouldn't
mind, but we really count in the defences."

"We are the heart of this system of defence," returned
Hobin tartly, "and yet we go and lose a signal book.
If it was only that," he went on, "I might have thought
there was carelessness in it, but there are other things,
queer things, Grieves, that I cannot formulate into words
even to you.  I put it all before the authorities.  Whiston
listened as politely as he always does, and said he'd speak
to the Intelligence Department about it, but nothing will
be done."

"They'll have to do something."

"They won't," said Hobin.  Colonel Hobin was constitutionally
inclined to pessimism, despite his ability.
"They won't," he said.  And at that moment the door
opened, and a young lieutenant, who had that day
joined the battery, entered the room.

"Good evening, sir," said the young man to Colonel Hobin.

Hobin nodded grumpily.  The young man drew out
a chair, seated himself, and reached for the bread and
butter.  Hobin, from the head of the table, handled the
teapot.

"Weak or strong?" he demanded of the new-comer.

"Weak," answered John Manton, who had been at
Heatherpoint a matter of four hours, and was taking
his first meal in the fort.

The Lieutenant-Commander pushed the marmalade
pot towards him, and John began to spread it upon his
bread and butter, not quite so thickly as his Colonel had
spread it a minute or two before.

Everything was in order in regard to John's presence
at Heatherpoint.  Dacent Smith had arranged the whole
matter, and for the first time in his life John Manton,
who had once before been on the way to an officer's
uniform, found himself of commissioned rank.

And for once, Colonel Hobin was mistaken in thinking
that the War Office and Intelligence Department had left
him entirely neglected.

"Well, how do you like Heatherpoint, Mr. Treves?"
inquired the old Lieutenant-Commander genially.

"So far as I have got," answered John, "I am delighted
with the chance to be here."  He spoke truthfully.

"When you've had six months of it, and been through
the winter," said the Colonel grimly, "with your
wind-gauge showing seventy miles an hour for weeks on end,
and the lighthouse siren never stopping booming, I am
afraid you won't be in quite the same cheerful mood."

"I am cheerful by nature, sir," said the young man,
tucking into the marmalade.  He ate heartily, and
by the time he had finished the Colonel was smoking a
cigar.

Lieutenant-Commander Grieves filled his pipe, lit it,
and, with a nod at the Colonel, sauntered out to his
quarters.  For the first time John was alone with Hobin.
For some minutes there was silence, then the Colonel
spoke.

"You will take the leave book to-night, Treves.  Ask
Parkson about it."

"Very good, sir," John answered.

"You can go now, if you like," said the Colonel.  "Get
Parkson to show you the run of the place before parade
in the morning."

At this point John rose mysteriously, opened the door
into the corridor and looked out.  Then, to the Colonel's
surprise, he closed it again, and came quietly back into
the room.  From the inner pocket of his coat he took a
long, narrow, yellow envelope, which he handed to Hobin.

"What's this?" demanded the Colonel.  He tore open
the envelope and began to read with furrowed brows.

When Colonel Hobin had perused the official-looking
letter a second and a third time, his brow cleared; he
lifted his eyes and looked at John with a new and keen
interest.

"So you are from the Intelligence Department?"

"Yes, sir."

"I had no idea of that."

"My transfer was effected as quietly as possible, sir,
with a view to arousing no suspicion.  The letter is
merely my credentials from General Whiston."

The Colonel nodded.

"Judging from this," said the Colonel, "General
Whiston has an extremely high opinion of your gifts."

John tried to look as modest as possible.

"I am a great believer in luck, sir," he said, "and up
to now I have had plenty of it."  He was thinking of
the saving of the *Imperator*, which had brought him so
many laurels from Dacent Smith.

"I hope you'll bring luck to me," said the Colonel.
"I can promise you I need it."  He was delighted that
the powers that be had really sent help, despite his
disbelief in them.  His eyes were still upon John.  He
liked the young man's frank expression, his cheerful
and easy manners and the bold poise of his head.

"A good-looking, heftily-built youngster," thought
he.  "I only hope he is as shrewd as he looks active."

"Now, I suppose," he said aloud, "you want me to
tell you all the trouble?"

"I should like to hear of anything, sir, that has aroused
your suspicions," said John.

"That's a tall order," answered Hobin.  "Everything
has aroused my suspicions, and yet, if I put it into words,
it may look like nothing to you.  Have you ever had the
sensation, Treves," he said, "that things were going
wrong around you, and yet you could not lay your
finger on a thing that is definitely wrong?"

"I have felt that way sometimes," admitted John.

"That's the way I feel now," returned the Colonel.
Then, quite briefly, he gave John particulars of the loss
of a signal book, which, however, might have been due
to carelessness.  Other things he told John were also
mere surmises and sensations.  "I must explain," he
said, "that this fort, and Scoles Head opposite, are key
positions in our South Coast defences.  If we were
incapacitated, the enemy would sneak in to —— and
wreak the devil knows what damage.  Given a big
enough concentration of submarines, he could probably
get fifty to a hundred ships——"

"It's hardly likely," John answered, "that he will
ever be able to sneak in."

Hobin was silent for a minute, looking John over
carefully.

"Would it surprise you to hear that we have already
been incapacitated?" demanded the Colonel suddenly.

He thrust out his chin truculently as though
challenging John to doubt him.

"How was that, sir?"

"For an hour one morning last week the whole eastern
side of Upper Fort was out of action.  I've been a
gunner for thirty years, Treves, and until now such a
thing has never occurred in my experience."

"Could it have been an accident, sir?"

"In normal times," answered the Colonel, impressively,
"I would have said yes; now I say, no!  Three of the
guns, numbers one, six and eight, in this battery"—he
jerked his head towards the south—"went wrong
suddenly.  A cleaning squad was at work on number one,
and discovered that the gun could not be handled at all.
It was just after daylight in the morning.  You know
how perfectly these six- and nine-inch guns are swung?"

John nodded.

"A child can swing them like a toy cannon.  My own
boy's often done it," went on the Colonel.  "Well, on
this particular morning the guns would not elevate.
Just lay inert, like dead masses of metal.  Everything
was in order, both in the gun-chamber and engine house.
But the guns wouldn't budge, and for an hour this whole
upper fort was out of action.  If the enemy had tried to
rush us at that time, we could have done nothing!  I
was not quite so jumpy as now.  Not quite so many
things had happened to arouse my suspicions, and I
blamed Ewins."

"Who is Ewins, sir?"

"Our chief gunner."

"Did Ewins discover what was wrong?" John asked.

"Neither Ewins nor any of us," answered the Colonel.
"What happened is a mystery to us all.  Ewins was in
bed when the thing occurred, and, knowing how jealous
he is of his gun, one of the cleaning squad called him.
He came out of his hut half dressed.  I hear from Parkson
that he was in a blind rage, and felt his gun all over, as
a mother may feel for a bruise on her baby; but he
could make nothing of it."

"I'd rather like to see Ewins," said John, "if it can
be managed."

"He is on duty now," responded the Colonel.  "Come
along and make his acquaintance.  But, for Heaven's
sake, don't run away with any idea that Ewins is a wrong
'un.  Ewins is the best gunner on the South Coast, one
of the old rule of thumb school.  He knows nothing of
trajectories or curves, and hardly ever looks at the wind
gauge.  But he has made ninety-eight per cent. at a
submarine target doing nine knots."

"What was the range, sir?"

The Colonel told him, and John opened his eyes in
surprise.

"Come along," said Hobin.

Together they left the mess-room, crossed a narrow,
asphalted pavement, ascended a short ladder and came
upon a gorgeous view of the ocean and the blue waters
of the Solent.  Beyond, to the right, lay England, an
irregular coast-line, with swelling hills, green in the
foreground and blue in the distance.  In the middle of
the picture, to the right, rose the tall tower of Ponsonby
Lighthouse.  The tower gleamed white in the bright
sunshine.  Colonel Hobin led the way along the edge of
a grass-covered cliff, and presently, below him, John
observed the long muzzle of a six-inch gun camouflaged
scarlet, blue and green.

"That's Ewins's special gun," explained the Colonel.
"You'll see he has the place of honour."

The green cliff-top sloped stiffly here, and beneath
him John could see the big, circular iron gun platform,
and below it the ladder leading into the gun chamber.
On a parapet beyond the gun, and on the very edge of
the cliff, a sentry paced back and forth, his outline
picked out sharply against the blue of the sea that
murmured faintly four hundred feet below.  At the
open breach of the gun itself another soldier was at work,
a man who was long and thin, and a little grey at the
temples.  He was delicately wiping certain shining parts
of the weapon with an oiled rag.  As the Colonel's feet,
followed by John, smote the iron platform, the soldier
drew himself erect and stood at attention.

"This is Ewins," said the Colonel to John.  John
greeted Ewins with a friendly smile.  Until that moment
he had doubted him.  Only a few days earlier he had
met one traitor in Mrs. Beecher Monmouth, and as
he and the Colonel approached the gun platform he
had been wondering if in Ewins he was to meet a second.

Ewins was thin-faced, with a weather-reddened skin
and clear, brown eyes.  He was a man in the late forties,
a typical old soldier.  John, looking at him, wondered if
it was possible that he could have been corrupted, but
somehow he found it difficult to suspect the man.

Colonel Hobin made an excuse and left the two together.

"You are in a grand position here, Ewins," said John.

"Fine, sir," answered the soldier.  His accent was
British through and through.  John gave him permission
to carry on, and Ewins closed his breech with a
heavy click.

"The Colonel has been speaking very highly of your
gunnery."

Ewins looked up quickly, with an expression of pleasure
in his eyes.

"Has he, sir?"  He paused a moment and hesitated.
"It makes a great difference being under him, sir; he
sort of brings it out, if you know what I mean; puts you
on your mettle."

John made a mental note of his admiration for the
Colonel.

"I heard about your trouble last week, Ewins."

"You mean Tuesday morning, sir?"

"Yes," John answered.  "What was the trouble after all?"

Ewins looked perplexed.

"It beats me fairly, sir.  There was nothing wrong
when they called me—that is, there was nothing wrong
after I'd been here a minute or two.  You know how she
works, sir."  As he spoke he almost with a finger raised
the great muzzle of his weapon, then made a neat sweep
to right and left.  "Well, she just lay here like a dead
thing."

"I suppose the explanation would be simple enough
if we only knew it," answered John.

Ewins shook his head.

"I don't like it, sir.  I was pretty wild that morning,
thinking some of these young recruits had been
messing about, but the same thing had happened to
number six and eight."  He pointed to a lower platform,
beyond where the sentry was passing.  "They went
wrong that same morning," he continued.

"And got right again in the same mysterious way?"
inquired John.

"Yes, sir."

"You don't think any of your cleaning squad had a
hand in it?" inquired John.

"No, sir; I talked pretty straight to them, but it
wasn't them."

"Perhaps you have an enemy in the fort, Ewins?"

The old soldier smiled.

"I don't know about that, sir," he said; "but everybody
seems pretty friendly with me.  I have been here
a long time, sir."

"So I hear," said John.

"I don't think anybody in the fort, sir," Ewins went
on, "would do a dirty trick on me like that.  You see,
sir," he said, in a voice of intense seriousness, "it put
us out of Action."

John was silent for a moment.  For the first time the
full gravity of what had happened struck his consciousness.

"I'll swear it wasn't an accident," continued Ewins,
emphatically.  "Old 'Crumbs' said it was; but he
don't know anything about guns."

"Who's 'Crumbs'?"

"I beg pardon, sir; I meant Private Sims, the baker."

"He said it was an accident?" pursued John.

"Yes, sir.  I lost my temper that morning, and when
I come here and found how things were, I gave one of
the squad a bit of a push."

"Was 'Crumbs' one of the squad?"

"Oh, no, sir; he come in to bring me a lump of cake."
Ewins looked sheepish a moment.  "You see, sir, I am
partial to cake, and he generally hands me a bit at odd
times.  He was in the gun chamber when I got here,
sir, looking for me, with a bit of cake in his hand."

"But it was five o'clock in the morning!"

"It was new cake," said Ewins; "he'd just baked it."

"But you weren't supposed to be on duty."

"No, sir," answered Ewins.

"Wouldn't 'Crumbs'—Private Sims—know you were
off duty?" probed John.

Ewins smiled again.

"He don't know much about soldiering, sir; they
never do."

John had further talk with the chief gunner, which
talk grew more and more technical as Ewins noticed
John's interest in his work.  But after a good many
questions it still seemed to John that "Crumbs" walking
about with cake at five o'clock in the morning showed
an excessive benevolence.  He felt he wanted to make
the acquaintance of "Crumbs."  And before going back
to the Colonel in the mess-room, he looked in at the
bake-house, a single-storied building next to the kitchen.

"Crumbs" was in a white apron and a white cap
when John entered and found him at work.  The bake-house
was dark, the air warm and fragrant with a scent
of freshly-baked loaves.  "Crumbs," with flour on his
eyelashes, and a heavy, drooping moustache, also powdered
with flour, turned as John entered.  In his hands he
held a big iron tray of newly-baked loaves.  John
introduced himself.  He felt that every step he made must
be made with infinite caution.

"You've got a fine bakehouse here, Sims."

"Yes, sir; not so bad."

"I hear you are a master hand at cake making."

"Well, not exactly," deprecated "Crumbs."  "I can
hardly say that."  He placed his tray of bread on the
table.

"Sergeant Ewins tells me he's very fond of cake,"
went on John.

"Crumbs's" eyes moved quickly.  The momentary,
fleeting glance he cast at John was unobserved.

"The sergeant has a sweet tooth, sir."

"So have I," answered John, with a smile.  "Perhaps
you will make a note of that, Sims."

Sims smiled.  John noticed that his complexion was
sallow, that he was a loosely built, shambling man of
forty.  There was nothing in the least suspicious about
him.  No trace, so far as John could gather, of a foreign
accent.  He went out of the bakehouse in a dissatisfied
frame of mind.

The mystery of the guns was still a mystery.

.. vspace:: 1

.. class:: center white-space-pre-line

   \*      \*      \*      \*      \*

.. vspace:: 1

Next morning, at parade, John ran his eye along the
men of the battery until it rested upon "Crumbs."  The
man, with his sallow complexion and glassy eyes, struck
him as looking vacant and somewhat foolish.

"You are either that, my friend," thought John, "or
most devilish cunning.  I wonder which it is?"

He made it his business during that day, and the days
which followed, to acquaint himself with every member
of the battery.  Nothing, however, occurred to arouse
his suspicion or to give him the slightest clue to the
untoward things that had happened.  He wrote a letter
to Dacent Smith reporting matters, and on the afternoon
of the third day he decided to go into Newport for an
afternoon's recreation.  Colonel Hobin granted him
leave instantly—and then John changed his mind, and
decided not to go.  He had no reason for staying in the
fort, other than that he wanted to be on the spot as much
as possible.  He took a book from the badly-equipped
fort library, and went to his room.  Here he flung himself
on the bed, and read for an hour or two.  Save for the
never-ending moan of the wind and the grind of the
wind-gauge, the fort buildings were very quiet.  Colonel Hobin,
Parkson, and another officer were on duty, a subaltern
was on leave, and in the four bedrooms that ran along
the corridor John was the only occupant.  He was lying,
deeply absorbed in his book, when something made him
turn his gaze towards the door.  To his amazement, he
saw the latch lift without noise.  A moment later the
door moved cautiously open, and "Crumbs," in white
cap and apron, came softly in.  For a minute the intruder
did not see John.

"Well, Sims, what is it?"

"Crumbs's" mouth clicked shut.  The start he had
received caused his head to jerk.

"What do you want, Sims?"

"Crumbs" smiled under his black, flour-speckled
moustache.

"It was the cake, sir," he said.  "You told me you
were fond of cake, sir, and I just put a cake in the
mess-room for you."

John rose from the bed.

"Is there nothing else you want?"

"No, sir, thank you," answered "Crumbs," moving
towards the door.  John noticed, as he went, that his
nose had been flattened at the bridge, as though at some
time or other a heavy blow had fallen upon it.

"I only wondered," John went on, "why you came
into my room."

"Merely to tell you about the cake, sir."

He went out, closing the door quietly behind him.
When the door was shut between himself and John, he
drew himself suddenly erect, and listened for a moment,
then moved quickly away down the passage.





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`CHAPTER XIII`:

.. class:: center large

   CHAPTER XIII

.. vspace:: 2

"'Crumbs' is the man," thought John the moment he
opened his eyes next morning.  During the night he had
been awake for hours pondering the situation, and this
was the decision he had arrived at.  He decided, however,
to say nothing of his suspicions to Hobin or to anyone
else until "Crumbs" had further committed himself.
Possibly, after all, he was mistaken; only time could
tell.  The first thing he did, however, when breakfast
was at an end, was to write a note to Dacent Smith,
asking that Private Sims's history might be discreetly
inquired into.

"I think Private Sims is not quite what he seems," said
John, concluding his letter.  Nevertheless, if "Crumbs"
was the suspicious character John believed him to be, he
possessed an extraordinary talent for hiding his guilt.

John had pursued his investigations with such closeness
during the past days, he now felt that the time had
come when he might reasonably seek a certain amount
of relaxation.

Therefore the morning of the tenth day saw him
briskly descending the long steps cut in the face of the
cliff to the lower fort.  Here, immediately beyond the
fort gates, a hired car awaited him.  Manton stepped
into the car after answering the challenge of the sentry,
and drove down the long, winding road.  A second
sentry challenged him at the foot of the fort road, and
thereafter the car bowled merrily along until it reached
the gates of Colonel Treves's house at Freshwater.

John was wondering what he should say to the old
gentleman.  During the past weeks nothing had created
a deeper impression on his mind than the pathetic figure
of Bernard Treves's father.  The old man, the soul of
honour, cursed with a worthless son, appealed intensely
to the sympathetic side of John's nature.  John had
learnt something of Bernard Treves's recent life from
Dacent Smith.  Following the discovery that the young
man had been associated with Manwitz and Cherriton,
he had been kept in a nursing home in strict confinement.
An attempt had been made to cure him of his drug
habit, with the result that he had suffered an utter
physical collapse, and now was lying seriously ill.  John,
in discussing the matter with Dacent Smith, had
mentioned the old Colonel, and the deception that had been
practised upon him.

"When the time comes," the Chief had answered,
"you can either reveal your real identity to Colonel
Treves, or not, as you wish.  In any case, I rather doubt
if his amiable son will appear on the scene again; that is
a matter entirely for the military authorities.  From
what I hear," Dacent Smith continued, "the old Colonel
hasn't much of this life before him, and if he learnt the
truth about his son I know exactly what would happen.
He would not be able to face it.  Either death would
mercifully carry him off, or——" John nodded, "or," he
thought, "he would seek the death he once offered me."  John
saw now that the deception that had been practised
upon the Colonel at the instigation of his friend, General
Whiston, and Dacent Smith, was possibly the kindest
thing that could have happened.

At the door of the house, Gates, the elderly butler,
appeared in answer to John's ring.  For a moment the
servant paused wide-eyed, staring at the erect figure in
uniform on the threshold.

"Why, Master Bernard!" he exclaimed, "I didn't
recognise you for a minute.  Come in, sir; I'll get your
luggage."

"There isn't any luggage.  Is—is my father in the
library?"

"Yes, sir."

"How is he, Gates?"

"Just the same as usual, sir."  Then the old servant
forgot himself for a brief moment.  "He'll be beside
himself with delight, sir," he said, "to see you like that,
back again in the Army, an' all."

John moved to cross the wide hall, but Gates followed
him instantly.

"Perhaps I'd better break the news to him, sir; it's
a little sudden like."

John followed him, and when the elderly butler knocked
at the baize-covered door of the library a minute later,
he heard Colonel Treves's voice from within.  Gates
went into the room and closed the door behind him.
The old Colonel was seated in his deep chair near the
hearth.

"I beg your pardon, sir," said Gates, crossing and
standing before him, "but Mr. Bernard has returned."

Colonel Treves, who held a book on his knee, laid down
his big reading glass on its open page, and lifted his head
slowly.  There was a stern light in his old faded eyes.

"I won't see my son, Gates!"

"Pardon me, sir," protested the old servant, "I
think you would like to see him."

Colonel Treves rose to his feet, felt for his stick, and
began to move feebly across the room.

"He is no son of mine, Gates," he said, as he went.
"You can tell him that.  A liar and a humbug," he
said.  "Always a liar and a humbug.  No soul of truth
in him, no honour——"

But Gates, the faithful servant of thirty years, knew
his master well.  He made no attempt to argue with
the Colonel, but moved quietly to the door behind which
John was waiting, and whispered, "Come in, Mr. Bernard."

John entered, and crossing the soft carpet laid his hand
on the old Colonel's shoulder.  The Colonel turned
quickly, flinging up his head in indignation, then
something took place on his face that touched John to the
heart.  The old firm lips quivered a moment.

"Is that you, Bernard?" he asked.  He came nearer,
peering at John, looking at the upright, uniformed
figure.  "I can't believe it," he added.

"It is true, sir," said John.  "I received a commission
a month ago."

"Take my arm, boy," said the Colonel, suddenly;
"lead me back to the chair."

John led him across to his deep chair, and Gates
softly went out of the room.  When the Colonel was
seated, he fumbled for his strong glasses, and put them
on with fingers that shook visibly.  Once again he looked
John over from head to foot.

"It's the good blood that tells," he said after a long
pause.  Suddenly he broke into a laugh.  "Do you
know, Bernard, boy," he said, "a minute ago I was
telling Gates you were no son of mine.  You see, I
thought you had broken your promise; you broke it so
often before."

"That may be, sir," answered John quietly, "but
this time I managed to keep it."

He permitted John to help him into his chair at the
hearthside, and John, at his bidding, rang the bell.

"Gates," said the Colonel, when the old servant
entered, "serve tea up here; I and my boy will have it
together."

"Very good, sir."

"Now, Bernard, boy, tell me your news!" demanded
the old soldier, when Gates had left the room.

John gave a sketchy, vague account of his doings
during the past weeks.

"And so you are with Colonel Hobin.  You must give
him my kind remembrances; we met thirty years ago,
when he was a subaltern at Aldershot.  He had the
making of a good soldier, I remember."  He talked on,
on general matters, and all the while John felt that his
mind was solely occupied with his pride and satisfaction
at seeing his son in uniform once again.  In his excitement
and pleasure he forgot two letters that had reposed
on his desk for two days, waiting for John.  Finally, he
remembered them.  "I must give you your letters, Bernard."

"Thank you, sir," answered John, "I'll get them
myself, if you tell me where they are?"

He found the letters on the Colonel's desk, and
excused himself for reading them.  The first letter began:
"Dear Bernard," and the first sentence ran: "You bad,
bad boy."  John knew in a moment that it was from
Mrs. Beecher Monmouth, and skimmed the four closely
written pages casually.

.. vspace:: 2

"*Have you seen the Great One yet? ... The Ogre is
always in the House of Commons now ... I am utterly
alone ... I wonder if any fine, handsome young man is
thinking of sending me a hundred Russian cigarettes, the
same as the last....  Next time you come, you must not
be nearly so bold....*—Yours, ALICE."

.. vspace:: 2

"A very satisfactory letter," thought John, "if I had
happened to care two straws about her."  A vision of
Mrs. Beecher Monmouth's brilliant beauty came before
his eyes.  It seemed strange to think that this woman,
in the heart of London society, was a traitor, using
her gifts of fortune and beauty for the nefarious purpose
of ruining her own country, but such was indeed the case.
What had been the original cause of Mrs. Beecher
Monmouth's treachery, John did not know; only afterwards
was the full truth made plain to him.

He opened the second letter, which was in a
handwriting unknown to him.  The note was from Captain
Cherriton, to whom he had given this address when he
left London.

.. vspace:: 2

"DEAR TREVES," ran the letter—"*Will you please
call at Rollo Meads one day next week, Tuesday for
preference, at five in the afternoon?  I shall be there,
and you will meet a new friend, Doctor Voules, who will
supply you with what you want.*"  (He was referring to
the tabloids Manwitz had been in the habit of supplying
to Treves.)  "* Our old friend,*" went on the letter,
"*who formerly supplied you, you will regret to hear,
was taken ill, and has gone away to the coast for a time*.

.. class:: noindent

"*Yours very truly,*
    "JOHN CHERRITON."

.. vspace:: 2

John folded this letter carefully and placed it within
his pocket-book.  A specimen of Cherriton's handwriting,
he inwardly decided, would be useful to Dacent
Smith.  Half an hour later John took his departure, and
the old Colonel accompanied him to the door of the house.

"Good-bye, my boy," said the old man, gripping his
hand at parting, "come again soon"; then he lowered
his voice so that Gates, who was waiting at John's hired
car, could not hear, "Bernard, boy," said the Colonel
wistfully, "when you are tempted to go a little wrong,
just keep in mind that I am believing in you."

"Very good, sir," John answered, "I won't forget
that."  He stood at salute a moment, then ran down the
steps and sprang into the car.

"Good-bye, sir," said Gates, the old butler.

"Good-bye," cried John as the car whirled out of the
avenue.

When John reached the foot of Heatherpoint Hill, and
began to ascend the long slope towards the fort, it was
already seven o'clock.  The sun lay low in the west,
and there was no wind.

"Fine visibility if there was any shooting for Ewins,"
thought John.

The car halted before the first sentry.

"Friend," said John.

"Pass, friend," answered the man.

A minute later, from his seat in the car, John was able
to see the south shore of the island, and obtained a
momentary glimpse of a strip of sand below, which was
accessible only to those within the area of the fort itself.
Looking down into the little bay three hundred feet
below, John was caught with admiration by the mirror-like
blue of the water, the languid white roll of the
waves.  The little beach, as always, was deserted,
or at least, John thought so in the first moment.
But a second glance showed him that a soldier was
strolling about with apparent aimlessness down below.
The man was smoking a cigarette, and in the clear
evening air John could plainly see the white smoke.
So much he saw, when the man was lost to view.

In the fort, a minute later, John caught himself
wondering what soldier it was.

"Evidently somebody who is fond of his own
company," thought John.  He went up to Commander
Grieves's look-out.  The old naval officer was at the
long telescope.  "May I have a squint through that,
sir?" John requested.

"By all means, youngster, by all means," returned the
old man; "here you are."  He swung the telescope,
and John found that, to his chagrin, he could see nothing
of the man on the strip of beach below.

"What do you want to see?" asked Commander Grieves.

"I want to look sharp down from here to the south,"
John said.  "Some one from the fort is walking down
there, and I'm wondering who it is."

"You can't see with this; I'll lend you my Zeiss,"
returned the Commander.  He took out a pair of binoculars,
and handed them to John.  "We do not cover that
bit of shore," said Grieves, "either with the guns or with
the searchlights.  It's of no importance, and isn't
navigable for anything drawing more than three feet of water."

John took the binoculars, and thanked him, then went
to the cliff edge.  Here, moving with particular caution,
he began to focus his glasses.  When definition seemed
to be right, he leaned carefully forward, and surveyed the
beach below.  The soldier was still there.  After pacing
with apparent aimlessness back and forward, he had
seated himself on the smooth strip of sand.  At the
present moment the khaki figure was occupied in placing
a pebble on the sand at arm's length.  He placed a
second small stone next to this, then made a span with
his fingers, and put a third pebble in a line with the
first and second.  He made another span, and placed
down a fourth stone and a fifth beside it.  His operations
were steady and systematic.  He was absolutely absorbed
with his work.  John, from that cliff top, watched him
for a full five minutes; never once did the soldier raise
his head.  In khaki uniform, at that distance, he might
have been any soldier at the fort.  Finally, however,
when he had finished his operations, which had grown
more and more interesting to John, he rose and looked at
his handiwork upon the smooth sand.  Evidently he had
completed his task, whatever it was, for he turned and
continued his aimless strolling.  This time he was pacing
towards the fort, and as he turned he lifted his eyes,
and swept the cliff in a swift, embracing glance.  In an
instant John had recognised the sallow, upturned face
of "Crumbs."

For a full ten minutes he waited, holding himself back.
At the end of that time, however, he again cautiously
approached and looked down.  Below him spread the
bright golden sands, a few chalk boulders were scattered
here and there, and the waves continued to roll and
break languidly as before.

The figure of "Crumbs" had now vanished from the
sands.  A steep, winding path ascended the cliff to the
fort, and it was upon that path that John again saw
Sims.  It was a good twenty minutes' walk from where
"Crumbs" was to the fort itself, and John, after watching
him for a minute, lowered his glasses, rose and made his
way back to the mess-room.

"Collins," he said to an orderly, "bring me the leave
book."

When the leave book was in his hand he ran his finger
quickly down the list of names.

"Pte. Sims, eight o'clock," he read.

Sims was on leave until eight.

"I'll wait and investigate," thought John, "when
he is safely in his quarters."

He went to his room after that, took the cartridges
out of his Colt automatic revolver and examined the
weapon closely.  Having reloaded the pistol, he slipped
it into his hip pocket.

At eight o'clock, when John passed across the asphalt
pavement between the officers' quarters and the kitchen,
he was able to observe Sims, who was fond of his
bake-house, sitting in the open doorway of the bakehouse
itself, innocently reading the morning's paper.  He
appeared not to be aware of John's departure, and
continued to read.

Manton, in the meantime, made his way towards the
sentinel-guarded wire entanglements.  A tall, double
ladder, spanning the entanglement, here permitted exit
on to the cliff edge behind the fort.  The ladder was a
temporary affair, drawn in always at night, thus making
the fort, with the aid of the sentries, impregnable from
the rear.

The sun was low in the west when John reached the
expanse of sand whereon "Crumbs" had occupied
himself.  Once upon the shore, it was the simplest matter
in the world to trace "Crumbs's" path.  He walked
briskly, following the man's footsteps, full of a keen
desire to know what "Crumbs" had been doing.  No
ordinary purpose, thought John, had been at the back
of "Crumbs's" operations.  Nevertheless, an ordinary
observer watching, as John had watched, would have
entertained no suspicion at all.

"Perhaps," mused John, as he followed "Crumbs's"
irregular footprints, "I am a fool for my pains!  He
may be the mere aimless nonentity he seems to be."  He
remembered that "Crumbs" was known to be a
collector of shells, that he spent a good deal of time
searching for specimens upon the foreshore.  A baker
and a conchologist are incongruous mixtures at any time.
Especially were they incongruous on that coast where
shells are almost non-existent.  Keenly interested he
drew nearer to the spot whereon "Crumbs" had occupied
himself, but the smooth sand was undisturbed save for
the man's heavy-footed indentations.

John's spirits instantly fell.  There was nothing upon
that spot which in the slightest degree could arouse his
suspicions.  The sand was smooth and firm, with round,
sea-eroded pebbles plentifully scattered here and
there—the usual pebbles that lay in thousands upon the
beach.

"After all, I was a fool!" thought John.

He could see quite clearly the impress of "Crumbs's"
body as it had lain upon the ground.  And as he stood
looking upon this impression he observed that "Crumbs"
had made what might be called a crude pattern with
pebbles—a row of parallel lines.  John was able to
make out, in all, three separate lines of stones.

For a long minute he remained looking down upon
these innocent-seeming pebbles laid out with childish
regularity.  Then gradually his first suspicions returned.
His attention ran along the orderly row of little
stones—a third and a fourth time.

And suddenly a vivid light blazed in his eyes.  He
uttered an exclamation under his breath.

"Great Scott! so that's it."

His whole mind focused upon the pebbles; he began
to speak in measured tones.

"Dot-dash-dot-dash; dash-dash-dash."

As the words left his lips on the solitude of the sands,
he was conscious of a quick thrill of excitement.  The
stones laid thus innocently held a sinister meaning spelt
out in the Morse code.  Two pebbles lay together, then
further to the right an isolated pebble, then again two
pebbles.

"Dash-dot-dash," John interpreted.

The message was quite a long one.  With a glance at
the cliff edge—he knew that "Crumbs" was safely in
his quarters—John took out his pocket-book and made
a faithful copy of "Crumbs's" laborious message.

When he had copied it all down he made his way back
to the fort, pondering upon the significance of his
discovery.  For whom was the message intended?  Both
Hobin and Commander Grieves had told him that the
possibility of any enemy signalling from the fort, or to
the fort from outside, had been completely eliminated,
and had said, "We should instantly see any light that
might be exhibited by an enemy."

"And yet," thought John, "our ingenious friend,
'Crumbs,' seems to have thought out a plan which
evades every one of their precautions."

The ingenuity and simplicity of "Crumbs's" plan
struck him with astonishment.  It was clear to John
that "Crumbs" regularly placed his innocent-looking
messages on the sands, to be subsequently taken up by a
confederate who came ashore from a submarine in the
darkness.

"Cunning isn't the word for him," thought John, as he
hurried towards the fort.





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`CHAPTER XIV`:

.. class:: center large

   CHAPTER XIV

.. vspace:: 2

A few minutes later in his own room and by candle-light
he set to work to find a meaning for the arrangement
of little pebbles "Crumbs" had placed upon the
foreshore.  A dozen times he went over the dot-dash
lines in his pocket-book, and each time the hidden
meaning intensified in clarity.  Finally, he began to write
with a sudden vivid and passionate interest.

The first word defined was "Oberst."  Then he
continued slowly and carefully: "*Mistrauish und aufgeregt.
Neue Minen karte in Händen des Capitans.  Nicht
möglich es sofort zu finden.  Von R. ist nichts zu hören.
Ganze geschichte schwierig.  Bitte um antwort.—S*.

"So, friend 'Crumbs' is a German after all, and an
educated German at that," he exclaimed under his breath.

Then he took his pencil and began to translate the
message.  The result in English was as follows:

"*Colonel suspicious and nervous.  New mine chart in
hands of naval commander; impossible to find it at once.
No news of R.  Matters difficult.  Answer this.—S.*"

John looked up with a grave face.  Almost for the first
time he felt a doubt.  In that moment he almost doubted
even Dacent Smith's power to cope with such subtlety,
such ingenious co-ordination as this.

"Crumbs" was a spy actually in the heart of a vital
fort, a spy who was possibly one of a score, or a hundred,
busy upon the South Coast at that moment.  John felt
oppressed by a consciousness of dark agencies planning
evil.  Here was no romance.  Here was real, hard, solid
fact; War.  Sims was an item in this warfare, one of
a chain, of which Manwitz, Cherriton, Mrs. Beecher
Monmouth, and the great unknown himself were
all separate links.

For some minutes John paced the narrow confines of his
room.

Who was R. from whom no news had arrived?  A
sensation that calamity and failure was possible bore in
upon him.  He had made a discovery truly, but would
that discovery mean the frustration of the mysterious
attack that was impending?  He did not know, he hardly
dared to hope.

"If Heatherpoint Fort were out of action," Colonel
Hobin had said, "and if Scoles Head were similarly out
of action, there might be the devil to pay."

John realised as he paced his little room with
"Crumbs's" message in his hand, that an attack by sea
was planned.  Otherwise why the mention of the new
mine chart?  And if an attack by sea was intended on
the great naval port of ... Scoles and Heatherpoint
must be first put out of action.  After that, the boom
which ran across from Ponsonby Lighthouse to ... must
be overcome.

He looked again at the message.

"This must be got to Dacent Smith at once," thought
he; "and in the meantime 'Crumbs' must be watched."

He placed the message carefully in his pocket-book.
Then, a new thought having struck him, he hurried out
and sought Sergeant Ewins.  The sergeant occupied one
compartment of an old railway coach, which had been
turned into huts for the men.  Ewins was lying on his
bunk when John entered, reading a Sunday paper by the
light of a fort candle as thick as a man's wrist.

"I want to have a word with you, Ewins," said John,
sitting on the edge of the chief gunner's bunk, which had
formerly been a railway seat.  "Can you tell me," he
went on, "if it is possible for anyone to make a landing
on the south shore, there?  I mean in the bay below
the look-out."

"It's possible, of course," Ewins answered, "but risky."

"You don't think it possible," inquired John, "for a
submarine to lie out there in the bay and send a small
canvas boat ashore?"

Ewins shook his head.

"You've forgotten our minefield—a submarine could
not pass it, sir."

"No, I haven't forgotten that," answered John;
"but suppose the Germans know where our mines are?"

"Then they'd know more than we do, sir," answered
Ewins.  "Nobody in the fort knows that, except the
Commander, and perhaps the Colonel."

"The reason I am asking you," went on John, "is that
I have discovered something and want to give you an
opportunity of coming down on the shore with me."

"To-night, sir?" inquired Ewins.

John nodded.

"I suppose, Ewins, it seems fantastical and impossible
to you, but I have a theory that the Germans intend to
bring a boat ashore there.  In my opinion, they have
been there before to-night."

Ewins's eyes opened wide.

"Do you think that is so, sir?" he asked in a voice of
deep amazement.  Then his eyes brightened.  "I'd
like to come with you, sir, if you think there's any
likelihood of that sort of thing."

"I don't only think it, I know it," said John.  "It
may not be to-night, because of the full moon, nor
to-morrow night.  But some time or other, and maybe
soon, I am prepared to bet my hat that a German will
land from the sea.  He will land, Ewins, in the bay below
us, within a quarter of a mile of where we are now sitting."

The manner in which Ewins took this information filled
John with satisfaction.  The old soldier was spoiling for
a fight.  For four years he had had nothing better to
shoot at than a target, and he was longing for a chance of
real action.

Nevertheless John's fear was correct, for that night
and the next night the moon shone brilliantly, and
nothing happened on the shore.  "Crumbs's" message
lay unread in the bright moonlight.  The third night,
however, the sky was overcast.

But by a sudden, swift turn of circumstances John was
not there to see what happened.

Manton's record on "Crumbs's" secret signal had been
taken with the utmost seriousness by Dacent Smith, and
on the afternoon of the third day, when John was alone
at tea in the mess-room, an orderly thumped along the
passage.

"A gentleman to see you, sir," said the orderly.

"What's his name?" John asked.

"Captain Sinclair, sir."

John rose, and a minute later Captain X. stepped into
the little room.  Captain X. was in uniform, and John
noticed that he wore the Mons ribbon and the D.S.O.

"Surprised to see me, eh?" exclaimed the young man,
gripping John's hand heartily; then dropping his voice,
"I'm here from the Chief.  Is it quite private here?"

"Quite," John answered, "but I would rather take you
into my room."

They went along the passage to John's bedroom.
John seated himself on the bed, and Captain X. or Sinclair
occupied the only chair.

"The Chief's thoroughly stirred up," said Sinclair,
plunging into his subject without preliminary.  "He
has passed on your information to me.  I must say you
seem to have all the luck, Treves.  A signal on the sands,
eh?  That beats everything for cunning.  I have heard
of clothes being hung out in the Morse code, and Morse
smoke signals from a chimney—by the way, do you think
your chap Sims signals with smoke from his bakehouse?"

John shook his head.

"I have spent hours looking at his chimney," he said.
"It was the first thing I thought of when I began to
suspect him, and it was only an accident which made me
get on to his real game after all.  I knew any kind of
flash signal was out of the question here."

"Neatest thing they've done yet, eh, Treves?  I must
say this sort of thing makes the fight full of zipp and go,"
he said.  Then he looked at John with a commiserating
eye: "I am going to dash your spirits, old chap."

"Well, get on with it," said John.

"I am going to pick up the plums you have shaken off
the tree."

"How's that?"

For answer Sinclair drew an envelope from his pocket.
John recognised the colour and shape of the envelope in
a minute.  He read the short, typed letter with gathered
brows, then struck a match and destroyed it carefully.
The letter contained an order from Dacent Smith that
John should surrender his position at Heatherpoint to
Captain X., and was to resume work immediately against
Cherriton, Dr. Voules, and Mrs. Beecher Monmouth.

"It's rough luck, old chap," said Captain X., "but I
expect that before this big movement is finished you will
have as much chance of adventure as I shall."

"I hope so," said John.  "But I was looking forward
to the result of 'Crumbs's' signal.  Last night the moon
shone out of pure cussedness."

Captain X. sprang up to the window and looked out.

"It's clouding up to-night, old chap," he exclaimed
joyously, "and you'll be away for the fun.  Hallo!" he
said.  His eyes were lowered and were fixed upon a man
in shirt-sleeves in the doorway opposite.  "Is that
'Crumbs'?"

"Yes," said John, "but don't let him see you looking
at him.  I am not so sure that he hasn't spotted something."

"He'll spot something in a day or two," said Captain
X., coming back from the window, "and in the meantime
the Chief's orders are to leave him a long rope."

John's orders from his Chief were that he should
report to Colonel Hobin and leave Heatherpoint
immediately.  He began to change his clothes, and talked
to his companion at the same time.

"You can rub acquaintance with 'Crumbs' while I
get out of the fort," he said.  "He mustn't see me in
mufti.  I shall spend a night in Newport, and call on
Dr. Voules to-morrow morning."

"Who do you think Voules is?" asked the Captain.

John shook his head.

"I shall know more about that to-morrow," he said.

When he was ready to go he shook hands cordially with
his companion.  He always felt older than Captain X.,
though their ages were the same.  Captain X.'s audacity
and joy in life amused John.  His colleague always put
so much zest into everything he did.

"I should advise you," he said, gripping the Captain's
hand, "to use Ewins if you want any help on the beach
to-night.  He is an old soldier, and I should think, if an
awkward moment arrived, you could rely on him."

"Thanks," said Sinclair.  "This is a new game for me.
I have never had the chance of angling for a German
submarine commander before, but I expect there'll be
one ashore here to-night, eh, Treves?"

"Somebody comes ashore," responded John, "and
reads those signals."

He went out and sat in the mess-room for a few minutes,
leaving Sinclair time to occupy "Crumbs'" attention
while he slipped away from the fort.





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`CHAPTER XV`:

.. class:: center large

   CHAPTER XV

.. vspace:: 2

The situation at Heatherpoint was exactly to the
liking of Captain Sinclair.  He realised, from what
John had told him, that "Crumbs" was no mean
antagonist, and he was feverish to make the spy's
acquaintance.  But the manner in which he strolled
into "Crumbs's" bakehouse before John's departure
was the most casual in the world.  One of Sinclair's
chief gifts was an innocent and infectious smile, and under
the most trying of circumstances he was always cheerful.
With this smiling cheeriness of manner Sinclair possessed,
as is often the case, a fair share of astuteness.

"It smells good in here," he said, putting his head into
"Crumbs's" warm atmosphere.

"Crumbs," who was kneading dough at his board,
turned about.

"Don't mind me," said Sinclair cheerfully.  He
stepped into the bakehouse and held a good-humoured
conversation with "Crumbs."  He spent a quarter of an
hour in cheery garrulity, and when he went away,
"Crumbs," from the darkness of his lair, watched him
stride across the asphalt yard towards the officers'
quarters.  The man's eyes narrowed as he recalled that
Sinclair had been peering at him out of John's quarters a
little while earlier.  When his work was finished that
night "Crumbs" cleaned himself and had a chat with
Ewins, who was smoking a pipe on the step of the old
railway carriage that formed both men's quarters in the
upper fort.

"Who's this new captain we got?" Private Sims asked.

"Don't know," answered Ewins.  "He's done his bit,
seemingly."  He was referring to Sinclair's Mons ribbon
and the D.S.O.

"We seem to be getting a lot of changes lately,"
pursued "Crumbs."  He had removed the flour from his
eyelashes and moustache, and his lean, sallow, discontented
face and glassy, strange-looking eyes struck Ewins
as particularly unpleasant.  Sims was generous in
handing cake and so forth whenever chance occurred,
but he was not liked in the fort.  The other men could not
get the hang of him, and when he rose presently and
shambled away into the fort buildings, Ewins, who was
expecting every minute to be called by Sinclair, was not
sorry.

For an hour or two that evening "Crumbs" pottered
about.  He gossiped in the kitchen, had a talk with the
sergeant controlling the leave-book, found his way into
the mess-room, and complained to Parkson, who was
adjutant, on the quality of the flour being supplied from
outside.  After that the Colonel met him in the corridor,
where he had no right to be, near Sinclair's bedroom.
And, as the Colonel was the one man in the fort, outside
Sinclair, who knew the truth about him, he questioned
"Crumbs" somewhat sharply.

"What are you doing here, Sims?"

"I have just been in, sir, to complain about the flour
to the adjutant.  I wasn't thinking," he went on, with a
perfect semblance of an absent-minded air, "I wasn't
thinking, and I came here instead of going along to the
right——"

"You ought to know the run of the fort by this time,"
said the Colonel, and passed on.

It was an hour later that Sims, who had made a
shattering discovery, sat in his cubicle of the railway
compartment, with the door locked, and penned a rapid letter.
He wrote fluently, in the manner of a man whose education
has been thorough and efficient.  His lips twitched
slightly as his pen sped over the paper.  There was a
tense expression upon his sallow face, and he pulled
nervously at his long, drooping moustache.

At the head of the letter he put no address.

.. vspace:: 2

"*Dear Doctor,*" he wrote, "*our plans are threatened.
The new officer here, Lieutenant Treves, has been watching
me closely for the past week.  He has cross-examined
Ewins about the guns, and evidently knows something.
To-day a second officer has arrived, a Captain Sinclair.
I doubt him also.  They both suspect me.  But my
important news is that to-night I secured my first
opportunity of going through Treves's belongings.  I was able
to open his dispatch-box, and among other papers of
no importance, I discovered a letter from Cherriton, with
whom he has apparently some association.  The letter
was signed by Cherriton, which clearly showed me that
Treves is playing both for and against us.  I have
suspected him for days.  I implore you, doctor, to probe
this matter.  If you hear no more from me you will
know that things have gone wrong.  I beg of you to act
drastically and immediately.*—S."

.. vspace:: 2

When "Crumbs" had finished this letter he read it
carefully through and avoided blotting it, so that there
could be no trace of its existence.  When the letter had
dried he placed it in an envelope and addressed it to
"Dr. Voules, Rollo Meads, Brooke."

It was the custom at Heatherpoint for the fort letters to
be sent to Freshwater post office every night at seven
precisely in a locked bag.  "Crumbs," with his letter in his
pocket, hovered about the orderly-room until the bugle
began to blow seven.  He then hurriedly followed the
orderly into the mess-room, where the adjutant nightly
locked the bag with his key.  Lieutenant Parkson was in
the act of locking the bag when "Crumbs" shambled into
the little room with an apology.  He handed his letter to
Parkson, who dropped it in and locked the bag.





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`CHAPTER XVI`:

.. class:: center large

   CHAPTER XVI

.. vspace:: 2

John decided to walk into Freshwater, and then take
the train to Newport.  As he made his way along the
road from Heatherpoint, carrying a small handbag, a red
bicycle came towards him.

"Are you going to the fort?" he asked the telegraph boy.

"Yes, sir."

"Anything for Treves?"

The boy nodded.

"Lieutenant Treves, sir."

A minute later John had torn open an envelope
containing a telegram, which ran:

.. vspace:: 2

*Come to me at the Gordon Hotel, Newport.  Shall be
there this evening*.  ELAINE.

.. vspace:: 2

Elaine's wire came to him as an utter surprise, a
surprise that was tinctured with pleasure.  He had never
forgotten her since their first, and only meeting.  He
had indeed thought of her a hundred times, recalling
her as she stood in the little room in Camden Town.
Without doubt she was the most beautiful woman he had
ever seen.

During the past weeks every moment of his time had
been occupied, and there had been no possibility of
carrying out his promise to visit her.

As he walked he drew out her telegram and read it
carefully through, possibly for the sixth time.  The
wording brought to him a measure of comfort; he felt,
somehow, that she was not in so distressed a state of
mind as when he had received her former wire to Bernard
Treves.

"I shall see her within an hour," thought John, as he
stepped into a train at Freshwater.  But as the train
drew nearer to Newport his high spirits evaporated; he
began to argue that Elaine Treves was outside his sphere
of work.  Dacent Smith had impressed upon him the
intense seriousness of the German menace on the South
Coast; no private considerations, John told himself,
held precedence of the duty that lay before him.  Elaine
Treves was a victim of the innocent deception he had
been obliged to practise.  But it was not his fault that
she was an extremely beautiful woman, and that she
believed him to be her husband.

At the Gordon Hotel, a small quiet, specklessly clean
building, John entered the hall, and found Elaine herself
descending the stairs.  For a moment the girl did not
notice him, and John was free to observe the daintiness
of her costume, the slender dignity of her figure, and the
quite astonishing beauty of her grey, long-lashed eyes.
The note of pathos that had been apparent when he first
met her was now not so marked.  She struck him as
serious, but not depressed.

Elaine had descended the stairs to the vestibule before
her eyes met his.

"Oh, Bernard," she exclaimed, and instantly took his
hand in her gloved fingers.  "But you can't have come
in answer to my wire?" she went on.

"No," said John; "I came on other business."

"You are not angry with me?"

"No; why should I be angry?" asked John.

"Because I wired to you," said Elaine.  "Let us go
upstairs, Bernard.  The sitting-room's empty; we can
talk there."

She led him up to a little, parlour-like apartment, with
a gay carpet, and a circular table in the middle of the
room.  Here she closed the door and stood with her back
to it, looking up into John's face.  Her eyes searched his
closely.  Her splendid beauty, the wistful expression of
her face, a certain shy girlishness, all appealed to John's
feelings.  He found it difficult to sustain the searching
gaze lifted to his.

Suddenly Elaine drew in a deep breath.

"Bernard," she whispered, "you are different."

John turned away.

"Yes," he answered, quietly, "I suppose I am a little
different."

"Ever since the last time I saw you I have felt it,"
went on Elaine.  "I have thought much of our last
meeting," she added.

"So have I," John answered lamely, not knowing
exactly how to handle the situation.  They were seated
now on opposite sides of the hearth, and Elaine was
taking the hatpins out of her hat with pretty feminine
gestures that held John's attention.

"I was only going a lonely walk," she explained,
"when I met you, but I won't go now; we'll have tea
here together.  You will notice," she went on, placing her
hat on her knee and piercing it with her long hatpins,
"that I have not scolded you for failing to write to me."

"I am sorry," said John, "but I have been tremendously
occupied."

"I guessed," said Elaine, "that you were at home
with your father.  I am so glad of that, Bernard; I
used to feel," she went on, hesitatingly, "that you were
not treating him well, and that his indignation against
you was—was—" she hesitated a moment—"well—justified."

John had been observing her closely.

"Why did you wire for me, Elaine?" he said, using
her name for the first time.

Elaine looked at him, and then away.  The colour
rose to her cheeks, a delicate colour that enhanced her
beauty.

"I don't know," she said.  "I got a little frightened,
I think.  You see, your friend, Captain Cherriton, began
to call on me rather regularly."

John pricked up his ears.

"Did he cross-examine you about me?"

Elaine shook her head.

"He scarcely mentioned you."

"Oh, I see," said John, suddenly enlightened; "he
came to force his unpleasant attentions upon you.  Is
that it?"

Elaine was silent a moment.  She was thinking how
well John carried himself.  The husband she had known,
neurotic and nerveless and irritable, now appeared before
her clear-eyed, calm and more manly than she had ever
believed him to be.  She felt herself drawn to him, as
she had felt herself attracted on that last meeting in
London.  Her nature was quick and ready to forgive.

"I had to forbid him the house in the end, Bernard."

John sat suddenly erect.

"Was he impudent to you?"

The sudden lowering of his brows and tension of his
figure caught Elaine's interest.

"Then you do mind, Bernard?" she asked quietly.

"Of course I mind, when you are insulted," he returned.
"Or, rather, I ought to mind."

For, like a blow, the thought suddenly struck him
that he himself was treating her with gross injustice.
It was one thing to deceive, in a good cause, Colonel
Treves; it was another thing to deceive this young
and beautiful girl, who was another man's wife.  And
he, John Manton, was standing in that other man's shoes.

John's situation at that moment was as delicate as
any situation in which he had yet found himself.  It
was an easy matter to confront Manwitz and Cherriton,
and even Mrs. Beecher Monmouth, in the character of
Bernard Treves.  It was not so easy to present himself
in that character before Bernard Treves's wife.  The
thought that had occurred to him at their first meeting
came again into his mind; at any moment he might
make a false step.  An unlucky turn of phrase, a lack
of knowledge of some incident in their mutual past,
might instantly betray him.  For Elaine Treves, despite
her striking beauty and her intense femininity, was
quite keenly alive and intelligent.

They took tea in the hotel, and after the meal John
suggested a walk in the town.  Elaine readily assented,
and together they explored the quaint side streets of
Newport.  If matters had been different, if John had
accompanied her in his own character, and had not had
to act a part that was extraordinarily difficult, he would
have been in the highest of spirits.

Already he had remarked upon Elaine's air of
distinction.  She knew how to dress, how to put on her
hat, how to make herself in all respects a delightful
picture of girlish attraction.  John knew nothing of
feminine economics, or he would have been aware that
her fashionably smart costume and that pretty hat she
wore had cost almost nothing at all, and had been mostly
the work of her own hands.

During the walk they stopped and looked into a quaint
curiosity shop.  John admired a set of old Chippendale
chairs and a pair of inlaid duelling pistols.  He and
Elaine were standing close together as he spoke, and
he felt her slender, gloved hand laid delicately on his arm.

"Bernard!"

"What is it?" asked John.

She was looking up into his face, a pleased expression
in her fine grey eyes.

"Your taste seems to have changed utterly."

"Oh, I don't know," said John.  "I—I—perhaps my
taste has matured——"

"You used to hate all old things."

John was looking down into her face, that appeared
to him now as the most beautiful in the world.  He
made no answer to her remark, and Elaine went on:

"You look at things so differently, Bernard."

"In what way?" John asked.

"I don't know," answered she.  "I have a sort of
queer feeling, Bernard, that you are yourself, and yet
there is something that has occurred to make you
different."

John felt that the discussion was drifting in an awkward
direction.

"Do you know what I think?" he remarked.

"What do you think?" asked Elaine, as they walked
together.

"I think I ought to do something to make up for all
the bad times—er—I have given you in the past."

She was silent, walking along gazing before her.

"They were bad times, some of them, Bernard," she
returned, quietly.  She moved a little nearer to him as
they walked.  "But I have always felt," she went on,
"that it was not really you.  I feel that—that the
unfortunate habit you had contracted, the—the——"

"I understand," John intervened.

"I believe now," went on Elaine, "it was not really
you.  You were not responsible, and I always hoped
that some time, when you had conquered yourself, you
would become different."

She paused a moment, and John felt her arm slip
through his.  It was strange, but his pulse-beat quickened
at this quiet manifestation of her growing feeling towards
him.  He felt that, somehow or other, she was being
drawn towards him, that she was, as it were, shielding
herself under his protection.  And yet, all the time, the
situation was an impossible one.  He had no right to
permit advances of this sort; the deception he was
practising upon her was utterly and completely cruel.
What would have happened, he asked himself, if he
had suddenly faced her and had said: "I am not your
husband, I am not Bernard Treves—but John Manton?
The man you believe me to be—your husband—is a
drug-sodden and hysterical degenerate, a soldier who
has been guilty of treachery to his country."

His thoughts switched back to the necessity of turning
the conversation.  He could feel the warmth of her arm
resting upon his own.

"Let us talk of cheerful things," he said.  "For
instance, that is a very pretty hat you have on."

"Do you like it?  I made it myself."

"Yes, I like it," responded John, appearing to look
at it with the critical eye of a husband.  "Of course,"
he said, "it is quite easy for a hat to look well where you
are concerned."

Elaine was frankly pleased.

"Why are you flattering me, Bernard?"

"That wasn't flattery.  If I set out to flatter you, I
should talk in quite a different way to that."

"Do you know," she went on quickly, "when I met
you in the hotel my heart was beating terribly.  I was
afraid you might be angry!"

"How could I be angry?"

"I don't know," she said; "but sometimes, Bernard,
you used to be so dreadfully angry at the things I did."

Somehow the recollection of these things appeared to
sweep over her, for she drew her hand away from John's
arm.

"I thought we were going to talk of cheerful things,"
John reminded her.  He began to draw her attention
to the quaintness of the streets, and managed, until their
return to the hotel, to keep her mind fully occupied with
trivialities.

When they reached the little sitting-room at the hotel,
he rang the bell and ordered dinner to be prepared for
two at seven o'clock.

"May we have it here in the sitting-room?" he asked
the waiter.

"Certainly, sir," answered the man.

Elaine, whose air of constraint had quite vanished again,
went to her room, took off her hat, and put on an
afternoon blouse.  When she returned to the sitting-room
John noticed her little attempt to dress herself for the
evening.

"I thought you'd like to see me in something smarter
for dinner," she said.  "Do you like it, Bernard?"

"It could not be better," said John.  Inwardly he
was saying: "I like everything about you; I like your
fine, dark hair; I like your frank, beautiful eyes, and
your honesty and your simplicity, and the fact that you
are a girl and yet a woman.  What I do dislike, however,
is the fact that you have a waster of a husband, and that
I have no right to be here this minute standing in that
waster's shoes."

They sat down together at the round table in the
middle of the hotel' parlour.  The waiter, a gloomy
individual, in tired-looking dress clothes and in a white
shirt that should have been washed a week earlier, lit
four pink-shaded candles, served the soup, and went away.
Soup was followed by fish and an excellent entrée.  John,
looking over the top of the pink-shaded candles, saw a
brightness in Elaine's eyes.  He had been talking gaily
keeping the conversation away from anything personal,
and telling her anecdotes that made her laugh.  And all
the time, although he was not aware of the fact, he was
drawing her towards him, fanning the flame of love that
the real Bernard Treves had never kindled.  She was
experiencing new feelings towards this man whom she
believed to be her husband.  The shifty look in his eyes
that she had disliked in the past had vanished.  The
Bernard Treves who sat before her looked frankly and
keenly into her face.  He was not in the least intimate;
he was, indeed, somewhat aloof, but this very quality
of aloofness puzzled and attracted her.

By the time dinner was cleared away and the cloth
removed, Elaine was completely at her ease.  Her old
fear of offending her husband had totally vanished.  She
could not understand her own feelings and began to
take herself to task for having been hard with him in the
past.  When Bernard Treves had persisted in his habit
of heavy drinking and drug-taking, she had been obliged
to make a stand.  She had done everything she could
to win him to better ways.  But when to these habits
he had added violence and other cruelties towards
herself, she had informed him that until he made some
effort to control himself she could not live with him as
his wife.  It was characteristic of her, as it is sometimes
characteristic of gentle people, that firmness lay beneath
an unaggressive exterior.  She had kept her word.
But to-night, for the first time, she began to doubt the
justice of what she had done.  She told herself that she
had been hard on Bernard Treves, that she ought to have
clung to him, however low he sank.





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.. _`CHAPTER XVII`:

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   CHAPTER XVII

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John, who had deposited himself on a chair at the
hearth, lit a cigarette, and was consuming it with a good
deal of satisfaction.  He had never in his life partaken
of an evening meal that had given him so much
satisfaction; even the funereal and shabby waiter seemed
to him a creature of delight, and the little room in the
hotel—he would always remember it as an apartment
brightened by the eyes of Elaine Treves.  It was not
usual for John Manton to be led away, but to-night, for
some minutes, he let his senses toy with impossibilities.
He permitted himself to forget the existence of Bernard
Treves.  And when the waiter left the room, and Elaine
rose and came towards him, he made no effort to avoid
her approach, as he had done once or twice earlier in the
evening.  She stood beside his chair and laid her hand on
his shoulder.  John looked up and saw that her face had
grown serious.

"I want to make a confession to you, Bernard."

"Let it be a cheerful confession," smiled John.

"I was mistaken, after all."

"It's easy to make mistakes," returned John.

"I ought not to have sent you away from me," said Elaine.

John thought a moment, then observed quietly:

"Perhaps I deserved to be sent away."

"Do you remember, Bernard, when you came to
Camden Town after you had seen your father?"

John, naturally, did not recollect.

"I do not recall it very clearly," he said.

"When you—you——"  She broke off, and again, as
she had done in the street, she moved a little away from
him.  A wave of aversion towards him appeared to
sweep over her.  "When," she went on, "I told you that
we could not be together again until—until——"

"Until I could behave myself," John put in.

Elaine nodded slightly in assent.

"I thought that I was doing right, and when you said
you'd never forgive me I still held out.  I wonder,
Bernard, if you will forgive me?"

"Of course I'll forgive you," returned Manton,
magnanimously.  He would have forgiven her anything.
He could not believe her capable of anything which
would need forgiveness.  She came to him again and
stood before him, looking down.

John, out of politeness, that she should not be standing
when he was seated, stood up, and suddenly he felt Elaine's
hand in his.

"Bernard," she whispered, "you care for me still——"

"I care for you more than ever I did," said John.  He
tried valiantly to slip his hand from hers.

"You love me, I mean?"

Elaine's face was upturned; there was a wistful
expression in her fine, grey eyes, and there was something
more than wistfulness.  John could see it shining there.
Inwardly he was conscientiously cursing the Fates that
had placed him in this impossible position—and yet
outwardly he was glad.  He was thrilled and happy
that this situation had arisen.  Then his thoughts took
a turn, and his spirits sank.  The love he saw shining
in her eyes was not for him, but for Bernard Treves.
He put away her hand and moved back in his chair.

"You do love me, Bernard?" she whispered again.

"Yes," John answered.  He was convinced that there
was no other thing for him to say.

"And you'll forgive me for sending you away?"

John nodded.

Elaine went on again: "It was wrong not to let you
stay with me.  I had no right to do it; after all, a wife
has no right to act as I did."

"Why think of it and worry about it now?" said
John, attempting to strike an ordinary tone of voice.

"But I want to make everything straight between us,
Bernard."

John led her to a chair, and she seated herself.  He
tried to turn the conversation, but this time he failed.
Elaine felt a growing desire to wipe away all
misunderstandings between them.

"I have still my confession to make, Bernard."

"What is it?" inquired John cheerily.

There was a silence for a moment—a silence that John
felt to be momentous, that rendered him uncomfortable.
Then Elaine's words came to him, uttered in a low tone.

"I never loved you till to-night, Bernard!"

John was conscious of a sudden and exultant thrill.

"Is that all your confession?" he asked.

Elaine nodded.  Her hand was in his.  John lifted it
to his lips.  Then recollection came to him; he drew
himself erect, standing away from her.

"It's getting late, Elaine," he said.  "I ought to be
going."  There was something vibrant and new in his
voice that caused her heart to beat violently.  "You
see," John went on, somewhat clumsily, "I have
important work to do to-morrow."

But Elaine had not loosed her grip of his hand.  She
suddenly hid her face on his shoulder; he could feel her
arms about him.  For a minute, what was to John an
awkward silence, subsisted between them, then Elaine
spoke again:

"Why should you go, Bernard?" she whispered.  "I
was cruel to you, but I did not wish to be cruel."

"You are never cruel," protested John.  "Don't think
of it any more."

His situation in that moment was the hardest that
Fate could have possibly imposed upon him.  Here was
the finest woman he had ever met—young, beautiful
and ardent, with her arms about his neck, whispering
love to him.  She was speaking to him as a wife to a
husband whom she loves, and all the time he was not
that husband.  And, to complicate matters, he felt now
that the love she was prepared to offer was not offered
to the other—to Bernard Treves—but to himself alone.

"Bernard," she murmured, "at the back of my heart,
through all those black days, I whispered always that
some time I should be happy."

"I am sure you'll be happy," said John.  "It will not
be my fault if you are not."  He drew in a deep breath.
"But to-night—I must go; I—I am very busy; I have
many things to do to-night.  Confidential work."  He
lifted her hand, bent and kissed her slender white fingers.
"Some day I'll explain."

A minute later he was gone.

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   \*      \*      \*      \*      \*

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The gloomy-looking waiter, who had served dinner the
night before, informed John that the only way to arrive at
Brooke was by hired pony-trap or by bicycle.  Choosing the
latter method, John, early in the morning, hired a bicycle,
visited the hotel, and said good-bye to Elaine.

"You'll come back to me this evening, Bernard?"
whispered she as she kissed him good-bye.

"This evening," said John.  "I had no right to let
her kiss me," he continued inwardly, "but, after all, it's
part of the deception, part of the character I am obliged
to play."  Nevertheless, he felt uneasy as he rode the
winding and hilly path to Brooke.  The night before he
had played his part valiantly and well, but he felt that in
regard to Elaine tremendous difficulties were ahead.

It was eleven o'clock when John reached the road
which led to the empty, forlorn line of shore at Brooke.
He could see the sea ahead of him, a grand expanse of
blue ocean.  He passed quaint Brooke church on his left
hand, and suddenly slowed up near a large solid-looking
dwelling, overgrown with creepers.  Here was Rollo
Meads, with a strip of garden in front.  As John neared
the dwelling he noticed a gardener at work.  Something
in the quiet and homely exterior of the house made him
for a moment think he had made a mistake, but as his
hand fell upon the gate the gardener lifted his face, and
John recognised the pallid countenance and close-set
eyes of Conrad, the manservant who had first admitted
him to Manwitz's house in St. George's Square.

Conrad informed him that Dr. Voules was in and was
awaiting him.

"Now," thought John, as he followed Conrad to the
front door, "matters may begin to move again."  Dacent
Smith had for some time been groping towards the identity
of Dr. Voules, and John realised that in being permitted
to undertake the work he was now upon he was being
trusted and favoured by his Chief.  He resolved, in his
interview with the doctor, to exercise the most extreme
caution, and to play the part of Bernard Treves with the
closest simulation.

There was silence as John stepped into the hall of
Rollo Meads.  The servant preceded him along the
passage, knocked on a door, then entered, and vanished,
leaving John alone.  Conrad emerged a minute later,
and summoned John towards him.

"Will you please go in, sir."

A moment later John found himself in a good-sized
morning-room, with two windows overlooking a lawn
and a garden.  The room was heavily furnished with
a long oak table in the middle, and half a dozen massive
dining-room chairs surrounding it.  At the head of the
table Doctor "Voules" was seated.  He wore a markedly
English-looking tweed suit, but his thick neck, his
circular head, and heavy jaws showed him to be not
quite the amiable retired doctor he pretended to be.
Seated on Voules's right hand were two men, deeply
sun-tanned.  One of the men wore a blond beard, and
looked frankly and honestly at John.  The other was a
fair-haired man, with a supercilious-looking expression.
John put both down at once as naval officers.  Standing
at the fire-place, in uniform, was Captain Cherriton.
The air of the room was heavily impregnated with the
smell of cigar smoke.  Cherriton was smoking a
cigarette, but Doctor Voules held in his powerful mouth a
long, black cigar.  He flashed a keen scrutiny upon
John as the young man stepped into the room and closed
the door behind him.

"You are Mr. Treves, eh?"

John assured him that he was.

"You will take a seat," said Voules, pointing to a
vacant chair upon his left hand.  "These are two
friends of mine," he said, indicating the blond-bearded
man and the supercilious younger man, "Mr. Sharpe and
Mr. Rogers."

"I am pleased to meet you," said John, making a
swift mental summary of each man's appearance.

"I am glad to make your acquaintance," responded
the blond-bearded man, and his accent was so thoroughly
German that it would have betrayed him anywhere.
The other man appeared to speak no English at all, for
he merely nodded.

"Sit down, Cherriton," commanded Voules, and Cherriton,
who was lounging at the hearth, came and seated
himself at John's side.

"I am in the thick of it," thought John.  He wondered
what was to occur, what attitude Voules would take
towards himself, whether Voules would regard him as
of consequence, and of possible use, or would he fail
to trust him.

"You are no longer in the army?" Voules inquired,
looking into John's face with cold grey eyes.  It was his
custom to examine personally such men as were brought
to him; he had infinite belief in his own powers of
judgment, and in many ways he possessed a shrewd
and penetrating mind.  His infinite confidence in
himself, however, sometimes led him into mistakes.  He
believed, as he looked at John, that he was examining
a weakling, and a drug-taker.  Cherriton had supplied
all information as to Bernard Treves's unstable character
and habits, and though Voules was a little surprised to
find the young man healthy and vigorous looking, he
was deceived by the manner in which John avoided his
eyes; he was still more deceived when John, cleverly
resting his elbow on the table, permitted his sleeve to
fall back so that Voules could see pinpricks on his wrist,
the sort of wound that is left by a hypodermic syringe
used for administering morphia and cocaine.

Voules's sharp eyes instantly fell upon this tangible
evidence of the drug habit.  He was quite satisfied with
the evidence of his own eyes.

"You are no longer in the army?" he repeated.

"Well, as a matter of fact," John said, after a moment's
hesitation, "my father has used his influence, and I am
to be restored to my commission."

Voules's eyes widened a little.

"Indeed," he remarked.  He appeared to consider
this change in John's circumstances for a moment, then
he put out a hand and laid his heavy fingers on John's
sleeve.  "You have told this news, eh——" he paused
a moment; "you have told this news to Alice?"

For a second John hesitated; he did not realise who
Alice was; then he remembered her as Mrs. Beecher
Monmouth.

"No," answered John, "I have not told her yet, but
I intend to write and tell her to-night."

"Ah," said Voules, "you think she will be pleased?"  The
intensity of his gaze increased.  John saw quite plainly
a doubt in his eyes.  "You think she will be pleased?"

"I am sure of it," said John.

"And why?"

"Because I can be of more use, doctor."

"We have a very high opinion of the lady in question,"
said Voules; "we have every reason to trust her."

"I hope you will have every reason to trust me," John
said.

Voules looked at him silently for a minute.

"I hope so," he announced.  "We shall make it worth
your while to serve us."  He paused for a moment, and
glanced at Cherriton.  "Cherriton has already told you,"
he said, "that when the Day arrives, when the success
that is bound to come, has been given to us, we shall
not forget our friends in England."  He suddenly turned
away from John, and looked at the blond-bearded man
on his right.  His voice seemed to deepen in tone, and
he began suddenly and rapidly to speak in German.
"What is your opinion of our young English friend
here?" he rapped to the blond-bearded man.

"I cannot judge of him, Excellence."

Voules went on still in German:

"Manwitz and Rathenau have each testified to his
usefulness; he is also in the hands of a lady who can
well supervise his doings."

The blond man fingered his blond beard, sliding it
through his hands.

"Excellence, let me say, may I not suggest a certain
reserve in our conversation, in the circumstances."

Voules laughed for the first time.  John noticed that
his teeth were strong and well kept, and that his laugh
was not at all pleasant.

"Our Englander," he said, "understands not one
word of German.  We may speak freely, Muller.  Is it
not so, Rathenau?"  He turned quickly to Cherriton.

"Yes, Excellence," answered Cherriton, with his
contemptuous curl of the lip.  "Not one English officer
in a thousand knows half a dozen words of German;
our friend is no exception."

"He is well controlled by the particular lady
mentioned?" inquired Voules.

Cherriton smiled.

"Quite, Excellence; even if she cared for him in the
way he believes she does, she would still watch him like
a cat."

"True," said Voules; then again turned to John and
spoke in English.  "My apologies to you, Mr. Treves,"
he said, "for speaking in German, but my friends here
speak no English."

"I don't mind in the least," answered John.  He did
not in the least, and as he had understood every word
it made no difference.

"In regard to your reinstatement in the army," went
on Voules, "I offer you my felicitations.  You will be
able to help us even more than in the past, and I may
hardly say that the reward will be in proportion to the
work done.  If you are stationed in London we can
find work for you in London.  If, on the other hand, you
are returned to your regiment, then you can also help
us.  The treatment you have received at the hands of
the army, Cherriton tells me, is abominable.  You are
quite honourably acquitted of allegiance to your
nationality.  I tell you this, that you may have no inner
qualms; in serving us you serve the cause of Kultur.
Is that not so, Cherriton?"

"Yes, Herr Excellence."

"Kultur," thought John; "Kultur, that stabs in the
dark, that murders children and women; that calls
might right.  Kultur that takes a man sodden with drugs
and turns him into a traitor to his country; then, having
made him commit crimes against his fellow-countrymen,
has the audacity to tell him that he is acting the part
of a man of honour!  Some day," thought John, a
sudden blaze of fury burning through him, "you, Voules,
will be taught a very different culture from that."  Aloud
John said nothing, but merely sat nervously in his chair,
fidgeting with his collar, and clasping and unclasping
his hands upon the table—an excellent imitation of the
real Treves.

"Is there anything you would wish to say?" inquired
Voules.

John looked guardedly at the two men who sat opposite.

"Please go to the window," commanded Voules.

The two men rose obediently and crossed the room.
John dropped his voice.

"I understood," he said to Voules, "that I was to
receive"—he stopped, looked into Voules's face, then
turned his eyes away.

"Rathenau," Voules commanded, "ring the bell."

Cherriton rang the bell, and a moment later Conrad
entered the room.

"The packet, Conrad, for Mr. Treves."

Conrad went out and returned a moment later, carrying
a small white packet.  He handed it to Voules, and
Voules passed it to John.

"Thank you—thank you!" exclaimed John, taking
it quickly.  He knew the packet contained cocaine, and
he slipped it carefully into his pocket.

"You will report to us wherever you are?" inquired
Voules.

"Wherever I am," answered John.

"Great matters are pending," responded the doctor;
"soon you will be of use to us.  In regard to finance,"
he added, after a moment's pause, "you will write to
our Captain Cherriton."  He rose and gripped John's
hand.  "You will have no cause to regret your
association with us, I can assure you of that."

"Perhaps you'll have some cause to regret your
association with me," thought John, as he looked into
the heavy jowled face.

Five minutes later he was out in the road, bidding
good-bye to Captain Cherriton, who waved a careless
farewell to him.

"We shall meet soon again," said the captain.

John nodded, leapt on to his bicycle, and rode briskly
down the road.





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`CHAPTER XVIII`:

.. class:: center large

   CHAPTER XVIII

.. vspace:: 2

On the following evening, at eight o'clock, John Manton
presented himself at Dacent Smith's apartment in
Jermyn Street.  He had hurried to London in answer
to a wire, telling him to report himself personally.  Elaine,
who had made the journey with him, had gone on to her
rooms in Camden Town.  The door of Dacent Smith's
suite of rooms was opened by Grew, who conducted John
immediately to the great man's apartment.  As always,
when John visited his Chief's abode, the speckless cleanliness
of the stairs, the glitter of varnish and brass reminded
him somewhat of the interior of a battleship.

His superior's own room was orderly as usual, and
Dacent Smith himself, who occupied a deep leather-covered
chair at the hearth, rose and greeted him with a
cordial handshake.  The elder man was in evening
clothes; he was, as always, plump, ruddy-cheeked,
bright-eyed, and cheery in manner.  His politeness
struck John in marked contrast to the gruffness of Doctor
Voules.  These two men, Voules and Dacent Smith, heads
of two great secret armies, were conducting a duel for
supremacy.  They were totally different in character
and calibre, and John (perhaps he was prejudiced in the
matter) was prepared at any odds to back Dacent Smith
to win.

"Help yourself to a cigarette, Treves."

John took a cigarette, and seated himself in a chair
opposite his Chief.  For a moment there was silence,
then Dacent Smith, who had been watching the ascending
smoke, looked at the younger man with the faintly
humorous light that sometimes animated his vivid eyes.

"I am glad to see you alive, Treves.  You have had
one of the narrowest of escapes."

John expressed his surprise.

"I wasn't aware of any narrow escape, sir."

"Perhaps not," said Dacent Smith, "but yesterday
morning, when you went to Voules's house, you literally
walked into the lions' den.  Fortunately, however, you
were successful in preserving a whole skin."

"I had no sense of anything adventurous happening
during that visit," John returned, full of curiosity.

"I'll tell you exactly just what did happen," Dacent
Smith continued.  He rose, went to his desk, and drew
a letter from one of the drawers.  "Read that letter,"
he said, "and see what your chances would have been
if it had arrived at Voules's house before you did."

"Who wrote it?" asked John, looking at the single
initial "S" at the end of the sheet.

"Your amiable friend, Crumbs," answered Dacent
Smith.  "He discovered Cherriton's letter in your
dispatch case."

John lifted his eyebrows in intense surprise.

"I had no idea that letter was discovered, sir.  I took
every precaution against discovery, and should have
destroyed it, but it appeared to me a specimen of
Cherriton's handwriting might be useful to you in the
future."

"It will be useful when we come to stop his activities,"
answered Dacent Smith.  "In the meantime its
discovery by Sims very nearly resulted in your career
coming to a sudden end.  You can imagine the situation,
Treves," he went on, "if that letter had arrived at Brooke
when you were in Voules's house.  For their own sakes,
Voules and the others would never have dared to let you
go.  However, the letter never reached Voules, for
Sinclair had it out of the locked bag at the fort five
minutes after Sims deposited it there."

"It's a lucky thing for me," John said, handing back
the letter to his Chief, "that Sinclair acted the way he
did."

"Devilish lucky, Treves."  Dacent Smith rose, placed
the letter in a drawer in his desk and returned to his
seat at the hearth.

"Now, Treves, as to Voules.  Who is he?"

"He is some one in authority," answered John.
"There is no doubt of that whatever."

"What is his appearance?"

"He is a heavily-built, bullet-headed man, between
fifty and sixty.  I should judge him to be used to
exercising autocratic authority over others.  When I reached
Rollo Meads there were also present in the house two
Germans, who gave me the impression of being naval
officers.  The fourth member of the party was Captain
Cherriton, whose real name is Rathenau, as I discovered
owing to the fact that they spoke German, which
Cherriton believes I don't understand."

John continued and detailed fully his interview with
Voules.  He described his receipt of the cocaine tabloids
from Conrad and his exhibition of the bogus five little
wounds on his wrist, which had convinced Voules that
he was a victim of the drug habit.  When he had
concluded Dacent Smith's lips tightened.

"You acted very shrewdly, Treves.  I will see that
Voules and his little party are kept under observation.
From your description, I can tell you exactly who Voules
is, Treves," he said.  "We have suspected his identity
for some time.  Until two months ago Voules was
General von Kuhne, in command of a corps of the
Fifteenth Army.  He is a Badenser, born and reared in
Constance.  Our investigation department informs me
that he is credited by the enemy with great ability.
In character he is instinctively aggressive; a fighter
imbued through and through with the offensive spirit.
It is to General von Kuhne that we owe our present
awkward predicament on the South Coast.  Outwardly
nothing is wrong, but our department knows that
Germany is preparing a heavy blow.  We are contending
against something new, big, and masterful; something
that has been arranged and planned for months.  How
far General von Kuhne's plans have matured I do not
yet know.  We are so far, Treves, only groping towards
knowledge.  My reports tell me that at least eight forts
on the South Coast are being subtly tampered with in
one way or another.  You have seen yourself the
masterly manner in which Sims managed to work his will
at Heatherpoint.

"Sims's dossier," he went on, "reached me in full
only to-night, and is a further instance of an effective
German trick.  Sims's real name is Steinbaum.  He is
a Hamburg Jew, who emigrated to America in 1912.
We cannot trace him from then until 1915, when, with
the German naval attaché at Washington, Captain
Boy Ed, he made an attempt to blow up the Pittsburg
bridge works.  He escaped the American police, and
vanished.  The next step in his career was when he
landed at Liverpool from America.  He was already
a German spy, and enlisted in our army under the
name of Sims, a baker by trade."

"I suppose," inquired John, "the idea of arresting
Voules and his immediate confederates is outside our
plan?"

Dacent Smith nodded.  He put his finger-tips together,
and remained thoughtfully silent for several
minutes.

"No; it would not do," he said, as though desirous
of convincing John of the correctness of his judgment
"If I were to lay Voules, and a dozen of the others whom
we know, suddenly by the heels, we should damage our
chances, possibly irretrievably.  You see, if we did that,
we should be removing our special avenues of information.
By arresting the spies we know, we should lose
the great mass of information we manage to glean from
them, and at the same time should be obliged to
continue the fight against other agents whom we do not
know.  Do you follow me?"

John nodded.  "I confess it never occurred to me
in that light, but I can see the force of your argument."

"We always stand to learn something from Mrs. Beecher
Monmouth, by secretly reading all her letters,"
continued Dacent Smith, "but if we arrest her we lose
that advantage.  Then, again, their present scheme in
the South may be so far advanced that it will work to
fruition by itself, even if we remove a dozen individuals.
General von Kuhne is, of course, the keystone of the
whole business, and when the time comes we shall get
him——" he paused a moment, and looked quizzically
into John's face—"or he will get us!"

"He will have to rise pretty early in the morning to
get you," thought John, genuinely impressed by his
reasoning.  Nevertheless, he inwardly admitted that
Kuhne was an antagonist well fitted to measure swords
even with Dacent Smith.  Always, in these short interviews
he obtained with his Chief, John felt himself drawn
anew to the head of his department.  Manton had no
doubt whatever of Dacent Smith's ability, his intelligence
was keen as a sword-blade, and swift as that same blade
in the hands of a brilliant fencer.  For all that, it seemed
strange to John, as he sat in the well-furnished,
neatly-ordered, bachelor apartment, to think that this quiet,
well-groomed, middle-aged gentleman was the head
and heart, the chief nerve centre, in fact, of the greatest
defensive force in the country.

"Now," said Dacent Smith, when he concluded his
observations, "is there anything at all troubling your
mind, Treves, anything you'd like to get off your chest,
for instance?"

John looked at him quickly, wondering if his keen
eye had detected anything.

"Well," he confessed, "as a matter of fact, there is
something that bothers me a good deal."

"Pass me another cigarette," said Dacent Smith,
"and let me hear it."

John handed him another cigarette, and hesitated.

"Go on," urged his Chief.

"Well, I should like to report, sir," John said at
length, "that my personal position has become—well,
peculiarly difficult during the past few days."

"Do you find your work disappointing?"

"I am keener on my work than ever," John answered.

"What is it, then?"

"Well," confessed John, "to be precise, I find I am
getting rather entangled with a lady."  His tone was
serious, and Dacent Smith took the statement gravely.

"Mrs. Beecher Monmouth, do you mean?"

John shook his head.

"Mrs. Beecher Monmouth is rather pressing whenever
I meet her," he said, with a deprecating smile, "but she
is not the lady in question."

"Who is the lady?"

John was silent; he found a strange diffidence in
tackling this subject.  It was a matter of some difficulty
to state exactly what was the situation between himself
and Elaine.  Dacent Smith waited, and then tapped the
arm of his chair with his finger, which was his only manner
of showing impatience.

"Come, Treves, who is the lady?"

"Bernard Treves's wife, sir!"

"Oh!  And wherein lies the particular awkwardness?"

"Yesterday she came down to the Gordon Hotel in
Newport to see me, and stayed the night there."

"Was that awkward for you?"

"I'm afraid it was, sir.  It seems," went on John,
"that there was a disagreement between her and her
husband, which ended in the lady refusing to live with
him until he improved his habits."

"A very proper and spirited attitude to take,"
responded Dacent Smith.

"That is my opinion," said John, "but, unfortunately,
she has decided to forgive her husband."

Dacent Smith suddenly sat erect.

"You don't mean she has made any untoward discovery?"

"Oh, no," said John, "she accepts me absolutely.
And so far as I know she has never experienced the
faintest doubt.  But the awkwardness comes in through
the fact that she has decided to forgive her husband and
take him back again!"

Dacent Smith looked at the younger man for a minute,
then whistled softly.

"By gad, Treves, yours is certainly a difficult path."

"I am glad you see it as I do, sir."

"Devilish difficult—and what's the lady like?  Is she
young and pretty?"

"She is about twenty-three years of age," said John,
"and—and, well pretty doesn't quite describe her.  She
has dark hair and grey eyes.  She is rather above the
average in height.  She——"  John hesitated and
stumbled.  "I am no connoisseur in these matters, sir,
but in my opinion she is an unusually beautiful girl."

Dacent Smith looked at him squarely.

"And that, no doubt, intensifies your difficulty, eh,
Treves?"

"Well, my position last night," he said briefly, "was
more than awkward."  A sudden note of irritation found
its way into John's voice; he could not have himself
explained why he felt irritation.  "The situation was
wrong altogether.  I felt I had no right to pass as
Bernard Treves.  It is one thing to deceive Treves's
father in a good cause, or to deceive everybody else, but
it is quite another matter to trick a young, good-looking
woman the way I had to deceive Mrs. Treves.  It doesn't
seem to me to be playing the game, sir."

"You mean," inquired Dacent Smith, quietly, "the
young lady made advances to you, she forgave you, and
offered to live with you again as your wife, and you, being
a man of honour, felt the situation keenly?  Tell me,
Treves," he went on, with a new interest in the matter,
"what is she like?  Her mental equipment, I mean?"

"She is very feminine, and by no means a fool,"
explained John.  "I evaded her last night, but she came
to London with me to-day, and is waiting for me this
evening.  She knows Cherriton and Manwitz.  Cherriton,
as a matter of fact, has been paying her undesirable
attentions."  John, who had been looking at the hearth-rug,
suddenly lifted his face.  "That's the whole situation,
sir, and I don't feel that I can go on deceiving her."

For a long minute there was silence in the little room.
Dacent Smith's little gilt clock on the mantelpiece chimed
the half-hour.

"We're in deep waters here, Treves," he said slowly
and seriously.  "I can see only two ways out of it.  One
is that she should be restored to her undesirable husband."

"If," said John, "Treves is cured of his drug habit, I
suppose that would be the right thing to do."  Even as
he spoke a feeling shot through him that was quite
definitely antagonistic to this idea.  He felt jealous and
utterly resentful at the thought.

"He isn't cured, and shows no likelihood of being
cured," answered Dacent Smith.  "My last report is
that he tried to break out of the nursing home, and very
nearly got away.  He is in the condition where he would
give his very soul to get drugs.  No," he said, shaking his
head, "we'll leave Bernard Treves in his present
isolation.  In surrendering his personality to you he is
making some slight restitution; he is unconsciously doing
something for his country.  We need waste no pity on
him.  So far as we are concerned, Treves does not count."

"What if Treves had actually managed to escape, sir?"

"In that case 'Voules' and the rest of them would
be down on you like a ton of bricks, but we need not at
present anticipate a calamity of that sort.  Now in regard
to Treves's wife, when you see her to-night, give her my
compliments, and say I should like her to call here one
afternoon this week.  I think I can then ease the
awkwardness of your position in regard to her.  I have an
idea at any rate."

Half an hour later John made his way out to Camden
Town, and rang the bell of 65, Bowles Avenue.  Elaine
herself opened the door and offered him a smiling welcome.





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.. _`CHAPTER XIX`:

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   CHAPTER XIX

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In the soft illumination of the white and gold
dining-salon of the Golden Pavilion Hotel John found himself
completely at home.  Two days had passed since his visit
to Elaine, and he was again at work under the ægis of
Dacent Smith.  He had chosen a quiet table in the corner,
had selected the dishes for his dinner, and was leaning
back in his chair surveying the brilliant scene with an
appreciative eye.  The Golden Pavilion Hotel is famed
alike for its refined and luxurious furnishings, its band,
its cuisine, and its exclusiveness.  The head waiter, who
looked like an archbishop, advanced soundlessly over the
rich carpet, and stood at John's elbow.

"I beg your pardon," said the man, in a low, smooth
voice, "but the lady at the table beyond the second
pillar, sir, would like to have a word with you."

John raised his head and glanced in the direction the
man had indicated.  He had already seen Mrs. Beecher
Monmouth, and had made a special point of concealing
the fact.  He rose now, however, and moved across the
room between crowded tables.

Mrs. Beecher Monmouth, seated with a party of friends,
flashed a brilliant smile at him when he advanced.

"Oh, you poor lonely creature," she exclaimed, as
she placed her jewelled fingers in his.  "I saw you
moping in your corner," she continued, when a waiter had
brought an extra chair and John had accepted an
invitation to dine with her party, "and took pity on you;
don't you think that was nice of me?"  She looked at
him with a long, deep glance, conscious of her striking
beauty.  Her beauty was of the instantly arresting order.
The fact that the art of coiffeur and cosmetic enabled
her to heighten her charms was all in her favour where
men were concerned.  Quite, as it were, by accident, she
now laid her fingers on John's sleeve.

"I must introduce you to my guests.  My husband
you already know."

John bowed slightly towards Mr. Beecher Monmouth,
whose evening clothes intensified the sallowness of his
complexion.  John noted the parchment-like character
of his skin, the tired look in his eyes, and the manipulation
of his thin hair to create the effect of youthful plenty.
He was an old man striving hopelessly to look young.
Mrs. Beecher Monmouth turned her eyes from her husband
towards the slender figure of a woman at her right-hand
side.

"Lady Rachel," she said, "may I present Mr. Treves."  John
bowed again, and Lady Rachel Marvin smiled at
him graciously.  She was a woman of slender figure, with
exceptionally large, long-lashed eyes.  Her neck was long,
slender and white, and she wore diamond ear-rings, which
scintillated as she moved her head.  Her age was
probably thirty-five, and she was, in appearance, distinctly
aristocratic.  Her voice was thin and high-pitched, and
she talked incessantly.

The third member of Mrs. Beecher Monmouth's party
was a fat woman of fifty, the wealthy wife of a colonel
in the gunners.  Any woman assessing the jewels
Mrs. Pomfret Bond wore would have known that she was
wealthy, and that she was determined other people should
know it.  She was a foolish, vulgar woman, and John,
looking at her, realised almost immediately that she would
be as wax in the hands of Mrs. Beecher Monmouth.  But it
was to Lady Rachel Marvin that John turned his attention.
"Did you know the Seventh Division has been moved
from Aldershot?" she was inquiring, looking at Beecher
Monmouth.

"No," said the elderly man, "we don't hear anything
in Parliament, Lady Rachel."

"I heard it only quite by accident," babbled Lady
Rachel.  "You know my cousin, Derrick, is in the
Coldstreams; you remember Derrick?" she said, turning
her big eyes upon Mrs. Beecher Monmouth, "I have
told you so much about him."

Mrs. Beecher Monmouth smiled brilliantly and nodded.
Lady Rachel then went on to explain that it was Derrick
who had told her of a new gun being tested at Woolwich.
Derrick had been on the G.H.Q. Staff, "and," went on
Lady Rachel, "he is almost as mysterious about it as his
friend Commander Loyson is about the new cruiser—the
*Malta*, which has just been put into commission at ——"

"Is there a new cruiser being commissioned at ——?"
inquired John, sliding into the conversation.  He was so
apparently interested that Lady Rachel looked at him
with a pleased expression on her somewhat foolish face.

"I am afraid, Mr. Treves, I ought not to chatter about
it.  But being behind the scenes, and knowing so many
people one naturally picks up little bits of news here and
there.  It is quite easy to piece the bits together.  I have
not heard anything actually about the new cruiser," she
said, "the *Malta*, I mean, but from things Commander
Loyson said to Derrick, and from other things I have
heard, I can assure you it is something wonderful."

John, listening to her chatter, wondered how much of
this information she had, out of sheer vanity, passed on
to Mrs. Beecher Monmouth.

Lady Rachel Marvin certainly knew a great number of
people, and her social position gave her many chances to
pick up exclusive information.  Her silly, butterfly
existence consisted in flitting from one drawing-room to
another.  Here she exchanged such gossip as she had
been able to collect from her equally frivolous friends.
As John listened to her he realised that such women as
Lady Rachel are a real source of danger to the nation.

When dinner was at an end Lady Rachel went to
speak to some friends at another table, and the minute
she had gone Mrs. Beecher Monmouth turned her attention
solely to John, ignoring Mrs. Pomfret Bond and the "Ogre."

"Naughty boy," said Mrs. Beecher Monmouth under
her breath.  "Why have you never been to see me?"

"I have been in the Isle of Wight visiting my father,"
answered John promptly.

"I know that," answered she; "therefore, and
because you sent me those Russian cigarettes, I intend
to forgive you!  Now, you must come and see me soon,"
she went on, "there are many things I want to talk to
you about."

"I should like to talk to you about quite a number of
things," responded John in the same intimate tone.

"When can you come?" asked she.

"Any time you like."

"Not to-morrow, the 'Ogre' will be at home then,"
she said, in a voice too low for Mr. Beecher Monmouth
to catch.  "Don't you think he is looking very old and
worn?"

John glanced at Beecher Monmouth's glazed countenance
and tired eyes, and even at that moment the elderly
politician was looking adoringly at his wife, admiring
the richness of her hair, the fine contour of her shoulders,
and the brilliance of her complexion.  John felt almost
sorry for the befooled and weary Member of Parliament,
who had sold his old age and his happiness into the
bondage of this woman.

"Come to tea the day after to-morrow," said
Mrs. Beecher Monmouth, and John accepted the invitation
with alacrity.

Two days later when he presented himself at five
o'clock in the afternoon at Mrs. Beecher Monmouth's
residence in Grosvenor Square, he was ushered
immediately into the lady's boudoir.

He had seen that room only in the illumination of
the pink-shaded electric light, now he saw it again in
daylight, and found it even more luxurious than he had
imagined—the white polar-bear rug, the brilliant-hued
Chinese *kakemonos* hung on the wall behind Mrs. Beecher
Monmouth's divan, the long gilt-framed mirrors, and
gilt-legged chairs all conspired to create an atmosphere
of sumptuous richness.  Mrs. Beecher Monmouth in an
afternoon gown which gave her almost a slender and
distinguished appearance, was seated in a low arm-chair.
Lady Rachel Marvin occupied the divan, and John,
much as he disliked this foolish ox-eyed woman of fashion,
was obliged to admit that she had disposed herself
gracefully upon the cushions.  The third guest was
Mrs. Pomfret Bond, who was delighted to be in that society,
and talked as much military gossip as she could to show
that she, too, was in the swim.

When John had been cordially received, and had
accepted a cup of tea and a fragment of bread and butter,
he seated himself at the foot of the divan and entered
into conversation with Lady Rachel.  Under orders from
Dacent Smith he had come there with that express purpose.

"We have been talking of the dreadful news, Mr. Treves,"
said Lady Rachel, biting a slip of bread and
butter with long sharp teeth.

"You mean the sinking of the *Malta*?" inquired John.

"Yes, how appalling it is," said she.  "I heard it
before it appeared in the papers."

"It's one of the worst disasters we have had for
some time," responded John; "a new ship costing a
million pounds of public money, and two hundred fine
lives."

Mrs. Pomfret Bond spoke up indignantly.

"I can't imagine how the Germans find out about our
ships.  We're supposed to have an Intelligence
Department.  Why don't they put a stop to this sort of
thing?"

"I expect they do the best they can," remarked John.

"But one always has to reckon with spies," said
Mrs. Pomfret Bond.

"Of course," said John.

"But the *Malta* was a new vessel," observed
Mrs. Beecher Monmouth; "how could they find out when
she was to leave ——?"

"The Germans must have found out," intervened
Lady Rachel, claiming the conversation again, "for no
submarines had been in those waters for weeks, and they
had been swept for mines the day before.  I know this
for a fact."

John looked at her keenly.  That afternoon he had
had a long conversation with Dacent Smith in regard to
Lady Rachel Marvin.  The fact that she had, two days
ago, mentioned the *Malta* during her irresponsible chatter
at dinner, had aroused a suspicion in John's mind that
possibly the disaster which had happened to the new
cruiser had been directly due to her foolish vanity—to
her ineradicable desire to obtain social distinction by
revealing to her friends her superior knowledge of what
went on behind the scenes.  This idea, as he sat in her
presence now, listening to her talk, grew in strength,
and at the first opportunity that occurred, he drew
Mrs. Beecher Monmouth aside.  He knew that he was
venturing upon very thin ice in putting questions to her.

"Well, you bad boy," whispered Mrs. Beecher Monmouth,
"why have you been trying to flirt with Lady Rachel?"

John had seated himself on a low Turkish stool at her
side.

"How could I see Lady Rachel when you are in the
room?" he answered, gallantly.

"If you only meant it," responded Mrs. Beecher
Monmouth, "I'd give you two pieces of sugar in your
next cup of tea!"

"Lady Rachel cannot hold a candle to you," affirmed
John.

"You mustn't be hard on her," returned Mrs. Beecher
Monmouth.  In the afternoon light the "Ogre's" wife
looked scarcely twenty-five, a remarkably beautiful and
imperious woman.  Even John was obliged to confess
that no fault existed in her passionate and somewhat
sensuous beauty.  For her part, Mrs. Beecher Monmouth
was so used to admiration that she accepted John's
flattery as a matter of course.  Bernard Treves, she told
herself, was one of the strings to her bow, and quite the
nicest-looking boy of them all.  "You mustn't be hard on
poor Lady Rachel," she said; "she is such a dear,
delightful chatterbox."

"Lady Rachel seems to know a good deal about the *Malta*."'

Mrs. Beecher Monmouth turned her eyes and fixed her
gaze swiftly upon him; then she remarked, quietly:

"One of her relations is a big-wig at the Admiralty."

"That fact, and what she picked up from other of her
naval friends, enabled her," said John, "to give a guess
at when the *Malta* would leave ——"

Mrs. Beecher Monmouth became suddenly very still.

"How did you know that, Bernard?" she asked.

John observed a hardening of the line of her mouth.

"I merely put two and two together and assumed it,"
he said.  Then, quietly daring, he leaned forward,
unobserved by others in the room, and seized Mrs. Beecher
Monmouth's hand.

"Is it true?" he questioned.

She looked at him a long minute, and then smiled, but
there was a cruel light in her eyes.

"It is true," pursued John.

A silence followed; then Mrs. Beecher Monmouth
inclined her fine head very slightly.  John was dexterous
enough not to slide his hand away from hers too soon.
The aversion he felt from her made him remove it as
soon as he reasonably could.  Then he drew in a deep
breath.

"I see," he said, in a low voice, "she told you when
the *Malta* was to sail."

And though Mrs. Beecher Monmouth was too cautious
to admit the fact, John knew in his heart that it was
absolutely true.  Lady Rachel, exercising her silly desire
for gossip, had been tricked into imparting this fatal
information.  Because of this she was, John believed,
just as much responsible for the sinking of the *Malta* as if
she herself had discharged the torpedo which wrought its
doom.  She was, in fact, an unwitting traitor to her
country.  And John, as he moved from Mrs. Beecher
Monmouth's side, felt a certain implacable animosity
towards this vain society woman, with her wide eyes,
her high-pitched voice, her elegant aristocratic poses.

Nevertheless, he was politeness itself as he drew her
towards the window.

"I'd like to have a word with you alone, Lady Rachel,"
he said.

When they were out of earshot of Mrs. Beecher
Monmouth and Mrs. Pomfret Bond, John lowered his voice,
and looked down into the big, long-lashed eyes.

"You were speaking a few minutes ago, Lady Rachel,"
he said, "of the *Malta*."

Lady Rachel smiled and nodded.

"I think," went on John, "I ought to inform you that
I am a member of the Intelligence Department!"

"Oh, are you really?" exclaimed Lady Rachel, looking
at him with a sudden vivid interest.  "I have so
often wanted to meet some one in the secret service.  I
think you all so splendid!"

"I am glad you appreciate us," John answered dryly;
"perhaps, Lady Rachel," he went on, "you would like
to know more about our department?"

"I should love it dearly," said she, with an expression
of delight on her weakly pretty features.

"Well," said John, "if you care to accompany me to
my office in a few minutes, I will present you to my Chief.
He has already expressed a wish to meet you."

Lady Rachel looked puzzled for a moment.

"Perhaps I know him, Mr. Treves.  I may have met
him in society.  I suppose I mustn't ask his name?" she
added mysteriously.

"No, don't ask his name," answered John.

Ten minutes later Lady Rachel Marvin was seated
beside John in a taxi.  The vehicle glided out of
Grosvenor Place and passed Green Park.

"Why are you looking so grim?" observed the lady.
as John leaned back with folded arms.

"I am thinking of the *Malta* and of the two hundred
fine fellows who were drowned yesterday."





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.. _`CHAPTER XX`:

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   CHAPTER XX

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It was six o'clock when John stepped out into Dacent
Smith's bachelor room.  His Chief was seated at his desk,
deep in work.  John closed the door and crossed the
room.

"Well?" asked Dacent Smith, raising his head and still
sitting with poised pen at his desk.

"I was right, sir, in regard to Lady Rachel Marvin.
The information that sunk the *Malta* was conveyed by
her to Mrs. Beecher Monmouth two days ago."

"You don't mean she intentionally conveyed it?"
exclaimed Dacent Smith, rising and looking at John in
amazement.

"Oh no, sir, not at all; she conveyed it with no
intention to do harm, and only out of an inveterate habit
of gossip."

Dacent Smith drew his brows together.  His expression
was more stern in that moment than John had ever seen it.

"A damnable habit of gossiping," he observed forcibly.
"Well, what have you done, Treves?"

"I have brought the lady with me, sir, thinking you
would wish to act at once in regard to her."

Dacent Smith nodded in approbation.

"Send her in to me, Treves, and wait outside."

John went out of the room, and Dacent Smith moved
to the mantelshelf and looked for a moment at the
photograph of a girl of eighteen, a girl who looked scarcely
more than a child.  He was still at the hearth when Lady
Rachel was ushered into the room by John, who closed
the door and left the two together.  What took place
between Dacent Smith and the woman whose foolish
vanity had sunk the *Malta* John did not know, but he
was able to guess pretty well, for twenty minutes later
Dacent Smith opened the door and summoned him into
the room.

"Come in, Treves."

John entered and found Lady Rachel standing near
his Chief's desk.  Her face was white, her nose
unromantically red; she had been crying.  On Dacent
Smith's desk lay a letter in Lady Rachel's handwriting.

.. vspace:: 2

DEAR BOB, it ran, *I have had a sudden breakdown
in health.  The doctors inform me I am to go to Pitt
Lunan Hydro for at least four months.  I may not even
be well enough to return to town even then.  Forgive me,
Bob, for not being able to say good-bye, but I am obliged to
hurry away at once*.

.. class:: noindent

*Your devoted wife,*
    RACHEL.

.. vspace:: 2

As John entered the room Lady Rachel Marvin folded
this letter, placed it in an envelope, and, still standing,
addressed it to her husband, "Lieutenant-Commander
Marvin, H.M.S. ——, Southampton."  She closed the
envelope and accepted a stamp from Dacent Smith.

Dacent Smith broke the long silence that followed.

"Treves," said he, "Lady Rachel leaves Euston for
Scotland to-night by the seven o'clock train."

"I don't want to go to Scotland!" intervened Lady
Rachel petulantly.  "I dislike hydros intensely; I
think them absolutely detestable places!"

Dacent Smith watched her for a moment with unrelenting
eyes, then spoke in a tone there was no mistaking.

"Lady Rachel, you will take the train for Scotland
to-night.  You will then stay there the full period my
department has prescribed for you."  Lady Rachel
flashed a rebellious look at him, but Dacent Smith
continued in his unyielding tones: "Failing this, you will
find yourself, I can assure you, in a place far more
'detestable' to you than even the most uncomfortable
of hydros!"

He turned to his desk.  For a moment Lady Rachel
wavered, then, seeing from his attitude that resistance
was hopeless, she lifted her head and went haughtily
out of the room.  John escorted her to the street, helped
her into a taxi, and saw her drive away after a flash of
her big eyes that was meant either to consume him
with fire or to freeze him to death; he did not know
which.  When John returned his Chief was standing at
the mantelshelf.  The expression of sternness had
entirely left his face.  In his fingers he held the photograph
of a charming girl, scarcely more than a child.  For a
minute he was silent, his eyes upon the figure in the silver
frame; then he held up the picture and showed it to John.

"This is my niece, Treves," he said quietly.

John took the photograph and inspected it critically.

"An extremely pretty girl, sir."

Dacent Smith nodded.

"She is just eighteen, Treves.  She became engaged
to young Rashleigh, gunnery lieutenant on the *Malta*."  His
tones deepened in intensity.  "That was four days
ago—and to-day Rashleigh is dead.  He was one of the
finest fellows who ever stepped.  And, in my opinion,
he and two hundred others lost their lives solely because
Lady Rachel Marvin could not keep her mouth shut.
My niece, who is still only a child—you can see for
yourself what she is like, Treves"—for the first time his
voice shook with emotion—"my niece is at home lying
in a semi-conscious condition.  The doctors tell us that
her reason is threatened—and all this because a silly
woman babbled about things that didn't concern her!"

The man who was one of the greatest powers in the
country was still holding the photograph in his fingers,
his eyes fixed pitifully upon the delicate girlish beauty
of his niece.  He replaced it slowly on the mantelshelf,
then, turning, stood looking before him, his hands
clenched at his side.  The sternness of his lips at that
moment revealed to John all the hidden strength behind
his kindly exterior; he was stirred to the depths.  And
suddenly he flashed a look at John and struck his open
palm with a clenched fist.

"If I had my way, Treves," he said between tense
lips, "if the powers that be would make me autocrat
for a week, I'd treat these fool women as traitors.  An
unguarded word," he went on, "is, in my opinion, just
as much an act of disloyalty in time of war as an insult
to the flag or the army.  If the public only knew it, we
have lost ship after ship, and possibly thousands of men,
as a result of vain gossip in clubs, trains, shops and smart
drawing-rooms.  On Saturday we lost a cruiser worth
a million.  Young Rashleigh died, and two hundred
splendid sailors, because Lady Rachel Marvin must
have her afternoon's social success!  What do you
think of it, Treves?"

John was thinking of the tragedy of it all—of the
desolated homes—the two hundred homes where
sorrow stalked that day.  He was thinking of the
sweet-faced, broken-hearted girl, hovering on the verge
of sanity.

"I'd like to wring Lady Rachel's neck!" said John,
swept out of himself.

"I could tell you a score of such cases," said Dacent
Smith.  "In one case a present of a hundred cigarettes
and a silly woman's curiosity meant one of the greatest
disasters that has occurred to us since the war began."  He
suddenly stopped, pulled himself up, and became
normal in tone.  He was fully himself again, the keen,
resourceful man of action.  "Now, Treves," he said,
"we must get back to business.  Lady Rachel Marvin
has been a valuable 'feeder' to the enemy.  She is now
out of action, however.  I regard," he went on, "Beecher
Monmouth, M.P., as also dangerous.  Is that your
opinion?"

"My opinion," said John, "is that Beecher Monmouth
is not disloyal, but, as he is wax in his wife's hands, his
political position makes him dangerous."

"You don't believe he could keep a secret from her?"

"From what I've seen of them both, sir, I should
doubt it."

Dacent Smith went to his desk and made a note on
his writing pad.  "I will write a note to the Home
Secretary.  I think we can get rid of Beecher Monmouth
without arousing suspicion.  Now, Treves, in regard to
the sinking of the *Malta*—we are a little bit at sea in this
matter.  Mrs. Beecher Monmouth and her accomplices
have out-manoeuvred us.  In some manner or other she
managed to get her information to Germany, or to a
German submarine commander, eight hours after picking
up the facts from Lady Rachel Marvin.  We want to
know how she managed to do this, Treves."

He crossed the room as he spoke, and took a sheaf of
papers from his cabinet of drawers against the wall.
He handed the documents to John.  John observed that
the sheets were thin and almost transparent, and that
each sheet had been written over in indelible pencil.

"You have in your hand," explained Dacent Smith,
"intercepted copies of all Mrs. Beecher Monmouth's
letters since the fifteenth of last month.  That is," he
added, "all the letters she has sent through the post.
You will notice among them three advertisements—all
jewellery for sale."

John glanced at the pile of letters in his hand.  There
were among them orders to tradesmen, half a dozen
letters to a dressmaker, showing the great care with
which Mrs. Beecher Monmouth apparelled herself; and
two letters written and posted to her husband.  These
last were interlarded with extravagant expressions of
affection and love.  But it was the third advertisement,
addressed to a famous daily paper, that held John's
interest.  This ran:

.. vspace:: 2

"Lady wishes to sell privately a pearl and platinum
pendant, perfectly-matched pearls, surrounding Orient
pearl of splendid lustre.—Apply Box A3656."

.. vspace:: 2

John closely examined this advertisement, and the
other two, which were similar.

"Do you think she is in debt, sir?"

"Beecher Monmouth's a rich man," answered Dacent
Smith, "with big interest in the timber business.
However, one never knows what an extravagant woman may
succeed in spending.  I think it may be worth your
while, Treves, to follow up the trail of this advertisement.
I want you to apply yourself assiduously to the cultivation
of this lady for the present.  And keep well in mind
the fact that, though her letters show nothing, she is
yet conveying news regularly to the enemy."





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`CHAPTER XXI`:

.. class:: center large

   CHAPTER XXI

.. vspace:: 2

Two evenings later Mrs. Beecher Monmouth's Spanish
maid came to the door of her mistress's boudoir, knocked,
and entered quietly.

"Doctor Voules is here, madam."

"I told you, Cecily, I was not at home!" said
Mrs. Beecher Monmouth.  "I don't want to see Doctor
Voules—I don't want to see anybody!"

"But, madam," protested the maid, "it would be
impossible to refuse to see Doctor Voules!"

Something took place between mistress and maid—an
exchange of glances—which seemed somewhat to
alter Mrs. Beecher Monmouth's mood of irritation.

"Very well, Cecily, let him come up."  And when
Cecily had departed to summon Doctor Voules,
Mrs. Beecher Monmouth went to her low Turkish table, lit
a buff-coloured cigarette, and stood with her back to
the hearth, smoking somewhat more rapidly than usual.
A knock came at the door, and Doctor Voules entered.
He strolled into the apartment with his shoulders well
back, his heavy chin thrust forward, the smile that sat
so ill upon his harsh face was well in evidence.

"My dear Mrs. Monmouth, my felicitations!"

Mrs. Beecher Monmouth took the gloved hand languidly
and turned away.

"Don't felicitate me on anything, Doctor!"

"But the *Malta*!" protested the Doctor.  "That was
a superb stroke for the Fatherland!  It is not often I
am lavish of praise."

"You are certainly not a woman's man!" retorted
Mrs. Beecher Monmouth, flashing a look at him.

"Your beauty is apparent to me, as it would be to a
much younger man, I can assure you of that, my dear
*gnädige Frau*," said Voules.

"I am not talking of beauty—I am talking of moods,"
replied she.  "You observe nothing of my disturbance!"

Doctor Voules, who did not believe in moods, who
never permitted such weakness in his subordinates,
pressed his lips tightly together.

"You will be good enough, *gnädige Frau*," he
commanded, "to be a little more precise and explicit.
Something has occurred, no doubt, to ruffle your temper."  He
went to a chair at the hearth, seated himself, asked
permission to smoke, and lit one of his big, black cigars.

Mrs. Beecher Monmouth looked at him squarely for a
moment.

"Of course, my personal sufferings are nothing to you!
It is nothing to you, for instance, that my friend, Lady
Rachel Marvin, has vanished!"

Doctor Voules lifted his eyebrows.

"In what manner has she vanished?"

"She is one of the most useful friends I have ever had,"
returned Mrs. Beecher Monmouth, "and has suddenly
disappeared without leaving me a note or a line."

Doctor Voules drew his brows together.

"Refresh my memory, please, in regard to this lady."

"She is the foolish little chatterbox who provided me
with all the information I needed in regard to the *Malta*,"
retorted Mrs. Beecher Monmouth curtly.

Doctor Voules suddenly became all attention.

"And you mean, *gnädige Frau*, that this lady has
vanished?"

Mrs. Beecher Monmouth assured him of the fact.

"No one knows," she went on, "where she is.  She
was my most intimate friend.  I had put all my hopes
in her, Excellenz!  Then, to add to my vexation, my
husband has been suddenly and unexpectedly appointed
to a Government commission of inquiry in Ireland.  He
is delighted, of course; it is an honour for him.  Then,
again," went on Mrs. Beecher Monmouth, "Mrs. Pomfret
Bond, who was in the habit of telling me everything she
knew, who was always scraping up bits of gossip that
were of use, is——"

"Has she vanished also?" inquired Voules, suddenly
rising.

"No," returned Mrs. Beecher Monmouth, "but she
has become mute as a fish.  My opinion is that she has
been warned not to talk, and that I have at last become
a suspected person!"

Voules looked at her and shook his ponderous head.

"No, no!  Your position, *gnädige Frau*, is too secure
for that; also you are too clever."

"I am not a fool," answered Mrs. Beecher Monmouth,
"but these things disturb me!"

"Your love of the Fatherland, your belief in final
victory, will sustain you.  You lose your friend, Lady
Rachel Marvin, but to a woman of your beauty and
position nothing is impossible.  You shall get other
fools—is it not so?  England, *gnädige Frau*, is full of
fools!"

He moved across to her and took her hand firmly in his.

"Soon you shall have your reward.  I will promise you
my very best efforts.  You will wait yet a little while
longer.  My plans," he added quietly, "are shaping
themselves with the perfection of clockwork.  Enormous
things have been done, my dear *gnädige Frau*, in the last
few weeks, and disaffection now, even from you, would
destroy the harmony....  Remember your sentiments
towards these people!"

"I remember them well enough!" answered Mrs. Beecher
Monmouth.  She was still standing at the hearth,
and looked steadily before her as she spoke.

"Good!" exclaimed Voules in his throat.  "We will
now come to the purpose of my visit.  You shall have
your part in the big work afoot.  I assure you there are
bigger things than the sinking of the *Malta*!  For instance,
on the twenty-eighth we shall strike a blow that will not
rapidly be forgotten by these English!"

He suddenly snapped his teeth together and drew tight
his lips; a gleam of ferocity lit in his hard eyes.

"These English!" he exclaimed between his teeth.
"Their arrogance maddens me!  It is a torture to me
to live among them, concealed thus as a civilian!  I am
maddened by their complacency!" he went on, "their
calm!  Nevertheless, we shall strike deep this time!
Your work, *gnädige Frau*," he said, speaking in the tone
of masterful authority that was his real habit, "your
work is not difficult.  On the twenty-fourth I request
you to go to Heatherpoint Fort.  It is fortunate that
your husband is away.  You can thus go to the Isle of
Wight ostensibly for a holiday.  While there you will
make the acquaintance of the adjutant of Heatherpoint,
who visits regularly the —— Hotel in Newport.  My report
is that this young Lieutenant Parkson is susceptible to
beauty.  You, *gnädige Frau*," he smiled his hard smile,
"are, indeed, beautiful enough to engage the attention
of one far less susceptible!"

"What do you wish me to do with this particular
susceptible man?" inquired Mrs. Beecher Monmouth,
with slight sarcasm.

"You are to engage the young man's attention, and
his affections."

"You appear to forget, Excellenz, that I am a married
woman of social position!"

"I do not forget, *gnädige Frau*; but your complaisance
on that account will be more than ever flattering.  The
young man in question will not be able to resist the charms
of the beautiful and wealthy society woman who is—to
fall in love with him!"

Mrs. Beecher Monmouth smiled, and spoke with a
touch of irony.

"I am your servant, Excellenz!"

"You are the servant of the Fatherland," answered
Voules gravely, "and all I require is that this young
man, Lieutenant Parkson, shall not be at his post in the
fort on the night of the twenty-eighth.  How you will
succeed in keeping him away from duty is a matter for
your own discretion—I have the fullest confidence in
you.  Captain Cherriton undertook the work, but the
young man in question neither drinks nor gambles.
Cherriton's efforts ended in complete failure.  Moreover,
our agent inside the fort has been strangely silent of
late.  We have received neither signal nor message from
him for some days.  If you play your cards neatly with
Parkson, you will possibly secure an invitation to tea
at the fort mess."

He went on and gave her a rapid sketch of Steinbaum,
otherwise known as "Crumbs."  The silence of "Crumbs"
during the past few days had puzzled and disturbed him.

"We have made a number of arrangements in regard
to Heatherpoint Fort," he concluded, "and it is
absolutely essential to our purpose that no guns should be
fired from that spot."

His eyes suddenly lit up.  He was thinking of his
great scheme, which was hourly drawing nearer fruition,
and, on parting, he gripped Mrs. Beecher Monmouth's
hand in his.

"*Gnädige Frau*," he announced, "glorious things are
shortly to occur!"

When he had gone Mrs. Beecher Monmouth seated
herself in a chair and stared thoughtfully into the fire.
She was conscious of a sense of doubt and uneasiness.
General von Kuhne was a soldier of long training,
masterful and aggressive.  His gift of organisation, his theory
of attack was always excellent—nevertheless, he was not
subtle, he was not sensitive to the importance of little
incidents.  The sudden disappearance of Lady Rachel
meant nothing to him, aroused no suspicion in him, and yet...





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.. _`CHAPTER XXII`:

.. class:: center large

   CHAPTER XXII

.. vspace:: 2

In pursuance of Dacent Smith's instructions, John
presented himself at the massive doors of 289, Grosvenor
Place, two nights later.  He had pondered much upon
those three advertisements, and the more he considered
the matter, the more Mrs. Beecher Monmouth's desire
privately to sell her jewels struck him as unusual.  It was
not usual, he told himself, for a woman of Mrs. Beecher
Monmouth's position to dispossess herself of jewellery
through the medium of advertisements in a newspaper.
There are half a dozen firms in Bond Street alone, of
proved honesty, any one of which is willing to make
purchases of this kind.

John rang the bell, and the butler presently drew open
the door.

"I am very sorry, sir," the man began, "but madame
is not at home."

John expressed his complete surprise.  He was, however,
not in the least surprised, and had planned his visit
with the sole object of finding Mrs. Beecher Monmouth
away from home.  For a minute he hesitated, looking
doubtfully at the butler.

"Can you," he inquired, "tell me if Mrs. Monmouth's
maid is in.  I have a message to give her for her mistress."

"I can take any message you wish, sir."

"Thank you, no," said John, smiling at him; "what
I have to say is—is rather personal to Mrs. Beecher
Monmouth."

"Very good, sir," answered the sedate servant, and
bowed.  "Will you kindly step into the morning-room."

John went into the morning-room, moved to the
window and looked into Grosvenor Place, out over the
broad smooth road to the high brick wall surrounding
the royal gardens.  A few minutes elapsed, and then
Cecily, Mrs. Beecher Monmouth's maid, came quietly in.

"You wish to see me, sir?"

John turned.

"Yes, Cecily."  He looked into her face, noted her
bead-black eyes, her olive skin, and the slight tendency
to a moustache at the corner of each lip.  "Cecily," he
said, "I have really come to ask your advice on a little
personal matter."  Cecily looked at him with an
unreadable expression on her sullen countenance.  "I want
to give Mrs. Beecher Monmouth a present," went on
John.  "A little matter of a pair of pearl ear-rings.  Can
you tell me if she is fond of pearls?"

"Pearls, monsieur; oh, no!"  Cecily shook her head.
"Rubies or emeralds, yes, monsieur, but pearls, no."

"Oh," resumed John, "she doesn't care for pearls then?"

Cecily shook her head.

"She says they are insipid, monsieur."

"Perhaps she is right, Cecily, but in that case," he
said, "I shall have to think of something else.  Thank
you, I am much obliged to you."  He slipped a pound
note into the woman's hand.

"Thank you, monsieur."

"Perhaps," John probed delicately, "madame is not
fond of pearls because she has so many?"

Cecily was folding her pound note.

"Pearls do not suit madame; she never wears them.
She has none at all, monsieur, only one pearl necklace, a
wedding gift from her husband.  She, however, never
wears it."

John appeared to think.

"Surely, Cecily, I have seen her wearing a pearl pendant?"

Cecily shook her head again.

"No, monsieur, never.  Madame has no pearls."

John laughed.

"Well, in that case, it must be emeralds or rubies."

"Emeralds or rubies," responded Cecily, "madame is
most fond of them."

Three minutes later John was out of the house and
hailing a taxi.  As he relapsed back into the cushions, he fell
into thought.  "There is certainly," thought he, "more
in these advertisements than meets the casual eye.
Mrs. Beecher Monmouth detests pearls, she has none, never
had any—and yet advertises them for sale!"

A quarter of an hour later, when John stepped into
Dacent Smith's room, the elder man glanced quickly up
from his desk.

"Well?"

"In regard to those three advertisements of jewellery,"
answered John, "inserted in the newspaper by
Mrs. Beecher Monmouth, I should be glad, sir, if you would
have them decoded."

Dacent Smith raised his eyebrows slightly.

John narrated what had occurred at his private
interview with Cecily, and Dacent Smith was instantly of the
opinion that Mrs. Beecher Monmouth's harmless
advertisements were a matter for closer scrutiny.  In the first
place, he telephoned to his department and ordered that
inquiry should be instituted at the newspaper office as to
any earlier advertisements which may have been inserted
in the paper by Mrs. Monmouth.  If the three advertisements
were a code message the intelligence decoding
department would find its task vastly more easy if a
considerable batch of advertisements in the same code
were submitted.  A brief code message, as John was now
well aware, is always difficult to read.  The longer the
message, the easier is it to decipher.

The department's search at the newspaper office
resulted in the finding of no less than sixteen earlier
advertisements inserted by Mrs. Beecher Monmouth.  In
each case, only a box number was given, therefore the
lady's identity never became public.

"It looks as if you are on the right track, Treves,"
said Dacent Smith, when this information was conveyed
to him on the telephone.

Half an hour later Dacent Smith, again at the
telephone, took down the decoded first advertisement,
the one wherein Mrs. Beecher Monmouth had advertised
a pearl pendant for sale.  John's chief wrote it out
carefully, and handed the slip across to the younger man.

"There is your advertisement, Treves," he exclaimed.
There was a grave ring in his voice.  John took the slip
of paper and read:

"Note of Warning.—New standard eight thousand ton
ship purposely advertised by shipping authorities here as
fitting out at —— is a 'Q' ship, armed with six-inch guns,
torpedo tubes are being fitted.  Further news in next
message."

John looked up from the pencilled lines.  He saw in a
flash the exact purport of the message.  Mrs. Beecher
Monmouth in pretending to advertise a pearl pendant
was in reality sending a message to Germany to the effect
that a certain vessel then building was a decoy ship, one
of the famous vessels which had done so much to break
the back of the submarine peril.  John could easily
realise how swiftly that news would reach Germany.
Automatically the paper would reach Holland within
two days.  Any neutral ship might carry copies, and
Berlin's Naval Department would possess the information
a few minutes after the daily paper containing
Mrs. Beecher Monmouth's advertisement reached Dutch soil.
Every German spy in England who read the newspaper
would receive the news on the morning of its insertion.

"I think for cunning that beats everything," said
John, handing back the paper to Dacent Smith.

"They have been preparing this sort of thing for
years," answered Dacent Smith.  "But I am willing to
admit that Mrs. Monmouth has this time stolen
something of a march on us.

"Every one of her advertisements is being decoded,
however, and every one, I have no doubt, will convey
information of this nature.  On the other hand," he said,
"we have not yet learnt in what manner she
communicated with the submarine that sunk the *Malta*,
That must have been a much quicker communication.  I
shall leave it to you, Treves," he said quietly, "to find
out what that method is.  You will have to learn much
more of Mrs. Beecher Monmouth than we know already.
The fight is quickening between us.  And the big fight
which von Kuhne is planning in the Isle of Wight is not
quite so indefinite to us as it was.  The date at least is in
our possession.  And by then," he went on, "all the
carrion will have wended their way there, even our friend,
Mrs. Beecher Monmouth, will be there by then."  John
looked at him in sudden surprise.

"I thought she was seldom out of London, sir."

"That is the fact," answered Dacent Smith; "it is
also the fact, however, that from the twenty-fourth of this
month she has engaged rooms at a select boarding house
in Freshwater.  She is going to Freshwater," he added
ironically, "to recuperate after an arduous London
season!"  He looked meaningly at John.  John understood
the significance of that look.  The carrion were
gathering.  By the twenty-eighth all von Kuhne's active
forces would be drawn to the Isle of Wight.  Mrs. Beecher
Monmouth, in taking rooms at Freshwater, was acquiring
a residence in close proximity to Heatherpoint Fort.
John wondered what her particular manoeuvre was to be.
He put that question to Dacent Smith.

"We shall know all in good time, Treves," answered
his chief.  "You yourself will be in the Isle of Wight by
then."

A few minutes later John bade good night to Dacent
Smith.  Being free for that evening, he took the tube to
Camden Town.  Here, at Bowles Avenue, in the quiet
little street, he knocked once again at the door of Elaine's
residence.  He had not visited Elaine for nearly a week,
and he knew that for some days to come he would be
deeply occupied with Mrs. Beecher Monmouth, so he
wished to make the most of the present opportunity.
Twice during the past week Elaine had written him short
notes asking him when he could come to visit her.  There
had been nothing in the notes to convey the idea that she
wished him urgently to come.  He was surprised, therefore,
when Elaine, in answer to his knock, drew open the
door and recognised him with an expression of infinite
relief in her grey eyes.  She was dressed prettily, quietly
and inexpensively as usual.  John, comparing her
appearance with the brilliant beauty of Mrs. Beecher
Monmouth, realised that Elaine's attraction lay just as much
in her fine and upright character, in her intense feminine
gentleness and loyalty, as in her beauty itself.

She took John's hand in hers, drew him into the little
passage, and quickly shut the door.

"Bernard," she whispered, resting her hand on his
shoulder, and looking up into his face, "I am so very glad
you have come!"

She drew his face down to hers and kissed him as she
had never kissed him before.  There was something that
was almost passionately fervent in her embrace.

"I have been so afraid for you, Bernard," she murmured.

John released himself.  He felt the extreme
awkwardness of the situation.

"What made you afraid, Elaine?"  He thought at
first that an over-vivid imagination had been running
away with her, that some feminine mood had made her
fear for him.  Then he remembered her beliefs as to his
character.  The man she believed him to be was a
weakling with will undermined by drugs, a nervous,
overstrung neurasthenic; capable of drifting into all sorts of
trouble and embarrassments.

Elaine led him into the little parlour, lit the gas and
drew down the blind.  John noticed again that something
troubled her mind.  She appeared to look at him strangely
and thoughtfully.  And, for an instant, for a fleeting
space of time, he feared that she had penetrated the
secret of his identity.  If this was the case, all his castles
in the air would in a minute come toppling about his ears.

"Why are you looking at me so anxiously, Elaine?"
he asked, assuming a casual tone of voice.

"It is because of Captain Cherriton, Bernard; he has
been here to-day, and has been asking questions about you."

"What sort of questions?" John asked quickly.

"He asked me if you had been at Heatherpoint Fort
lately.  He himself has been down at the Isle of Wight
and he appears to have found out something about you
that disturbs him terribly."

John made the best effort he could to play his difficult
part.

"Well, Elaine?" he questioned, "did Captain Cherriton
tell you the particular cause of his disturbance?"  He
was smiling slightly as he spoke, treating the matter
airily.  Nevertheless, inwardly he was deeply perturbed.
If Cherriton suspected him, and communicated his
suspicions to Voules and his confederates, John knew
that the position for himself would be one of infinite peril.
He had experienced one fortuitous escape from discovery
owing to the interception of "Crumbs's" letter to
Voules, but he could hardly hope that fortune would
again favour him.

He questioned Elaine closely, and learned that
Cherriton had definitely heard of his presence at
Heatherpoint Fort at a time when he was supposed to be working
in the interest of Voules.  This knowledge, John knew,
would confirm all Cherriton's suspicions the minute it
was discovered that "Crumbs" had been trapped and
had vanished from the fort.

However, it was not in John's nature to meet trouble
half-way, and for the present he was happy to be in
Elaine's radiant company.  Elaine, for her part, had
much to say to him; in the first place, she detailed all
that had occurred in an interview she had had with
Dacent Smith.  The great man had treated her with
marked courtesy, and had, without revealing John's true
identity, enlisted her services in much the same manner
as Mrs. Beecher Monmouth acted for his adversaries,
Voules, Cherriton, Manwitz, and company.  Elaine had
undertaken the work in the idea that she could thus
protect from danger the man she loved, whose name
she believed she bore.

John listened to her narrative with the deepest interest,
and gradually the wonderful subtlety of Dacent Smith
made itself manifest.  The great man had promised to
relieve him of his awkward predicament in regard to
Elaine, and the manner in which he had accomplished
his promise was simplicity itself.  Elaine was to
permit—within limits—the advances of Cherriton, and was to
pretend to keep her "husband" at a distance!  The
neatness of this plan filled John with admiration.  He felt
instantly much freer with Elaine.  The delicate moment
when she had offered to resume marital relations with
him would not immediately occur again.

For some minutes after Elaine had ceased speaking
John held silence—a doubt had come to him.

"Elaine," he said, earnestly, "Captain Cherriton is far
more dangerous, perhaps, than you know."  He rose,
and, pacing back and fore, with an anxious face, warned
her that the man was one who would stop at nothing to
attain his ends.  Elaine listened patiently; then, on
a sudden, quick impulse, flung her arms about his neck.

"Bernard," she whispered, "don't you know I love
you, my darling?  All those minutes that you have been
pacing up and down there in raging jealousy——"

"Jealousy!" echoed John.

"It was jealousy, Bernard," she smiled, happy in the
possession of his love.  "All the time I have been
adoring you and loving you more and more.  Bernard,"
she whispered, "I am to pretend not to care.  But you
will know in your heart, won't you, that I am yours
always?"  She drew her face away from his and looked
deep into his eyes.  "You know that, dearest?"

"I know it," said John, looking back at her.

"And you love me as I love you?" questioned she.

He had never seen her so beautiful as in that moment,
with her face upturned to his, her cheeks flushed, and her
eyes offering him her love.  He was standing in another
man's shoes, and at that moment those shoes pinched
him to the point of anguish.  For a fleeting moment he
was tempted to fling all prudence to the winds and confess
everything.  Then the recollection that she was a married
woman smote him like a blow.  Whatever happened, she
could never be his.  Very gently and tenderly he held her
from him.

"You can't doubt me, Elaine," he said, in a low voice.
"Nevertheless, I think Dacent Smith is right; you ought
to pretend not to care for me, for just a little
while—anyway, until the great contest that is now beginning
between our department and Cherriton and his
confederates is at an end."

He led her back to her chair, lit a cigarette, and made
an effort to give a humorous description of his life during
the past few weeks.  He told her of Sinclair, of "Crumbs,"
of his adventure and his visit to Voules; everything, in
fact, except his real identity and his arrest in mistake for
Bernard Treves.

As his narrative unfolded, Elaine's eyes widened in
amazement and admiration.

"I had no idea you were so splendid, Bernard."

"But I am not splendid.  I am not telling you that I
am splendid."

"Of course you are not, you silly boy; you are trying
to make out you are nothing at all.  But I shouldn't love
you as I do if I couldn't read between the lines.  Oh,
Bernard, what an idiot I have been about you.  I used
to think——" she paused and looked away.

"You used to think awful things of me," continued
John, "that I took drugs, that I consumed whisky by
the half-bottle, that I was a brute both to you and to my
old father."

"Yes," said Elaine slowly.  "I used to think I——"  Then
suddenly, and with the inconsequence of woman,
she broke off and covered her face with her hands.  She
was crying softly and steadily.  It was not John's
business to comfort her.  The only man who had the
right to do that was the drink-sodden neurotic, who was
still a prisoner in the nursing home.  Nevertheless, in less
than a minute John was kneeling before her.

"What is it, Elaine?" he asked in passionate anxiety.
She looked at him with eyes bright with tears.

"It is the past, Bernard; I can't understand it.
Those days, long ago, lie like a pain in my heart, always.
You have grown so different.  It is cowardly and mean
of me to think of it, but I love you, Bernard, and I
cannot bear to think there was a time when you were not
as now."  She paused for a moment, and a shadow, a
twinge of agony crossed her face.  She looked at John
with affrighted eyes, then spoke in a low voice.  "That
night when you struck me, Bernard!"

John felt the blood quicken in his pulses.  Some time
in the past Bernard Treves had struck her.  How and
under what circumstances he could not guess.  He turned
away his head, so that the sudden rage which blazed in
his eyes should not be visible to her.  For a moment he
was silent, then collecting his senses, he said quietly, and
still without looking at her:

"Elaine, I swear that if in the past I ever raised my
hand to you, ever was cur enough to strike you, then I
know nothing of it.  I have no memory of such a thing,"
he went on, speaking the truth.

"I tell myself that, in those early days, you were not
yourself," conceded Elaine.

"I want never to recall those days," said John.  "If
I ever acted as you say, I must have been mad."  He
suddenly turned towards her.  And all his passionate
desire to protect her, the deep love he had grown to feel
for her seemed in that moment to animate his face.
"Elaine," he said, "promise me you'll forget it, and
never think of it again?"

"Never again," answered she.  She slid her arms
about his neck and drew him towards her.  For a minute
he forgot his compact with himself.  But presently his
self-possession returned to him.  He fell back a pace,
and, lifting her hand, kissed her fingers, and once again
assumed the light conversational tone.

"We are comrades now, Elaine," said he, "both working
against Voules and his myrmidons."  He turned and
looked at the little clock on Elaine's mantelshelf.
"Hallo!" he exclaimed, "I must be off; I am on duty
to-night."

He felt that it was safer to go, and five minutes later he
was at the door of the house.

"Remember, Elaine," he said, looking down at her in
the dim little passage, "any time you want me, if
Cherriton offends you in any way, ring me up at the
Golden Pavilion Hotel."





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`CHAPTER XXIII`:

.. class:: center large

   CHAPTER XXIII

.. vspace:: 2

One evening, a week later, when darkness had fallen,
John found himself in Grosvenor Place, pacing
unobtrusively in the shadow of the russet-brown brick wall
which surrounds the royal garden of Buckingham Palace.
He was watching a taxi which was waiting before the
broad door of Mr. Beecher Monmouth's residence.  Some
minutes passed before John, from his discreet
vantage ground, observed Mrs. Beecher Monmouth
herself, a vague, befurred, silk-clad figure in the distance,
descend from her house and enter the vehicle.

The lady's taxi sped away, and John lifted his attention
from the door of the house to the first floor.  Here a
chink of light from two windows showed him that
Mrs. Beecher Monmouth's maid, having attired her mistress
for the evening, was still busy, either in the bedroom or
Mrs. Beecher Monmouth's boudoir.

"When Mademoiselle Cecily puts out the light and goes
downstairs, I'll make a dash for it," thought John.

For a quarter of an hour after that he waited patiently
in the shadow of the royal wall.  Then first one light,
and then another, vanished behind the first floor curtains
of the house across the road.  John gave Cecily sufficient
time to descend to the housekeeper's room, where she
usually spent the evening.  At last, however, with
something of alacrity and a quickened pulse-beat, he crossed
the road.  He was the veriest amateur as a burglar, but
his cause was the best in the world, and in less than a
minute he had slipped a small Yale key into the hall door.
He had possessed himself of that key from Mrs. Beecher
Monmouth's handbag earlier in the evening, and he
knew she would not miss it until her return from her
dinner-party at the Savoy.

The key moved noiselessly in the lock.  No drama at
all accompanied his entry into the lofty, deeply-carpeted
hall.  The light was dim, the hall deserted, and when
John had soundlessly closed the front door behind him,
he hurried forward and ascended the carpeted stairs,
two steps at a time.

From the servants' quarters in the lower regions he
could hear voices faintly.  No other sounds came to
him, and in less than a minute after he passed the front
door he found himself in Mrs. Beecher Monmouth's
intimate boudoir.  Here he cautiously closed the door
behind him, turned the key in the lock and switched on
the light.  Everything was as usual, save only that on
every previous visit to that room Mrs. Beecher Monmouth,
brilliantly gowned, brilliantly beautiful, and always
amiable to himself, had been his chief centre of interest.
To-night, however, it was not Mrs. Beecher Monmouth
he desired to cultivate, but that lady's belongings.

He was there under Dacent Smith's instructions to
search for clues which would enable John's chief of
department to check her flow of information to the
enemy.  For not yet had John been able to discover in
what manner, within eight hours, she had been able to
communicate with the submarine which sank the *Malta*.

John, standing with his back to the gold and white
boudoir door, surveyed the room with a slight sense of
bewilderment.  It was difficult to know where to begin.
Nevertheless, he did begin, and during the quiet minutes
that followed he made a close search for documents in
every possible hiding-place he could discover.  His care
and patience, however, met with no reward; he found
nothing of the slightest significance.

When John had thoroughly exhausted the possibilities
of the boudoir and had found nothing, he opened the
door which communicated from that room directly into
Mrs. Beecher Monmouth's spacious bedroom.  He had
never viewed this apartment before, and he was much
impressed by its gorgeous furnishings, its shining brass
twin bedsteads, its white French furniture and deep
carpet of pale grey and rose colour.

Having quietly locked the second door of the room
which opened into the passage, he began a rapid search,
taking care to replace everything as he found it.
Mrs. Beecher Monmouth would probably not return until
half-past nine, and he felt that if he could complete his
business quickly he would be able to slip downstairs and
out of the house before being observed.

Cecily was the only person likely to disturb him, and
he had already thought of a plan which might secure his
safety in this event.  In regard to Mr. Beecher
Monmouth, John felt completely at ease about him.  The
"Ogre" had, a fortnight ago, been neatly transhipped
to Ireland as a member of a Government commission
of inquiry.  Dacent Smith, with the aid of the Home
Secretary, had brought this about without arousing
Monmouth's suspicions.  The fact that Beecher
Monmouth adored his wife, and had desired to take her
with him, had created something of a difficulty, but
Dacent Smith had overcome this point in his habitual
neat manner.

"No; I don't think I need worry," thought John,
glancing at an expensive clock of ivory and silver which
adorned the dressing-table.  "I shall be safe for another
half an hour at least."

Mrs. Beecher Monmouth's bed was covered with a
rich eiderdown covered in purple satin.  John seated
himself upon this sumptuous covering and rubbed his
chin thoughtfully.  He had been twenty minutes in the
bedroom of Mrs. Beecher Monmouth, and had discovered
nothing.

He noticed now a door, with a crystal knob, which
opened into a wardrobe, which was a small room in itself.
Here Mrs. Beecher Monmouth's numerous costumes hung
in rows.  John caught a glimpse of a shelf containing a
score of pairs of boots, shoes and slippers.  Beneath this
shelf was a big tin box, a black japanned box, which
immediately engaged John's attention.

The lock was a simple one, and John had it open in a
moment.  Then the disappointment that had been
growing on him intensified, for in the box was nothing
but Mrs. Beecher Monmouth's costly sables laid away
for the summer.  A reek of camphor assailed his nostrils
from the folded furs.  He was about to close the box,
when the idea occurred to him to run his hand down the
sides.  A moment later he was glad of this impulse,
for from the bottom of the tin he drew up a small,
strong-looking cash-box.

He rattled the box, and was able to detect a faint
rustle from within.  Carrying the dispatch case, which
was something under a foot in length, he went into the
bedroom.  Once again he seated himself on the purple
eiderdown and tried all his keys.  None of them fitted
the dispatch box, which was protected by an unassailable
Chubb lock.

John contemplated this lock for some minutes with an
unfavourable eye, then he took out a heavy steel tool he
had brought with him.  It took him less than two
minutes to wrench open the lid.  Within the box, completely
filling its interior, were neatly folded and tightly
packed letters and papers.

John's interest quickened mightily as, opening one of
the letters, he discovered it to be in German.

The note-paper was of the flimsy description, almost
tissue paper, in fact.  John, examining it closely, observed
with a certain degree of interest that the paper had been
folded very small indeed, evidently for facility in
transmission.

As he sat on the edge of the bed, with the open box
on his knee, and this letter in his hand, he swept
Mrs. Beecher Monmouth's large and expensively furnished
room with his glance.  There was a deep silence in the
room, and between the rise and the fall of the traffic
noises outside, John could hear the light ticking of the
little ivory and silver clock on the dressing-table.  He
was not occupied with the silence, however, but with the
contents of the letter, which he read rapidly, eagerly,
and with swiftly augmented interest.  Written purposely
small in a firm, foreign hand, the missive, which was to
Mrs. Beecher Monmouth, ran, in German:

.. vspace:: 2

.. class:: noindent

"DARLING ALICE,

"*Your loving letter reached me only yesterday, and I
am hastening to answer it by the usual channels.  I am
still jealous.  You tell me your husband is very old, but
one of the solaces to my captivity here is the English
newspapers, which we are allowed to read, and yesterday,
in one of the picture papers, I observed Mr. Beecher
Monmouth's photograph.  He is not so old as you
pretend, and though his face assures me that he will never
win your heart, yet still I am jealous.  It makes me
laugh to think of you as the wife of an English politician,
a member of their stupid Parliament!  I wonder if in
society you ever meet the Duke of Thule and Lord
Harrisgrove.  I recall our beautiful happiness in Washington
together.  You loved me then, I believe, more than you
do now.*"

.. vspace:: 2

The letter ended with expressions of endearment, and
was signed "Kurt von Morgen."

As John read the signature his lips tightened.  In
great haste he ran his eye over the handwriting of at
least a score of other letters, each one of them in the same
handwriting, that of Kurt von Morgen, a German Cuirassier
officer, a young aristocrat who had been captured on
the Western Front six months earlier.  He knew that
Count Kurt von Morgen was a prisoner in the —— camp
for officers.  And as he handled the flimsy sheets of
paper he wondered consumedly how the young man
had managed to convey these letters to Mrs. Beecher
Monmouth.

A word in another letter by von Morgen caught his eye:

.. vspace:: 2

"*I am glad you have met General von Kuhne,*" said the
writer.  "*Kindly convey to him my compliments, and
tell him his nephew, who is a prisoner here, is well and
happy.  His Excellency's presence in England means
much.  I throb with interest to know what will happen.
But perhaps, Alice, meine herzliebste, I shall soon be
free, and shall soon see you!  Preparations for my
escape are going better than ever.  I have for my servant
a very intelligent fellow from the Black Forest.  Do not
let your English 'Ogre' love you too much.  Think of
me always and the little week when you were my wife
at Palm Beach.  I kiss you behind the ear.*—KURT."

.. vspace:: 2

A smile crossed John's face as he finished reading this
amorous missive.

"Here," thought he, "we get a pretty complete clue
to Mrs. Beecher Monmouth's earlier history before she
came from America.  It shows also where Mrs. Beecher
Monmouth's affections are really centred."

John had already read enough to know that these
letters must be delivered as swiftly as possible into Dacent
Smith's hands.  One or two had slipped to the floor as
he scanned them hurriedly.  He bent down to pick them
up, and saw very neatly written on a slip of paper the
key of the code which Mrs. Monmouth had used in
her newspaper advertisements.  As Smith's department
already knew this code, the discovery was not of much
importance, but on another sheet of paper which also
lay on the rich rose and grey carpet he discovered a
second code with its accompanying key.  His attention
fixed upon this with swift intensity.  He had at last
made a discovery of importance, and he became suddenly
animated by the hope that his department had hit upon
the manner of Mrs. Beecher Monmouth's swift
communication with the enemy.  He reached out, took up
the slip of paper—and then suddenly became still.  For
an instant he remained motionless, his mind working
with lightning rapidity.  A sound had come to him from
Mrs. Beecher Monmouth's boudoir, a soft impact of
footsteps upon the thick carpet.

John could scarcely believe his ears.  He had carefully
locked the door of the corridor boudoir when he entered
the room.  As a further protection, he had left the key
in the lock.  And now this sound!  He was still on
his hands and knees, and very slowly he turned his head.
At that instant the boudoir door opened towards him,
and a man enveloped in a heavy tweed overcoat and
wearing a soft grey hat stood in the aperture.  At sight
of John on his knees near the bed, the new-comer stopped
dead and stared with wide-amazed eyes.

John leapt to his feet.  Mechanically, at the same
moment the figure at the door removed his grey hat,
and the thin hair, the parchment-like face, and the thin,
sharp nose of Mr. Beecher Monmouth stood revealed.
Moved by his passionate desire to be with his wife, the
elderly politician had unexpectedly hurried from Ireland
to spend the week-end in London.  Beecher Monmouth's
expression was one of simple and complete amazement.
He blinked two or three times; then, suddenly recovering
himself, drew shut the door behind him, and stood with
his back to it.  His sallow face grew pale with swift
kindled hate and rage.

"Mr. Treves," he demanded, drawing in a sharp breath,
"what are you doing here?  Are you here with my
wife's knowledge?"

"No," answered John frankly.  "Your wife hasn't
the faintest idea that I am here."

"You mean you came to the house in her absence?"

John felt it was necessary to tell him something near
the truth.

"I suppose you have a right to know that I came here
in her absence.  I came without her knowledge—let
myself in with a key and locked the doors outside there,
so that I should not be disturbed.  How you got in I
don't know."

"I got in through my own bedroom which is beyond
the boudoir," retorted Beecher Monmouth icily, amazed
and further enraged at his calmness.

"Oh!" said John.  "There must have been a door
I didn't lock.  Well, to get along with my explanation—"

Beecher Monmouth drew away from him; mechanically
he drew off his overcoat and threw it to the floor.

"Young man," he shouted, his face suddenly turning
from white to scarlet, "what are those letters there?"  His
eyes fell upon the opened cash-box lying on the bed.
He rushed to it and took it up.  "What were you doing
with this?"

"I was breaking it open," answered John.

Beecher Monmouth fixed upon him bewildered and
stupefied eyes.  Then he hurried across the room and
put out his hand for the bell.  John, however, was too
quick for him; he leapt forward and flung his arms
powerfully about the lean, elderly figure.

"You mustn't ring that bell," he said in a low, tense
voice.  "I am here on very particular business, and
there must be no disturbance whatever."

"Will you let me go?" shouted Beecher Monmouth,
his face contorted with rage.  "Let me go!"

"Certainly," said John, stepping with his back towards
the bell.  Beecher Monmouth eased his collar, which
had been disturbed.  He put his hand to his thin,
neatly-ordered hair.  He was breathing heavily.

"You'll drive me mad.  Have you come here to rob
me, or——"

Then his mood suddenly changed.  The one passion
of his life welled to the surface.  If John was there
intending to rob him he cared little.  There was one thing
only that could really strike at him deeply, and that
was his wife's love and fidelity.

"Look here," he said, suddenly pulling himself
together, "tell me that it is not an assignation; that
you are not waiting for my wife."

John looked at him and was silent for a surprised
moment; then he said, quietly and solemnly:

"I swear I am not waiting for your wife.  I am here
on far more serious business, and, as for your wife, I
neither care, nor have I ever cared, anything about her."

Beecher Monmouth's eyes took on a visible expression
of relief; his gaze travelled away from John and looked
about the room.  Once again his glance fell upon the
disorder of letters upon the bed.  He made a step
forward and, before John could stop him, picked up one.
John saw his head jerk curiously as the first words
smote his eyes.  "Liebste Alice."  His gaze went to
the date of the letter.  It was scarcely a fortnight old!
He read a few lines of the German missive, which he
understood, then he lifted his eyes to John.

Never in his life had John seen a man alter so in a
moment as Beecher Monmouth altered in that moment.

"Do you know what these letters are?" he asked in
a jerking voice.  "Do you understand German?"

John nodded.

"Yes," he said.  "I have read several of them."

Beecher Monmouth took out a silk handkerchief and
wiped his brow.  Then he bent down and slowly gathered
a handful of the letters.  But before he could read another,
John placed a friendly hand on his shoulder.  He was
moved by the tragedy that was about to strike this
elderly man, who seemed so ill able to bear it.

"Mr. Monmouth," he said, "it is only fair that you
should know all the truth.  I can see no other way out."

"What is the truth?" asked Monmouth in a dazed voice.

"I am here," John answered, "on behalf of our
Intelligence Department, to make a search of your wife's
belongings."

"Intelligence Department!" echoed Beecher Monmouth.

"Yes," John said; "and I am afraid it will be my
duty to take away all the letters in this room.  In the
meantime, however, I am prepared for you to study
them at your leisure."

"What do you mean?" asked Monmouth.  "Intelligence
Department——"

"You will learn everything from the letters, which
you can read if you wish—on condition, of course, that
you give me your word of honour as a gentleman to
destroy nothing.  Also you will remain indoors, within
call, until I have communicated with my chief of
department."

Beecher Monmouth put a shaking hand over his brow.

"Yes," he said, "I suppose I understand what you
say.  I feel very much bewildered."

"Would you like to read the letters?"

"I have read one; I must face the others."

"You will give me your word of honour to destroy
nothing?"

"Yes."  His voice was low, almost inaudible.

John, pitying his utter desolation, stepped quietly out
of the room, and, leaving the door open, seated himself
in the boudoir.  He had been there perhaps three
minutes, when Beecher Monmouth looked in at him.
His expression was utterly tragic.

"I should like to close the door, Mr. Treves, if you
don't mind."

"Certainly," said John.  He was something of a judge
of men; he had accepted the elder man's word, and for
ten further minutes he remained seated.

During that time Beecher Monmouth stood alone in
his wife's brilliantly decorated bedchamber, and strewn
about the rose-grey carpet lay the letters which meant
the end of all happiness, which for him meant
tragedy and darkness unutterable.  He went down
on his knees, and, with shaking hands, gathered up
the strewn sheets.  Then, dropping into a low chair near
the dressing-table, he read, one after another, Kurt von
Morgen's amorous letters to his wife.  And in reading he
pieced together, bit by bit, his wife's dark past.  For
the first time her utter shamelessness became known to
him.  And then, gradually, through the tragedy of his
own wrecked life, he saw something that filled him with
horror.  He learnt, bit by bit, that his wife was not
only faithless to him, but was faithless to his country
as well.  The woman he had adored and had sold his
happiness to was a traitor—either that, or a spy in the
enemy's pay.

As these things swept over him in great waves he clasped
his hands to his head and swayed back and forth in a very
agony of horrified shame.  Presently, like a man in a
dream, he rose and walked unsteadily across the floor.
Quite neatly, and with a sort of mechanical carefulness,
he had replaced all the letters and documents back in the
box, and now, carrying the box under his arm, he went
unsteadily over the carpet.  He drew open a drawer of
the little cabinet near his bed, and took out a beautiful
plated ivory-handled Colt pistol.  Then he took in a deep
breath, assured himself that the pistol was loaded and
clicked it shut again.  He moistened his lips with his
tongue, looked at the weapon for a moment with dazed
eyes, and slipped it into his pocket.  This done, he turned,
and with steps that were steady and resolute, crossed
the room and drew open the door of the boudoir.





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`CHAPTER XXIV`:

.. class:: center large

   CHAPTER XXIV

.. vspace:: 2

There was a strange light in Beecher Monmouth's eyes
as he stepped into the outer apartment.  He was a man
who irrevocably and finally had made up his mind.

"Mr. Treves," he said, "I hand these into your care.
You have discharged your duty very well indeed.  I
think the letters will be of great service to your
department."  He uttered the words tonelessly and his manner
puzzled John, who took the box, and then observed that
Monmouth's hand was outstretched.

"You carried out your duty honourably and well."

Their hands touched and John noticed how icy cold
were the other's fingers.

"I hope, sir," he said, in a sudden rush of pity for
the utterly broken and deluded husband, "I hope you
will forgive my seeming harshness of a few minutes ago."

"Certainly, certainly," said Beecher Monmouth dully.
He appeared grateful that John had shaken him by the
hand.  "You can tell your chief that I feel no animosity
and that I shall keep my promise not to leave this
house.  Whenever you return you will find me here."

"On behalf of the department I think I can say,"
remarked John, "that you will suffer as little
inconvenience as possible."

"Thank you," said Beecher Monmouth.  "This discovery
is for me, as you can well understand, a tragic
one."  He paused a moment.  "In any case," he
added, "you will find me in my wife's room when you
return."

John took the japanned box and bowed slightly.  He
was quite sure that Beecher Monmouth would make no
attempt to escape.  He was also quite sure in his own
mind that no charge would be brought against him.
The case was clearly one of a duped and shamelessly
deluded husband who had unwittingly aided his country's
enemies.  For a moment the elder man appeared to
hesitate on the point of making some further communication,
then, turning slowly on his heel, re-entered his wife's
room and shut the door.

Beecher Monmouth's unfortunate advent had delayed
John longer in the house than caution allowed.  He
made haste now to repair the tactical disadvantage, and
the moment the door closed upon the elder man he
emptied the letters from the box into his overcoat, hurried
out of the room and down the great staircase.

In two minutes he reached the front door, which he
drew open upon the darkness of the night.  He inhaled
a deep breath of relief.  His task had been accomplished;
in another moment——

Then he stopped and stood stock still upon the
top-most step—exactly opposite him a taxi had drawn to a
halt.  A light laugh floated up to him, and Mrs. Beecher
Monmouth, shimmering in silk and jewels, alighted
briskly!  She was the last person in the world John at
that moment desired to see, still if she had been alone
John believed that he could have still escaped unobserved.
She was not alone, however.  With her were two men in
evening clothes, and as the little party of three crossed
the pavement John made out that the heavily-built,
thick-necked figure who had helped her to alight was
Doctor "Voules," and that the taller figure who walked
upon her left hand was Captain Cherriton.

Cherriton's keen eyes had recognised John in an instant,
and almost simultaneously Mrs. Beecher Monmouth
uttered an exclamation.

"Why, Mr. Treves!"  She ran lightly up the steps,
holding out her hand in greeting.  "I had no idea you
were coming to-night."

"Nor had I," said John.  "I came upon the impulse
of the moment."

"But you knew I should be out," protested Mrs. Beecher
Monmouth.

"That is true," John admitted; "but as you were not
going to a theatre I expected you would be back early."

"That was very nice of you; now you must come in
again."  She laid her hand lightly on his arm and
shepherded him back to the wide hall.

"Where is the butler?"  Mrs. Beecher Monmouth,
sweeping the empty hall with her eyes, turned in surprise
upon John.

"I don't know," said John; "I think he's downstairs."

"But surely some one was here to let you out?"

Cherriton and his Excellency von Kuhne had both
entered the hall.  His Excellency pushed shut the big
door, and as John heard the latch click a curious sensation
of finality seized him.  On several occasions in past
months he had been in tight situations.  He had been
in an awkward position, for instance, half an hour earlier,
with Beecher Monmouth.  The situation, however, which
now held him in its grip was in point of danger beyond
anything he had yet experienced.  He knew that
coolness and sang-froid and daring were the only weapons
with which he could fight against the three national
and ruthless enemies who stood about him in the dimly
lit hall.  He had shaken hands with Mrs. Beecher
Monmouth, and, avoiding a direct answer to her last question,
he now turned to von Kuhne and held out his hand.

"How do you do, doctor?"

"I am very well," answered his Excellency in his thick
voice.  He looked steadily into John's eyes.  Manton
could read nothing in his expression, and he gave his
attention to Cherriton.

"It is a long time since we met, Cherriton!"

Cherriton bowed.  He made no effort to shake hands;
nevertheless his manner was not openly hostile, rather
was it sharply and keenly watchful.

"Quite a long time," he answered.

John, looking again into the captain's cold, light blue
eyes, his pale shaven face with its bony contours,
his cruelly-turned mouth, thought him even more
unpleasant than he had formerly believed.  He was willing
to grant, however, that Cherriton carried himself with an
air, that he was a powerful, big-boned, tall, well-set-up
fellow.

His own eyes and Cherriton's remained engaged for the
fraction of a second, then Mrs. Beecher Monmouth's
voice broke the tension.

"Come, come," she exclaimed, "we mustn't stand in
the hall.  I'll ring for Duckett to bring us something
upstairs, and in the meantime you shall each have a
cigarette in my boudoir."

"I don't like cigarettes!" said von Kuhne curtly.

"Then you shall smoke one of your black cigars,"
concluded Mrs. Beecher Monmouth, flashing at him one
of her brilliant smiles.  She rang the bell, and when the
butler appeared, commanded him to bring wine and
glasses upstairs.

Mrs. Beecher Monmouth began to run up the wide
carpeted staircase.  John noticed that she wore grey
shoes with scarlet heels, and that her stockings were of
dark red silk to match her dress.  She ascended half a
dozen steps, then turned, noticing that John had begun
to frame an excuse.  He wanted to get away before she
reached her boudoir, before she could enter her bedroom
where her husband awaited her.  The meeting between
these two which was imminent was not one which John
wished to witness.  He waved a farewell hand, uttered
conventional apologies and made to go.

Mrs. Beecher Monmouth, however, would hear nothing
of it.  She ran down the stairs, took him by the arm,
shook a finger in his face, called him a "bad, cruel boy,"
and led him upstairs.

Cherriton and von Kuhne closed in behind.

The boudoir was empty when Mrs. Beecher Monmouth
entered and switched on the lights.  In a swift survey
of the apartment John noticed the rifled dispatch-box
on a gilt-legged chair where he had left it.  Very swiftly
and dexterously he whipped off his light overcoat and
threw it over the box, hiding it from view.

Mrs. Beecher Monmouth, who wore extensive *décolletée*,
with a small tiara glimmering in her perfectly arranged
dark tresses, permitted John to relieve her of an opera
cloak of grey silk brocade.  She stood for a minute
displaying herself in perfect consciousness of her striking
beauty.  Her arms and shoulders, perfectly modelled,
were white as marble.  There was a challenging light in
her brilliant eyes as they sought John's.  She was one
of those women who look best at night, a flower that
bloomed best in artificial light.

John's mind, since their entrance into the room, had
not, however, been occupied either with her beauty or
his own personal danger.

He was thinking only of a sound he had heard some
minutes earlier, at the moment he had drawn open the
front door.  The sound, like a distant crack of a whip,
had reached him from the interior of the house.  Only
now did that sound gather to itself significance.

Sudden doubts assailed John.  In that room behind
the closed door Beecher Monmouth had seen his own
doting attempts at love mocked and laughed at; he had
read the passionate letters of her real lover, Kurt von
Morgen.  She had betrayed not only her husband but
her husband's country.

What if Beecher Monmouth strode in among them?
At any moment the door of that silent room might fly
open....  John could conceive Monmouth in a frenzy,
rushing into the room and putting his lean hands about
that white, bejewelled throat.  The situation tingled
with terrible possibilities.

In those tense and throbbing moments John felt a
kinship between himself and the deluded man beyond the
closed door of the bedroom.

Cherriton, he was certain, suspected him, and would
take the first opportunity to cross-examine him as to his
visit to Heatherpoint Fort.  Nevertheless, he was
determined to escape from that house with Mrs. Beecher
Monmouth's incriminating letters, and with the newly-found
code.  He was not afraid of Cherriton; he feared neither
the tall German's subtlety of wit, nor his strength of arm.
His sole feeling indeed towards this unpleasant enemy
was one of infinite antagonism.  He knew the time was
bound to come, possibly at any minute, when he and
Cherriton would enter upon open conflict.

The butler came into the room bearing a large silver
tray, decanters and glasses.  General von Kuhne lit one
of his big black cigars, and seating himself, drank a glass
of champagne.  The butler went out of the room and
closed the door noiselessly behind him.  John and
Cherriton each accepted from Mrs. Beecher Monmouth's
hands a whisky-and-soda.  John felt Mrs. Beecher
Monmouth's eyes steadily upon him.  A faint shadow of
doubt seemed to flit across her face and then vanish.
With an almost imperceptible movement of her head she
beckoned him towards her, and seizing a moment when
Cherriton and von Kuhne were in conversation, she said
to him in a whisper:

"Why did you come to-night, when you knew I should
be out?"

John had been expecting the question, and was prepared.

"I knew you would be out," he said, looking deep into
her eyes; "but I expected you'd come in again!"

"What do you mean, you enigmatical boy?"  Then
feeling that she had read his mind, she added: "Do you
mean—you came because my husband was away?"

John smiled at her.

"Don't you think that an excellent reason for coming?"
he asked.

This struck her as an extremely amusing remark.  As
always she was conscious of, and confident in, the potency
of her beauty.  She laughed and tapped him on the
shoulder with her fan.

"I don't believe you love me," she uttered almost
soundlessly, shaping the words with her lips.

"Don't you?" said John.

"Did Cecily let you in?"

"No," admitted John.

At that moment a knock fell upon the door of the room,
and in answer to Mrs. Beecher Monmouth's summons,
Cecily herself entered.

"I beg your pardon, madame," she said, "but the
corridor door of your room is locked."

"Locked, Cecily?"

"Yes, madame."

Mrs. Beecher Monmouth saw no significance in the fact.

"In that case, Cecily," she said, "you may come
through this way."

"Thank you, madame."  Cecily, in her black dress,
white cap and apron, and high-heeled shoes, crossed the
carpet.  She reached the second door of Mrs. Beecher
Monmouth's bedroom and opened it.  Nobody but John
was watching her.  As the maid pushed open the door
she gave a violent start, stood stock still, then uttered a
loud and terrified scream.

"Madame!  Madame!" she called, turning a frantic
face and wide-staring eyes at her mistress.

"What is it?" cried Mrs. Beecher Monmouth, springing
swiftly to her feet.

The four of them were now standing staring blankly
at Cecily, who was leaning against the door-frame
covering her eyes with one hand and waving an arm
frantically towards the bedroom.

Mrs. Monmouth hurried towards her, but it was John
who first succeeded in reaching the door.  From the
threshold he looked into the room.  All the softly-shaded
golden lights were full on.  And half lying, half sitting
on the bed he saw the figure of Beecher Monmouth.  The
inert form was reclining upon its side on the rich purple
counterpane.  One arm hung over the edge of the bed
towards the floor.  On the floor itself lay the politician's
ivory and electro-plated pistol, one barrel of which had
been discharged.

John rushed into the room and looked close into the
ashen grey face, but even before he reached the bedside,
the very stillness of the prone figure had told him the
truth.

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   \*      \*      \*      \*      \*

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The knowledge that had come upon Beecher Monmouth
that night had marked the end.  And with a courage
for which few would have given him credit, considering
his weakness, he had taken arms against a sea of troubles.
His political life, his ambition, his hopes, the love that he
had lavished, had all vanished in a flash.  Kurt von
Morgen's letters had told him everything, had revealed
a sink of iniquity and duplicity such as he had never
thought possible.  The blow had been too heavy for him
to bear.  A younger man might have sought relief in
vengeance upon the woman who had betrayed him, but
he was not of that spirit.  He could think of one way
only, one act only which could extricate him from his
tragic position.

Innocently for months and years he had been a traitor
to his country.  Unwittingly he had been supplying to
the scheming, brilliant woman whom he adored, all the
knowledge that came to him in virtue of his position in
Parliament.  In doing this he had himself become a
criminal.  No court of law could, or would, punish him.
That he knew.  But with all his weaknesses he was a loyal
Englishman, and in thinking of the tragedy that had been
wrought by his doting folly, he resolved to act manfully
at the last.

Monmouth left no word, no scrap of writing, no murmur
of complaint against the woman who had betrayed him,
and as John looked into the waxen face that looked old,
even beyond its years, he felt for the dead man a genuine
and deep sense of pity.

"After all," thought he, "he has chosen the only way
out!"  He looked up from the face of the dead man, and
saw Cherriton's eyes brooding upon him narrowly.  And
all through the ensuing excitement he could feel
Cherriton's eyes following him keenly, spying upon every
movement he made.  As the minutes passed John realised that
the Captain not only suspected him of playing a double
game in regard to Heatherpoint Fort, but he suspected
him also of the murder of Beecher Monmouth.

John wondered what would happen when the ravished
dispatch-box was discovered.  And the thought came
to him that, despite the tragedy that had occurred,
Beecher Monmouth's return had been a useful
circumstance for himself and his department.  For when
Mrs. Beecher Monmouth found that her lover's letters and the
code had disappeared she would instantly jump to the
conclusion that her husband had discovered them.  Having
made this discovery, his despair at her duplicity would
account for his self-destruction.

Soon after the finding of the body the servants were
summoned from below, but no one had heard the fatal
shot.

Von Kuhne, who was disturbed and annoyed, showed
an urgent desire to take himself off.  He was gone,
accompanied by Cherriton, by the time the police appeared.

When the police were in full possession of the situation
John himself took leave of Mrs. Beecher Monmouth.
She was standing in her boudoir, her face deathly white,
her usually scarlet lips bluish in hue.  John noticed that
her hand, as she touched his, was ice-cold.  His feelings
were of intense detestation towards her, and he found it
difficult to be even conventionally polite.  As to offering
her words of comfort or condolence, that would have
been the merest mockery.  He was amazed, in bidding
her good-bye, to find that there were tears in her eyes.
She was an astounding woman.  Beecher Monmouth
had destroyed himself solely because of her unutterable
depths of treachery.  She had never loved him; she had
incessantly betrayed and duped him, and yet she could
still shed tears for him!

John went away pondering upon the mystery of the
eternal feminine.





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.. _`CHAPTER XXV`:

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   CHAPTER XXV

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John's work of that night was commended highly by
Dacent Smith.  For his discovery of the japanned box
had put the department in possession of Mrs. Beecher
Monmouth's code and a score of letters evidently part
of a secret correspondence conducted with a camp for
officers, and with Kurt von Morgen, whose "plans for
escape were progressing nicely"!

The great man commended this achievement.  But,
like John, he felt pity for Beecher Monmouth, who had
fallen so easy and gullible a victim to his wife's treachery.
In regard to Cherriton's suspicions of John he took a
serious view.

"I think, Treves," he said, leaning back in his chair,
"we shall have to remove Cherriton from the scene.  He
appears, from what you tell me, not to have confided his
suspicions of you either to Mrs. Beecher Monmouth or to
von Kuhne.  It is unfortunate that he chanced to be
appointed by von Kuhne to watch Heatherpoint.  But
I don't think we can blame Lieutenant Parkson for letting
out the fact that you were for a brief period attached
to that fort.  Nevertheless the position is one that
must be handled swiftly and effectively."

He suddenly smiled at John.

"You have done very well up to now, Treves," he said.
"But I should not like your career to be suddenly cut
short when there are big things ahead.  We have safely
got rid of Lady Rachel Marvin in Pitt Lunan Hydro,
where she can enjoy the company of other fools of her
own sort, and will be unable to endanger any more of
our forces by loose gossip."  He paused, then went on:
"The virtual suspension of the Habeas Corpus Act was
a god-send to us in the handling of dangerous social fools
like Lady Rachel.  We could do still more than we do at
present, Treves, if every one who knew of suspicious
persons or suspicious gossip would only let us know.  If
members of the public would take the trouble to write a
letter to their favourite newspaper the information would
always reach us, and would enable us to keep watch on a
good many suspicious characters who would otherwise
escape us."

"The trouble is," said John, "the members of the
public do not understand either the power of the German
spy system in this country or the wideness of its extent."

"Exactly," nodded his chief.  "Who, for instance,
would suspect Mrs. Beecher Monmouth, the beautiful
and wealthy wife of a well-known member of Parliament?
But, to my mind, persons like Lady Rachel
Marvin are just as dangerous to us as the actual German
spies who pick up their information."

John went away from Dacent Smith's bachelor abode
that night full of intense curiosity as to what
Mrs. Beecher Monmouth would do in the immediate future.
If, however, he thought that the death of her husband
would check her activities he was speedily disillusioned.
For immediately after the funeral of the late politician,
Mrs. Beecher Monmouth, looking beautiful in her widow's
weeds, departed for the Isle of Wight.  The funeral of
Beecher Monmouth had been an impressive public affair,
and there had been much commiseration for the tragically
bereaved young widow.  It was only natural, therefore,
that after so terrible a shock she should wish to withdraw
herself from the public gaze.  Rooms were engaged at
an hotel at Newport, and Mrs. Monmouth, in deepest
widow's weeds, made the journey accompanied by her
maid Cecily.

She arrived at Newport on the twenty-fourth of the
month, and the proprietor of the hotel, who knew of her
bereavement, received her with a grave and discreet
cordiality.  He himself showed her to the parlour which
had been allotted to her, and assured her that he would
do all that was in his power to make her stay as quiet
and reposeful as he possibly could.

Mrs. Beecher Monmouth thanked him cordially.  That
night she dined in the retirement of her little parlour,
but on the following evening it was discovered that her
chimney smoked a little.  She therefore decided to take
her dinner in the public dining-room.  As the chimney
in her sitting-room had never smoked before, the
proprietor of the hotel was a little puzzled.  Nevertheless he
prepared for her a table in a quiet corner of the dining-room
downstairs.  Here, accompanied by Cecily, her
confidential maid, who placed her chair for her and then
departed, the newly-bereaved widow took her meal.
The only other diners in the room were four young officers,
who sat at a table in an opposite corner.  Mrs. Beecher
Monmouth, in her simple and costly black dress,
immediately engaged their attention.  They respected her
sorrow, however, and, despite the evident admiration of
one of them, who thought her possessed of the most
beautiful profile he had ever seen, Mrs. Monmouth did
not encounter from the young men a single glance.  When
dinner was at an end she rose gracefully, and, carrying her
novel, went upstairs to her apartments.  When the door
had closed upon her the four young officers became
animated in a surprising manner.

"By gad!" exclaimed one, "she's a dashed fine-looking
woman, and young, too."

"A dashed sight too young for Beecher Monmouth, I
should think," remarked another.  "What a rotten thing
to happen to her.  I wonder what made him shoot
himself."

They speculated upon Mrs. Beecher Monmouth and
her tragedy for some minutes, then rose to go.

In the meantime Mrs. Beecher Monmouth had reached
her sitting-room.  Strange to say, the fire no longer
smoked.  She turned swiftly to the sallow-skinned
Cecily.

"Cecily!"

"Yes, madame."

"Go downstairs and find out which of those young
officers was Lieutenant Parkson, of Heatherpoint Fort.
You know how to find out?"

Cecily looked at her knowingly.

"Yes, madame."

Presently Cecily returned.

"Lieutenant Parkson, madame, was the one with the
black hair and the little black moustache who sat facing
you."

"Thank you, Cecily," said Mrs. Beecher Monmouth.
"Did you discover when he was coming again?"

"He and his friends have engaged the same table for
to-morrow night, madame."

"Thank you."  Mrs. Beecher Monmouth lit one of her
Russian cigarettes, flung the match into the fire, and,
relapsing into a chair at the hearth, began to smoke
quietly.  "I shall dine downstairs at the same time
to-morrow, Cecily," she said.

"Very good, madame."

The next night the four young men were already seated
at their table when Mrs. Beecher Monmouth entered the
old-fashioned dining-room, followed by Cecily.  This
time Lieutenant Parkson caught the full view of
Mrs. Monmouth's beauty for the first time.  Her fine eyes
met his, lingered for a moment, then turned away.  After
that the young man watched her during the entire meal.
He watched her as she moved away.  She carried herself
superbly.

For some minutes, unheeding his companions'
conversation, Parkson looked at the vacant place she had
occupied.  He remained absorbed in thought until
something gleaming caught his eye on the carpet, within
a yard of Mrs. Beecher Monmouth's vacated chair.
Parkson saw this object, left his seat, and discovered it to
be a small gold cigarette-case.

He took it up quickly and examined it with a good
deal of interest.  On the gold surface of the case the
letters "A.B.M." were outlined in small rubies.  For
a minute the young man hesitated, holding the article in
his hand; then suddenly he made up his mind what to do.
He determined to seize advantage by the forelock.

Excusing himself to his friends, Parkson hurried out
of the room.  He had determined upon a course which
would enable him to make her acquaintance.  The single
glance Mrs. Beecher Monmouth had rested upon him
when entering the room gave him courage.  At the door
of No. 9, which was her sitting-room, he knocked quietly.
A low voice bade him come in.

Then Parkson, embarrassed despite his boldness,
stepped into the room.

"I beg your pardon for intruding upon you, but I
think you dropped this cigarette-case in the dining-room."

Mrs. Beecher Monmouth looked at him, then at the
case, and came quickly to her feet.

"Oh, yes," she exclaimed.  She accepted it from his
fingers and smiled at him, looking steadily into his eyes.
"I am so grateful to you," she said.  "I cannot," she
lied, "tell how I came to drop it!"

Parkson bowed, and was moving towards the door.

"Not at all," he murmured.

"You know, the servants," went on Mrs. Beecher
Monmouth, "are sometimes so dishonest in these hotels."

"Quite so," answered Parkson clumsily.  Then he
noticed that Mrs. Beecher Monmouth had opened the
cigarette-case and was holding it towards him.  There
were four buff-coloured cigarettes in its interior.

"Won't you give me the pleasure of accepting one of
them?  I am afraid it is the only reward you will permit
me to offer you, Mr.——"

She paused, looking questioningly at him.

"My name is Parkson."

Mrs. Beecher Monmouth uttered a pleased exclamation;
her face wreathed itself in smiles.  For a devastated
widow she looked at that moment particularly
light-hearted.

"Oh, how very nice that is.  Then you must know my
cousin, Captain Cherriton?"

"Yes," said Parkson; "I've met him a number of
times here."  His tone conveyed to her swift intelligence
the fact that Captain Cherriton was not high in his
favour.  She looked at him seriously.

"I am afraid he was not the best of company for you."

At that moment Cecily, who had been conveniently
absent from the room, entered with coffee upon the tray.

"You will please bring another cup, Cecily.  I am sure
Captain Parkson——"

"Lieutenant Parkson," corrected the young man.

"Lieutenant Parkson will join me."

Five minutes later Lieutenant Parkson was comfortably
seated in a chair on the opposite side of the hearth.
He was consuming one of Mrs. Beecher Monmouth's
buff-coloured cigarettes, and was very much at home
drinking some of Mrs. Beecher Monmouth's after-dinner
coffee.  After the first few minutes he gathered together
his natural self-possession.  He was generally at home
where women were concerned, and he was intensely
susceptible to feminine beauty.  At that particular
moment he was flattering himself that he was making
a good impression upon this rich and beautiful young
widow.  It occurred to him that she was, in the circumstances,
unduly cheerful, but he attributed this to his own
good company.  The fact that Mrs. Beecher Monmouth
had cunningly put him in this frame of mind was, of
course, unknown to him.  His own social position was
quite a modest one, and this *tête-à-tête* with a woman
of Mrs. Monmouth's importance and aristocratic
connections flattered his vanity.

"Do you know, Mr. Parkson, I don't look upon you
as a stranger in the least.  You are a friend of my
reckless cousin, and, therefore, we are in a sense mutually
acquainted."

"It is very nice of you to say so," acknowledged
Parkson.

In her amiable presence he began to grow expansive,
until suddenly Mrs. Beecher Monmouth, as it were,
appeared to recollect her tragic widowhood.  She
dismissed him very neatly, but before he went away they
shook hands, and she thanked him again.  He could
feel her fingers warm, vibrant, and vital in his.  Her
brilliant eyes held his for a moment; then she permitted
him to depart.

Cecily came into the room when he had gone.

"You can take away the cups, Cecily," said Mrs.
Beecher Monmouth, "and to-morrow night, in addition
to coffee, you will provide whisky and liqueurs."

"Very good, madam."

"Glasses for two," announced Mrs. Beecher Monmouth.

Within four days of her arrival at her hotel
Mrs. Beecher Monmouth had completely enchained the
susceptible young officer.  Parkson was amazed at his
own success, yet perhaps not so much amazed after all.
He began to see himself as a newly fledged Don Juan, a
dog, a daring and romantic fascinator of women.





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.. _`CHAPTER XXVI`:

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   CHAPTER XXVI

.. vspace:: 2

One afternoon, when Colonel Hobin's permission had
been obtained, Parkson invited Mrs. Beecher Monmouth
to tea at Heatherpoint Fort.  It was only occasionally
that ladies were allowed to enter the fort gates.
Mrs. Beecher Monmouth, however, was a well-known woman,
and her recent sorrow won for her every one's
commiseration.  In sending her the permit to enter the
fort—a slip of yellow paper, rubber stamped, and with Colonel
Hobin's signature scrawled at the foot—Parkson
apologised for the roughness of the fare he would be able
to offer her.

Mrs. Beecher Monmouth had been deftly angling for
an invitation to the fort from the moment of her
arrival.

Upon the next afternoon she attired herself with
special care, and, when ready, made the eleven miles
journey to Heatherpoint in a hired car.

She smiled graciously at the first sentry to halt her
vehicle at the foot of the wide road leading to the fort
gate.  At the tall iron gates themselves, which clanked
noisily open when her pass had been inspected by the
guard, Mrs. Beecher Monmouth was conscious of a slight
tremor.  The sensation of being behind closed gates—for
the gates clanked immediately shut upon her entrance—filled
her with a sudden throb of fear.  The abrupt
movements, the expressionless faces of the guard also
disturbed her.  She had ventured a great deal in her
work on behalf of the German secret service, but this
was the first occasion where she had, as it were, stepped
deliberately into the jaws of the lion.  Her quick eyes
took in all her surroundings; the cliff rose abruptly to
her left; the muzzle of a six-inch gun peering out over
the Solent was visible twenty yards away upon her right.
A sergeant, still holding her pass in his hand, looked at her
inquiringly.

"You wish to see Lieutenant Parkson?"

"Yes, please."  Her heart was still beating swiftly.
She had not foreseen that the gates would be clanged
ruthlessly shut behind her.

The sergeant turned on his heel.

"Will you come this way, madame?"

He began to ascend steep ladder-like steps laid against
the face of the cliff.  Mrs. Beecher Monmouth followed
the grim khaki-clad figure.

"Please, not quite so fast," she entreated, and paused
for breath.

Three hundred feet below her, looking almost straight
down, she could see the blue waters of the Solent shining
in the sunlight.  Tiny white-crested waves fell languidly
into the little bay, with its jutting pier that before the
war had been thronged with holiday-makers, but which
was now empty and deserted.  Beyond the pier, three
miles away, on the mainland promontory the tower of the
Ponsonby Lighthouse gleamed beautiful and white.

"What a lovely view, sergeant."

"Yes, madame."

"But in winter it must be very cold up here."

"Yes, madame."

He was standing eight or ten steps above her, eyeing
a tangle of barbed wire which covered a green hill slope,
with indifferent eyes.  He did not approve of visitors to
the fort, especially ladies.  What did ladies want
climbing ladders and nosing about in places where they
were not wanted; they were never allowed to see
anything important.  And as for the so-called view, they
could get a better one at the Shakespeare Monument a
little farther along the downs.  This was Sergeant
Ewins's opinion as he conducted Lieutenant Parkson's
visitor up the steep steps to the little well-hidden
mess-room at the cliff top, and even Mrs. Beecher
Monmouth's unparalleled beauty and charm failed to win a
smile from him.  Parkson, who had been on duty until
that minute, came running towards them as they entered
the small asphalted courtyard.  Mrs. Beecher
Monmouth, her eyes shining, her breath coming quickly
with the exertion of the ascent, clasped his hand in
hers.

Parkson dismissed Ewins and apologised briskly for not
being able to receive her at the fort gates.

"I was on duty till this minute.  Our colonel's a bit
of a martinet."

"Is he not popular?" asked Mrs. Beecher Monmouth
in the low intimate—we two are alone in all the
world—voice she knew so well how to use.

Parkson opened his eyes wide.

"Good Lord, yes; he's most awfully popular.  He is
just, you see, and the men always appreciate that."

He led his visitor into the single story building, and
along a passage toward the little mess-room.  Here
Mrs. Beecher Monmouth seated herself in the only
armchair—a cheap wicker article—and surveyed the room with
smiling, but intensely receptive eyes.  In a flash she took
in the bare boarded floor, the trestle table, the colonel's
cigar box on the mantelshelf, the Admiralty chart of
the Solent which covered the end wall and lastly, the old
piano, which was the worst treated instrument in the Isle
of Wight.

Parkson bustled about at the tea-table, and Mrs. Beecher
Monmouth presently turned her attention upon him.

"Will anyone come in and disturb us if I help you
to make the table a little more presentable?" she asked.

"I'm afraid they will," Parkson answered.  "But I
managed to choose a time when only one officer is likely
to come in."

"Is he old and grumpy, or young and nice-looking
like you?"  Mrs. Beecher Monmouth looked at him
with raillery in her fine eyes.  She was helping herself to
marmalade, and was making the best of the thickness of
the bread and butter, and the strong tea Parkson had
poured out for her.

"Oh, he's a dashed sight better looking than I am,"
admitted Parkson modestly; "his name is Sinclair, an
old regular officer."

"I am sure I shall not like him," said Mrs. Beecher
Monmouth.

It was fully a quarter of an hour before Sinclair
made his appearance, and then the tea was nearly
cold.  He came in, and was introduced to Mrs. Beecher
Monmouth.  Looking at his lean, handsome face and
audacious eyes she could have sworn that she had
seen him somewhere before.  As a matter of fact, his
appearance was vaguely familiar to her because one of
Sinclair's earlier duties that year had been to watch her
at little dinner parties at the Savoy, Carlton and Ritz
Hotels.

"I think we have met before," probed Mrs. Beecher
Monmouth, furrowing her brows, and fixing her gaze on
Sinclair's face.

"I am afraid I have not had that pleasure," replied
Sinclair, who could act the part of smiling fatuity to
perfection.  He was thinking how well she looked in her
widow's weeds, and how extraordinary cheerful was her
manner, considering the tragedy that had recently
befallen her.

Parkson and Mrs. Beecher Monmouth soon left the
mess-room, and immediately they were gone Sinclair rose
from the table, hurried to his room, and wrote a code
telegram to Dacent Smith.

.. vspace:: 2

*Mrs. Beecher Monmouth is here.  What action shall
I take?*

.. vspace:: 2

Two hours later his Chief's answer came.

.. vspace:: 2

*Take no action.  Treves handling the matter.*

.. vspace:: 2

While Sinclair was writing his telegram Mrs. Beecher
Monmouth had accompanied Parkson out into the
asphalted yard.  Only certain limited areas of the fort
were open to friends of the officers.  "I am afraid it is
very feminine of me," exclaimed Mrs. Monmouth as they
passed the bakehouse door, "but I should so love to
peep inside."

"By all means," responded Parkson, showing himself
indulgent to feminine curiosity.

She tripped across the yard, and peered into the half
darkness of the bakehouse.  She was carrying out her
instructions, which were to find out what had become of
Sims, but even the astuteness of Dacent Smith himself at
this moment would have failed to detect guile in the
girlish innocence of her expression as she looked into the
face of the red-haired Scotch baker who had succeeded
Sims.  She examined the great tray of newly-baked
loaves, uttered feminine exclamations of astonishment
and admiration at all she saw, and finally smiled sweetly
into the face of the dour Scotch corporal.

"I suppose you have been here ages and ages, Mr. Lyle?"

"No, madam, it's no more than a month since I came."

Parkson, who had listened good-humouredly, awaited
her at the door, and as they crossed the asphalt together
Mrs. Monmouth questioned him as to the baker who had
preceded Lyle.  She put her questions deftly, in a manner
that would arouse no suspicion.

"Oh, no, Sims isn't at the front."  He looked at
her for a moment with fleeting doubt in his gaze, and
decided to say no more about Sims.  But Mrs. Monmouth's
keen eyes interpreted his expression of reserve.
He knew something.  She smiled inwardly.  What he
knew she, too, would know.

"I am afraid we must stop here," Parkson suddenly
said, "I am not allowed to take anyone beyond this
barbed wire."

"Do you never allow visitors to go there?"

"Never," answered Parkson emphatically.

Mrs. Beecher Monmouth turned her resplendent
countenance upon him.  There was a vivid colour in her
cheeks; the rich curve of her lips glowed scarlet.

"How wonderful it all is—and, I suppose," she went
on, looking at him with what he and any other man would
have believed to be admiration, "you are watching and
waiting, all day and all night—waiting for the enemy?"

"Something of the sort," answered Parkson wearily.
"You never know; he may come any time."

"Do you expect him?"

They were at the top of the steps which led to the lower
fort, the superb panorama of Alum Bay, the Ponsonby
Lighthouse and the English coast lay at their feet.

"I can't say that we expect him any longer," answered
Parkson, naturally, "but we live in hope!"

"I suppose the fort is very strong?"

"I expect it's capable of doing its bit," Parkson
answered judicially.

"I suppose you have made it much stronger in the last
few months—since the Germans began to do badly on
the Western front?"

Parkson looked at her quickly, and she broke into a
little musical laugh.

"How silly I am!" she exclaimed.  "I am talking just
like a man.  That comes of living with a Member of
Parliament."

This was the only reference she had made to her
husband, but she made it in a tone which was intended
to convey to Parkson that Mr. Beecher Monmouth was
completely and irrevocably dead, and that being a young
and vital woman, she, on her part, could not be expected
to mourn his loss eternally.

They descended the steps together, and, in pretty
timidity, she laid her fingers upon his arm.  In Parkson's
short career of gallantry he had never felt so much a man
of the world as at that moment.

When the steep descent had been made, and they
were upon the level of the lower fort, Mrs. Beecher
Monmouth expressed much interest in the view that was to
be obtained from that level.  But Parkson shook his
head, and explained that no visitors whatever were
admitted to the lower fort.

Failing in that project, Mrs. Beecher Monmouth turned
her eyes upon the tall barred gate which cut her off from
the world outside.  Parkson explained to her with a
masterful smile, that, until he gave the word, she was a
prisoner in the fort.

"You can test it, if you like," he said; "all you have
to do is to walk to the gate and try to get out."

It was nearly six o'clock, and Parkson was due upon
duty at seven.

"Look here," he said, "I have just time to show you
out of the fort the other way, across the links.  I'm
afraid you'll have to go up the steps again."

Mrs. Beecher Monmouth, however, showed herself quite
willing to make an ascent to the upper level.  She was
interested and delighted in everything she saw.

At the top of the cliff, with the short green turf
underfoot, old Lieutenant-Commander Greaves met them, and
saluted, and went to his eyrie, his glass-covered look-out
with its great swivel telescope.

"What a delightful old naval officer!"

"He is," returned Parkson, "and as keen as mustard."

His companion put a few deft questions; it was as
though she put out invisible tentacles, groping for matter
that could be valuable.

Before they reached the confines of the fort Parkson
led her to the cliff edge, to the exact spot wherefrom
Manton had looked down upon Sims busy upon the sands.
Far below them lay the quiet little bay—there was
scarcely a ripple upon the blue sunlit water, and the waves
rolled and fell languidly with a musical cadence.

Mrs. Beecher Monmouth seated herself beside Parkson
and admired the view.  She was clever enough not to
force the pace; he was already entangled in her meshes,
but he was not yet completely helpless.  Aforetime she
had conquered and wrought the undoing of men far
subtler than Parkson.

"What a lovely, lovely bay, Mr. Parkson!"

Parkson admitted the beauty of the bay.  He told her
that it was within the area of the fort, and that it was
not accessible to the public, and that there was only
one way of approaching it by a narrow path descending
the chalk cliff.  Then quite insidiously and with
incredible dexterity she led him round to talk of Sims.
Months later, when Parkson recalled that conversation,
he was totally unable to account for the manner in which
she had achieved a return to this subject.  Sims, the
lank, cadaverous and bead-eyed Sims—who was really
Steinbaum and a German spy—what had this man to
do with the beauty and splendour of the sunlit evening?
Why should his existence interest the tragically bereaved
young widow, the society woman, who Parkson truly
believed had fallen in love with himself?  "Heart taken
at the rebound," the young man quoted in fatuous
gratification.  He felt delighted to think that old Greaves
had seen him in company of this lovely widow.  He
wanted the ancient naval officer to think him a dog,
and when he and Mrs. Beecher Monmouth rose and
passed between attentive sentries out of the fort into
the downs, Parkson helped the lovely widow up certain
steps, out through certain areas of barbed wire, by
taking her arm in his.  He wondered if old Greaves,
in his glass look-out, was watching them—old Greaves
saw pretty much everything that went on in the upper
fort.  But on this occasion it was not Greaves, but
Captain Sinclair who watched him—watched every
movement they made from Greaves' glass-encompassed
tower.

"What do you think of that friend of Parkson's,
Commander?" asked Sinclair, as Parkson and his guest
passed finally out of the fort.

"She's the best-looking woman I've seen here since
the war began," responded Greaves.  "When I was a
young man," he went on wickedly, drawing at his
pipe, "I always went in for widows.  There is always so
much more to 'em."

"In this case," Sinclair answered, "the widow seems
to be bearing her sorrow pretty lightly!"

"Old husbands are soon forgotten by young wives,"
observed Greaves philosophically.  "When I was in
Minorca, in the old Benbow, in '72 or '73," he began,
and told Sinclair with never-ending gusto one of his
somewhat highly-spiced stories of youthful adventures
of his midship days.

In the meantime Parkson conducted Mrs. Beecher
Monmouth down to her waiting motor-car.  They
descended the steep hillside, and Parkson still helped her
on every occasion.  The hired Ford car had been turned
in the narrow road.  Parkson, with a glance at his watch,
helped her into the vehicle, daringly stepped in beside
her, and placed the dust-cover over both their knees.

"I can have a five minutes' drive with you and get
back by seven," he announced.

"But I didn't invite you, Mr. Parkson."

"Your eyes invited me," he returned audaciously,
and under the dust-cover he slid his fingers towards hers.

There ensued a palpitating moment, then Mrs. Beecher
Monmouth turned her radiantly beautiful face slightly
towards him; under long, curved lashes she gave him
a sidelong glance.  Then, so that the chauffeur should
not overhear, she whispered, framing the words with
her lips:

"You bad, bad, naughty officer!"

But she did not remove her hand, which was now
enclosed in his.

Parkson thought it a lucky chance that she had
discarded her gloves.  Parkson, in fact, was green enough
to trust her absolutely.  He was, indeed, the veriest
babe in her hands.  Her face was full towards him now.
She was smiling, exhibiting her splendid teeth, and
looking deep into his eyes.  Her black hat and widow's
weeds added only to the brilliancy of her complexion,
to the scarlet richness of her fine lips.  There was
something in her gaze, in the warm intensity of her regard, its
lingering softness, that utterly swept away Parkson's
self-possession.  He leaned toward her and dropped his
voice.

"If it wasn't for the sentries there on the hill-top,"
he murmured, "I'd kiss you now!"

"Bad boy," she said with her lips.

She had a way of talking with her lips and uttering
no sound that concentrated attention on her sensuous
charms.

Parkson's five minutes in the car seemed to him five
minutes of heaven.  He was completely and utterly
enamoured—and as to the future, the future seemed to
blaze before him in radiant and glorious romance.  He
wondered how far he could go—he had never seen a
woman like her.  Beautiful, feminine, coy, loving....
What a blind idiot, thought he, Beecher Monmouth
must have been to shoot himself.

"When shall we meet again?" he whispered, as he
alighted from the car at the end of the fort road.

"I'm afraid I shall have to meet you again soon, you
naughty boy!"

She put out her supple white hand, adorned only with
a wedding ring.  Parkson seized her fingers and
impressed a fervent kiss upon them.

As the car swept away, Mrs. Beecher Monmouth turned
and waved a little handkerchief in farewell.





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`CHAPTER XXVII`:

.. class:: center large

   CHAPTER XXVII

.. vspace:: 2

When Mrs. Monmouth reached the hotel in Newport,
something over an hour after bidding Parkson farewell,
Cecily awaited her in the little sitting-room.

"Are you ready, madame, to dress for dinner?" asked
the maid.

"Yes, Cecily, and I shall dine here to-night."

She went into the bedroom, and Cecily disrobed her.
During this ceremony the girl hesitated once or twice
on the point of speaking, then refrained.

"Well, what is it, Cecily?  What is it you want
to say?"

"It is something important, madame, that has occurred."

Mrs. Beecher Monmouth turned and opened her eyes
in interrogation.

"What, for instance?" she demanded.

Cecily, who was at the wardrobe, took out her
mistress's evening skirt.

"To-day, madame, when you were away, I made
acquaintance of one of the men at Heatherpoint
Fort——"

"Ah!" ejaculated Mrs. Beecher Monmouth, suddenly
interested; "so soon—that was clever of you."

"He told me, in regard to Sims, madame, he merely
left the fort——"

Mrs. Beecher Monmouth nodded indifferently; she
was disappointed.

"Is that all you learned, Cecily?"

"No, madame.  I learned also that Lieutenant
Treves, who was supposed by us to be staying with his
father, was, however, at that time acting as one of the
officers at Heatherpoint."

This was the first Mrs. Beecher Monmouth had heard
of John's presence at the fort.  She was at first inclined
to disbelieve it.  Then, when Cecily proved
circumstantially that the statement was true, Mrs. Beecher
Monmouth felt inclined to dismiss the matter as of no
moment.  If Treves had been at Heatherpoint, he was
there evidently with the knowledge of von Kuhne, and
possibly was acting in von Kuhne's interests, and, for
her part, she was not in the least inclined to doubt
John—he was one of her admirers.  A more resourceful and
more attractive man than Parkson, and, nevertheless,
equally a victim of her charms.  She flattered herself
she could do a great deal with Bernard Treves.  As for
his attempting to deceive her, that seemed out of the
question.  She pointed out to Cecily that Treves's stay
at Heatherpoint Fort did not mean that the young man
had betrayed the German secret service, which was
rewarding him so handsomely.

Cecily, however, had a further and more serious
statement to make.

"When I am suspicious, madame," she said, "I am
thinking not so much of Mr. Treves's visit to the fort——"

She was at Mrs. Beecher Monmouth's back now, hooking
her dress, and a silence fell.

"Well?" demanded her mistress shortly.

"I am thinking, madame," went on Cecily, "of the
night of Mr. Beecher Monmouth's death."

She paused again, but her mistress made no remark,
and Cecily went on:

"On that night, madame, when I had folded away
your things, I took a skirt into the housekeeper's room
to brush.  While I brushed it I talked with Mr. Duckett,
the butler, who was also there.  There was no ring at
the front-door bell, madame—and yet when I returned
to your bedroom there was a light there."

"You left it on before you went down, Cecily!"

"No, madame, I turned it off.  I was very surprised
to see the light, as I knew you were out, madame, and
I—I——"

Mrs. Beecher Monmouth turned and scrutinised the
maid's sallow face and bead-like eyes.

"You looked through the keyhole!" she said.

"Yes, madame."

"And saw my husband, who had come back unexpectedly."

"No, madame; I saw Mr. Treves.  Mr. Beecher Monmouth
had not come home then; and Mr. Treves, madame,
was standing near your dressing-table with a small box
in his hands."

Mrs. Beecher Monmouth flashed an intense glance
upon her.

"What sort of box?"

"A black box, madame, the one you kept among your furs."

Mrs. Beecher Monmouth's hand suddenly leapt out
and gripped Cecily's wrist.  Her voice grew low, little
more than a hissing whisper.

"What are you saying, Cecily?  What was Mr. Treves doing?"

"I don't know, madame."

Cecily twisted her arm, attempting to free it.

"Please, madame, you are hurting my wrist!"

Mrs. Beecher Monmouth thrust forth her face—her
brilliant eyes had grown hard as agate.

"Why did you never tell me this before?"

"I thought, madame, you knew he was there."

Mrs. Beecher Monmouth relaxed her grip; she stepped
back a pace or two and threw up her head.

"God in heaven, what a fool you are!"

"It was natural I should think that," protested Cecily,
recoiling a step or two.

"Natural!  You idiot!"

"He came in with your key, madame."

Mrs. Beecher Monmouth stared in utter amazement.

"My key?"

"Yes, madame; I saw him fling something under the
table, and found afterwards it was your key.  He must
have taken it from your bag, madame, when he visited
you in the afternoon."

Mrs. Beecher Monmouth suddenly twisted on her heel
and began to pace the room.  The truth had smitten her
like a blow.  Wild thoughts surged through her brain.
All these long months she had believed herself tricking
and duping Bernard Treves—her business in life was to
trick, dupe, and mould men to her own ends, to the ends
of the Fatherland, to the imposition of its monstrous
Kultur upon the world—and now this man, this
handsome, drug-sodden weakling had out-manoeuvred her!
She had spun a web for him, had toyed with him,
expended her charm upon him, and all the time he had
been secretly and darkly laughing in his sleeve.  Instead
of a friend and a tool, he had been an astute and daring
enemy!

Enemy—that was the word.  An enemy of infinite
danger to herself, to von Kuhne, to Cherriton, to
Manwitz—to them all.  An enemy to the Fatherland!  An
enemy to the great, crushing blow that was about to fall
upon those arrogant and high-stomached English!

Her concealed letters, that meant everything, that
exposed everything, had been found—not by her husband—but
by this cool and steel-nerved, subtle-witted enemy—this
young man who now, from that evidence, could
piece together all her life-history.

As this thought flashed into her mind, she saw her
own immediate jeopardy.  She lacked nothing of courage;
and, being a woman, it was not her own physical peril,
nor the wrecking of von Kuhne's plan, that struck her
deep—it was not this, but her own vanity that was
stricken.  She had made many advances to Bernard
Treves—she had given much.  And, as she thought of
the past, a murderous and implacable hate blossomed
in her mind against John.  An instinct to seize
something and rend it to shreds grappled her.  She longed to
slap Cecily—first on one side of her sallow face and then
on the other.  She would have liked to take Cecily's arm
and twist it until the woman yelled with pain.

But as these things were not permissible, she sat down
and wrote a fiery and vitriolic letter to General von Kuhne.
She cared nothing now for von Kuhne's authority; they
were all in danger.  This pleasant, amiable young
Englishman had obviously acted against them from the
very first.  They believed him to be a drug-taker and a
discredited English officer with a grievance.  And all
the time he had been something utterly different.

She wrote this news to von Kuhne, and poured her
contempt upon him.  She knew these things would hit
the chief of the German service between the eyes, and
she revelled in the thought.  And all the time her intense
and passionate nature dwelt upon the thing that must
befall Bernard Treves.  How much information Treves
had conveyed to his department she did not know; but
this she knew, that von Kuhne and his myrmidons would
effectually stop his mouth.  The dark corps of espionage
would add another death, another extinction to its
secret crimes.

When Mrs. Beecher Monmouth had finished the letter,
she closed it, addressed it to Godfrey Manners, Esq., and
handed it to Cecily.

"You will take this to Mr. Manners now, and ask him
to deliver it to Doctor Voules first thing to-morrow.
The doctor is in London to-day, but he will return in
the morning.  Tell Mr. Manners that the letter is of the
utmost importance."

"Very good, madame."

Mrs. Beecher Monmouth detained her a few minutes,
questioning her as to Treves's visit on the night of
Beecher Monmouth's death; then permitted her to go.

When the maid had departed, Mrs. Beecher Monmouth
stood before the little mirror on the hotel dressing-table.
"Tricked, duped and fooled!" she murmured.

Then, catching sight of the pearl and emerald pendant
John had given her, she snatched it violently from her
breast and hurled it into the hearth.  It would have given
her infinite pleasure at that moment to have murdered
John by slow and excruciating torture.  Her thoughts
were still seething, when the dejected hotel waiter
knocked at her door and announced in plaintive tones
that dinner awaited her.





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`CHAPTER XXVIII`:

.. class:: center large

   CHAPTER XXVIII

.. vspace:: 2

Next morning, at twelve o'clock, Doctor Voules sat at
the big oak table in his dining-room at Brooke.  He had
arrived from London in the morning, and was busy
consuming a heavy lunch.

The brightness of the day before had vanished; a
heavy driving rain was falling.  From the single window
of the apartment the doctor could obtain a view of
drenched foliage in his garden.  And, sharp to the left,
as one stood at the window, a view of the sea, grey and
restless beneath a leaden sky, was visible.

The doctor ate stolidly, grinding his food in heavy,
powerful jaws.  The only other occupant of the room
was Captain Cherriton, who lounged in a chair at the
hearth and read a morning newspaper assiduously.
Beside him, on the floor, lay four or five other morning
news-sheets.

For many minutes, save the drive of the rain and the
chink of Voules's knife and fork, no sound broke the
stillness of the room.  Then Voules turned his chair,
took out a cigar and lit it.

"The barometer is falling, Rathenau," he said in his
grating, imperious voice—quite another voice from that
which he assumed as the bland Doctor Voules.

"It is going down steadily, Excellenz," answered
Cherriton.

"Good," returned the elder man.  "We must have
unsettled weather for the twenty-eighth—eh, Rathenau?"

"It is much to be desired, Excellenz."

The twenty-eighth—it was always the twenty-eighth
with General von Kuhne.  With machine-like precision
his forceful mind returned again and again to that
date—the date which was to mark the consummation of his
work.  The blow, the subtle, heavy blow at England's
heart—the blow planned, schemed for, and ordered;
the great destruction that had originated in his martial
and ruthless mind.

"Things go well, eh?"

"Quite well, Excellenz," Cherriton answered promptly,
for as yet he had not found courage to mention to the
general his suspicion of Treves.  He was not yet positive
that Treves had betrayed them, and, in the meantime,
he had resolved to say nothing.  Rather would he wait
and watch, seeking for tangible proof of duplicity on
Treves's part.

These thoughts were passing through his mind when
a knock came at the door, and Conrad entered to clear
away the luncheon things.  In his hand he carried a
salver upon which lay a single letter, addressed to Doctor
Voules, and without a stamp.

The doctor took up the letter.

"Herr Manwitz brought it from Newport, Excellenz,"
said the servant in German.

"Tell Herr Manwitz I will see him presently, and
remain out of the room until I ring for you."

General von Kuhne had recognised Mrs. Beecher
Monmouth's handwriting.  He began to read almost
casually; then, suddenly, his interest intensified, and
as he read the lines of his heavy face grew hard, firm
and implacable.  His colour rose; he eased his collar
about his throat and bit heavily upon his long cigar.

Cherriton, noticing his agitation, noticing the blazing
wrath that illuminated his face, watched him with
anxious eyes.

Suddenly von Kuhne sprang to his feet.

"Stand up!" he bellowed, looking at the younger
man with an expression of utter ferocity.  "You blind,
thick-witted fool!"

Captain Cherriton's pallid features were flushed, an
angry light lit in his eye.  He opened his mouth and
was about to speak, but von Kuhne swept the words out
of his mouth with a savage gesture.

"Speak no words to me, you —— but read that letter!"

He thrust Mrs. Beecher Monmouth's closely-written
sheets into the younger man's hands.

"Read that!" he roared, "and see to what pass you
have brought us!"

Cherriton began to read, and as he read the colour left
his face.  Von Kuhne hurried to the bell and jangled it
savagely.  Conrad precipitated himself into the room in
a state of nervous agitation.  He was used to authority,
but he had never yet known a bell to ring with such
violence.

Doctor Voules's face turned towards him did nothing
to dissipate his alarm.

"Tell Herr Manwitz to come here this instant," roared
Voules.

"Very good, Excellenz."  He paused a moment, then
added: "Mr. Bernard Treves is here, Excellenz.  Shall
I also tell him to enter?"

Doctor Voules drew in a deep breath.  He turned
slowly and looked into Cherriton's eyes.

The stillness that ensued was intense and portentous.
The glance that passed between Voules and Cherriton
was one of infinite meaning.  Voules's expression of ferocity
moderated; he turned his eyes again to the intimidated
Conrad standing in the doorway.

"How long has Mr. Treves been here?"

"A few minutes only, Herr Excellenz.  He came in
after Herr Manwitz."

"Very good, Conrad!  You will take particular care
Mr. Treves does not leave the house, and you will in the
meantime send Herr Manwitz to me."

"Very good, Excellenz."

"You understand my order in regard to Herr Treves?"

"Yes, Excellenz.  He is not to leave the house."

General von Kuhne nodded and turned on his heel.
As the door closed upon Conrad, his implacable eyes
once more sought Cherriton.

"The letter you hold," he began, making a stiff gesture
towards Mrs. Beecher Monmouth's missive, which
Cherriton was still studying—"the letter you hold in your
hand convicts this man completely.  His treachery to
us, his espionage"—he paused a moment—"may bring
upon us the utmost disaster.  In failing to discover his
duplicity you have shown yourself no less than a
sheep-headed fool!"

"Herr Excellenz!" protested Baron von Rathenau,
drawing himself up, a flush of colour animating his dull
pallor.

"I am your superior officer!" countered von Kuhne.
"It is, fortunately, my privilege to speak plain words
to you; it is equally my privilege to command your
obedience.  You have failed in regard to this young man,
Bernard Treves.  From the first hour of his contact with
Manwitz he has clearly tricked you both!"

"May I venture to remind you, Excellenz, that he
tricked you also?"

Von Kuhne lifted his fierce and truculent gaze.

Cherriton was neither intimidated nor silenced.

"He tricked you, Herr Excellenz, the day of his first
visit here.  You announced to me then that you were
satisfied.  You observed upon his wrists the punctured
marks which proved him, as you said, Excellenz, to be
addicted to the injection of drugs."

Von Kuhne waved these objections aside.

"I based my opinion upon his dossier provided for
me by you and Manwitz."  He began to pace the floor,
with his hands behind his back, his head thrust forward
in deep thought.  "This affair, Rathenau," he said at
length, "this discovery grows more and more sinister.
It is clear to anyone not utterly a fool that every step of
yours and Manwitz has been dogged for many weeks
past.  What this young man knows of our plans we shall
never learn; what he has confided to his authorities we
can only guess.  One thing, however, is certain: whether
he knows much or little, his activities must cease."  He
paused and looked full into the younger man's face.  "Do
you gather my meaning?"

Cherriton bowed.

"I understand, Excellenz."

Von Kuhne continued to pace the carpet.

"I shall rely upon you for effective measures."

At that moment a knock fell upon the door, and
Conrad ushered Herr Manwitz into the room, and closed
the door upon him.  The big, fat man, with his swarthy,
pouched cheeks, his bristling black moustache and
iron-grey hair, bowed deferentially to von Kuhne.

"You desired to see me, Excellenz?"

Von Kuhne walked to the table, took up Mrs. Beecher
Monmouth's letter, and handed it to him.

"Read that!" he said curtly.  He spoke in German,
and used the commanding tone of an exalted German
officer speaking to a subordinate.  Manwitz read the
letter from end to end, and as he read the colour receded
from his cheeks, his heart-beat quickened in growing
apprehension.  As the import of the letter grew plain to
him, his apprehension amounted almost to terror.  The
thought that Treves was a member of the English secret
service filled him with infinite dread.  He had never in
his most suspicious moments conceived such a thing as
possible.  Treves, the neurotic, the weak-minded
drug-taker!  The man who had shown cowardice in the face of
the enemy, and had narrowly escaped court-martial!
Was it possible that this good-looking, feeble fool had
been at one and the same time a steady-nerved, watchful
member of the English Intelligence Department?  Even
now, as he read Mrs. Beecher Monmouth's plain words,
he could not credit them.  Nevertheless he was
afraid—mortally afraid—for his own skin.  The Tower of London
and a firing squad had always loomed at the back of
Manwitz' mind as a thing of infinite menace.  The
English were so peremptory in these matters—no talk,
no fuss; merely a firing squad and oblivion!  He
possessed none of Cherriton's cold and brutal courage.
And the thought that his own name was written in the
tablets of the English secret service, the knowledge that
his every movement may have been watched by a skilful
English spy, sent a tremor through him that was visible
both to von Kuhne and Cherriton.

"You discovered this man!" said von Kuhne, thrusting
out his chin and fixing his cold gaze upon Manwitz.

"That I admit," answered Manwitz; "but I am prepared
to swear that he was indeed what I thought him to
be.  I took the utmost care, Excellenz, and it was long
before I trusted him.  His information, Excellenz,
enabled us to sink the *Polidor*."

"That is quite true, Excellenz," Cherriton said,
suddenly puzzled.

"And in regard to his habits," went on Manwitz, "I
have seen him many times under the influence of drugs,
with all the symptoms, Excellenz, which I was careful to
study—dilation of the pupils, irritability, fear of imaginary
enemies——"

Von Kuhne waved his hand, but Manwitz persisted.

"Excellenz, he must have changed greatly, if he is,
indeed, the man mentioned here!"

"You fool!" von Kuhne thrust at him; "of course
he is the same man!  We are speaking of Treves, and no
other!"

"He must have changed, Excellenz!" protested
Manwitz.  "Treves, as I knew him, would never have
had the nerve to act against us.  I impressed upon him,
Excellenz, what the punishment for treachery would be,
and he values his own skin above all things in the
world."

"Perhaps almost as much as you value yours!" added
von Kuhne, with a sneer of contempt.  "I have to warn
you, Manwitz, I shall expect you to act decisively and
without reservation!  The Fatherland requires that this
man who has betrayed us shall expiate his treachery!
Do you get my meaning?"

"Yes, Excellenz."

"You will understand," he said, looking from one to
the other, "that I am speaking officially and in my
capacity as director of intelligence.  You will obey
me"—his eyes turned towards Cherriton—"as though we were
upon the sacred soil of the Fatherland!"

He was standing at the table, resting one hand on the
cloth.  He spoke as a judge pronouncing a sentence,
and in the eyes of von Rathenau and Manwitz he was,
indeed, this.  They took orders from him as inferior
officers receiving orders from a general of division.  "The
removal of this man is an act of mere military justice.
My orders are that you, Manwitz, and you, Baron von
Rathenau, administer this just sentence!"  He was
passing what amounted to sentence of death on Bernard
Treves.  In doing this he felt no qualm, no sensitive doubt
whatever.  If he had occupied an English town in his
true character as a German general in command, he
would have put to death a hundred persons for not a
tithe of the crime that John had committed against him.
In sentencing John to death, in appointing Cherriton
and Manwitz his executioners, he was carrying out what
to him was a just, even a moderate law.  He had been
brought up to slaughter; he had been taught from
boyhood to crush the Fatherland's enemies.  To
intimidate by frightfulness was the highest German ideal.
He was a typical military German—that is, a typical
cold-blooded murderer.  He crossed to the bell now and
jangled it again—this time not quite so sharply.

"My orders," he said to Cherriton, over his shoulder,
"are to be carried out as expeditiously as possible.  I
leave the method in your hands."  He turned his eyes
upon Manwitz.  "I shall expect you to co-operate in
the work, Manwitz!"

At that moment Conrad presented himself in the door-way.

"Tell Mr. Treves to come in," said von Kuhne.

Two minutes later John entered the room.  His erect
figure, his clear eye, instantly caught von Kuhne's
attention; every one of the German's suspicions was in that
moment doubly confirmed.  For a moment von Kuhne
felt inclined to draw his pistol and shoot Manton down
where he stood, but by a powerful effort he assumed his
suave "Doctor Voules" manner.

"Come in, Mr. Treves," he said.  "We have seen very
little of you of late."

John came into the room and shook hands with
Manwitz.  He had not seen him for some time.  Manwitz's
hand was cold and flabby to the touch.  John felt the
atmosphere tense and electrical; he knew in some subtle
way that Voules' smoothness of tone was a veneer to hide
other and deeper feelings.  The eyes of the three Germans
seemed to watch him with unusual closeness.  He
instantly jumped to the conclusion that Cherriton had
been conveying his suspicions to von Kuhne.  The thought
that Mrs. Beecher Monmouth's suspicions had been aroused
was the last thing that would have entered his head.

He stayed for some minutes talking upon general
topics.  He had come in answer to a summons from von
Kuhne, and was surprised that the German had given
him no definite instructions.  On behalf of Dacent
Smith, John had already gathered a good deal of data
about the approaching operations.  He knew more than
a little of the great blow Germany was preparing, and he
felt a little puzzled that von Kuhne appeared to have
upon this occasion nothing for him to do.

"You must come again," said the German; "we will
have a further talk."  He glanced at Cherriton.  Cherriton
understood the meaning of the look.

"Which way are you going, Treves?"

"Oh!  I shall cycle back to Freshwater," John
answered.  "I promised my father I'd stay a night with
him."

"That's exactly my way back," answered Cherriton.

"It is my way also," added Manwitz, "but I'm afraid
you'll have to leave me behind, as I have no cycle."

The upshot was that a few minutes later, in a pause
between two heavy downfalls of rain, John and Cherriton
set out and cycled away together from Voules's residence.

John and Cherriton cycled side by side.  It was John's
plan to spend the night with Treves's father.  He was
fond of the old soldier, and in deceiving him was merely
carrying out his chosen part.  He was playing a
dangerous game in his country's interests.  And the first
man to applaud his actions would have been the fine old
soldier, whose own son had proved so utter a disappointment.
Therefore John felt no compunction in the deception.

He knew that infinite caution was required of him, and
that the shrewd eyes of Captain Cherriton were always
upon him.  He knew that at any moment "Voules,"
or Cherriton or Mrs. Beecher Monmouth might stumble
upon the knowledge of his true identity.  In that case
not only would his utility to Dacent Smith come to an
abrupt end, but his own chances of escape from his
enemies' ruthlessness would be hardly worth
contemplating.  He was surprised to find that, as he and
Cherriton rode side by side, the tall German talked more
volubly and affably than usual.  He seemed to have
forgotten his suspicions of John, his peculiar attitude in
Doctor Voules's room had vanished.  He questioned John
cheerfully as to his recent movements, and, when John
evaded his questions a little too obviously, he rallied his
companion, suggesting that he was a gay dog, that he
was neglecting his wife and bestowing his attentions
elsewhere.

John looked at him keenly upon the mention of Elaine's
name, but he could read nothing on the German's pallid,
heavy-boned face.  Nevertheless, as he rode, and as they
drew near to Freshwater, John became aware that his
companion had been pumping him with a good deal of
subtlety.  He was trying to find out something—what
that something was John could not guess.

They rode up a long hill together and came in sight of
the sea.  The view was magnificent, despite the lowering
clouds and the rain, which had begun to fall again.  Upon
their right hand, sloping towards the sea and the white
cliffs, lay a wide expanse of down, broken by small
coppices and clumps of gorse.  There was an old grey
stone farm-house, with farm buildings, in the distance
and in the middle of the down, near a clump of trees,
were two single-storied labourers' cottages.

Cherriton drew John's attention to these buildings.

"I want you to come and have a look at that little
place, Treves," he said, in a casual tone.

"What is its particular interest?" asked John.

"It has a particular interest for me," Cherriton
answered, "because I have rented it furnished for six
months.  It is a delightful little place, and just the sort
of bachelor abode to suit me."  He turned his light blue
eyes and looked with what might have been called
frankness into John's face.  "I hope you'll give me the
pleasure of being my guest there one of these days soon.
Doctor Voules is lending me Conrad for servant, and I
shall be able to make you fairly comfortable."

"Thanks," said John; "I shall be pleased to come."

"Why not come and have a look at it now?"
continued Cherriton.  "We can't ride across the heather,
but there is a path, and we can push our bicycles."

"Thanks all the same," said John, "but I am afraid
I cannot spare the time."

"I can give you a very decent peg of whisky," said
Cherriton, quietly.

John, playing the part of Bernard Treves, smiled.

"I am afraid I must keep off the whisky, as I am going
to see my father," he answered adroitly.

After that Cherriton pressed him no more.  Presently,
however, he slackened his pace.

"This is where I get off," he said.  He dismounted, and
John also alighted.  "Why not come in until the rain is
over?"

"I don't mind the rain," said John.

Cherriton turned and pushed his bicycle through the
gap in the stone wall.  He was still scheming with all his
thoughts to get John into the secluded cottage.  A new
thought came to him.

"By the way," he said, "has your friend Manwitz
been able to give you any of the tablets you used to be so
anxious about?"  He paused a moment, looking John
steadily in the eyes, "or have you managed to break the
habit?"

John detected something in his tone which caused him
to move warily.

"I have had nothing from him for some time; and, as
for breaking that sort of habit, it isn't so easy.  What
made you ask that?"

"Merely the fact," answered Cherriton, cunningly,
"that I think I can give you what you want."

John had already detected that the other had a strong
reason for getting him into the cottage, and, though at
first he had made up his mind to accept no invitation, he
now saw that he was liable to fall into a trap.  For if he
declined to come to the cottage for the tablets, which
were a mania with Treves, he would without doubt deepen
Cherriton's suspicions.  Therefore, acting the part of
Treves, he broke into a laugh.

"Well, if you put it like that," he said, "I suppose I
must come."

Five minutes later he followed Cherriton through a
gate in a low stone wall, crossed the patch of ground
before the cottage, and entered the single-storied building.
The house was silent and deserted.  John discovered
that the place, formerly two workmen's cottages, had
been knocked into one, and furnished for the purpose of
letting.

The room in which John stood was low, and a gate-legged
table occupied the middle of the apartment.  There
was an old-fashioned fireplace, three or four
chintz-covered chairs, and chintz curtains.  From the window
John could obtain a distant view of a grey sea and a
leaden sky.

"It's not over cheerful in here, is it?" said Cherriton.
"I think we had better have a fire."  He put a match
to the fire, then took whisky and glasses from the
cupboard.  "One peg won't hurt you," he remarked, pouring
out a drink for John.  "While you are drinking, I'll
look for the tablets."

He stayed in the room for some minutes after that.
John noticed that he poured himself a stiff dose of whisky,
and drank it down with only a moderate addition of
water.  He gave John the impression of a man who is
strung up to a high pitch of tension.  He was restless and
walked the floor, explaining to John that he intended to
spend the rest of the summer and the autumn there.

"I have a good deal of writing to do," he said, "and
Dr. Voules wants me to be near him.  It's not a bad little
place this, is it?"

"Not at all," said John.

Cherriton went out of the room into a bedroom with
two windows, one of which looked over a deserted-looking
yard, with a covered well at the further end.  He stood
at the window, gazing out into this yard, with puckered
brows, for several minutes.  Then he began to open and
shut drawers in the dressing-table, making a considerable
noise.

He came into the sitting-room a few minutes later and
apologised to John, saying that he must have made a
mistake about the tablets.

"I can find no sign of them," he said, "but you must
come again, and I promise to have some for you."

John, who had been watching him closely, suddenly
rose from his chair and confronted him.

"Look here, Cherriton," he demanded, "what's your game?"

Cherriton's face took on a stony expression

"What game?" he demanded.

"Why are you so deucedly restless?"

Cherriton broke into a laugh.

"It's your imagination.  I am not in the least restless;
I am only worried that I have dragged you here for
nothing.  Have another whisky?"

"No, thanks," said John, this time firmly.  "I must
be pushing along."  He happened to be looking into
Cherriton's face as he said this, and something took place
on the other's face that startled him—a flame of
something like ferocity lit up in the German's eyes, then
instantly vanished.  After that, however, he made no
further attempt to detain John.  He came to the end of
the little cottage garden as John went away, and watched
him as he mounted his bicycle and rode away towards
Freshwater.  Then he returned to the cottage, closed
the door behind him, and, dropping into a chair, took
out Mrs. Beecher Monmouth's letter and read it
carefully from end to end.

He was still in his chair at the hearth half an hour
later when Manwitz knocked at the door, and came in.

"Come in, Manwitz, come in!" said Cherriton, rising.
Manwitz had halted in the doorway, and was slowly
drawing off his mackintosh.  There was a mute expression
in his eyes.  Cherriton, reading his expression, pointed
to a chair at the opposite side of the hearth.

"Sit down, Manwitz; nothing has happened yet;
our friend is spending the night with his father, but
he has arranged to come over here to see me to-morrow."

Manwitz took a handkerchief from his inner pocket,
and mopped his brow.

"It is terrible, Herr Baron!  His Excellenz affirms
that he has been watching us from the beginning, but in
that case how can he explain the sinking of the *Polidor*?"

"The time for explanations has gone, Manwitz.
Treves's discoveries, whatever they are, must not be
permitted to check the great work his Excellenz has put
his hand to."

For some minutes after that there was silence between
the two men; then Manwitz spoke, easing his collar
about his fat throat:

"His Excellenz impressed upon me, Herr Baron, the
business of Mr. Treves is of the utmost urgency."

"That is understood," Cherriton answered grimly.
"But His Excellenz has no wish that I should play the
fool and expose myself to unnecessary danger.  His
Excellenz can rely entirely upon my discretion—and our
united capacity to carry out his command, eh, Manwitz?"

Manwitz smiled and nodded, but entirely without
enjoyment.  Cherriton's coolness in face of the terrible
duty that lay before them filled him with both terror
and envy.





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`CHAPTER XXIX`:

.. class:: center large

   CHAPTER XXIX

.. vspace:: 2

At six o'clock that same evening Colonel Treves issued
from the front door of his fine Tudor residence at
Freshwater, and made his way down the drive.  The weather
had cleared, there was a golden light in the west, and the
Colonel, wearing a tweed suit, walked briskly towards
the lodge-keeper's cottage.  He told himself that he had
come there entirely upon business—merely to give the
man certain personal orders.  The truth of the matter
was, however, that he could no longer stay in the house.
He was expecting his son; he was looking forward to
meeting his boy Bernard with a keener and happier
interest than he had felt for many years.  During recent
months all his old love for his only offspring had returned.
He was an old man, and the son who for many years had
disappointed him had now grown to be a real Treves, and
a man of honour.  A smile flitted across his fine, kindly
face.  He believed that he had at last discovered the
reason of Bernard's altered behaviour.  The boy who
had been tragically cashiered from the army, who had,
indeed, been almost proved guilty of cowardice in the
face of the enemy, had righted himself; and not only
had he won the confidence of his superiors, but he had
been entrusted with delicate and difficult duties.

When Colonel Treves reached the lodge-keeper's
single-storied abode, he held the man in conversation for some
minutes, but his eyes turned incessantly towards the
sloping road that led past his gate.  When at last he saw
a khaki-clad figure on a bicycle, he turned to his elderly
employée:

"Adams," he said, "is that Mr. Bernard coming along?"

"Yes, sir," answered the man, after a minute or two's
scrutiny.

When John reached the drive, the Colonel was at the
gate to meet him.

"Well, Bernard, boy, so there you are," he exclaimed,
gripping the young man's hand.  "I just happened to be
doing a little business here with Adams, and caught sight
of you.  Come in, boy, come in.  How do you think
Mr. Bernard's looking, Adams?" he said, turning to the old
servant.

"He's looking fine, sir," answered the man.  "I've
seldom seen him looking so well."

"Leave your bicycle with Adams," said the Colonel;
"you can take me up to the house.  I am not quite so
brisk as I used to be."  And he slipped his arm through
John's and went up the drive, talking happily and
cheerfully as he went.  John had always felt drawn towards
him; it was impossible for him not to feel admiration and
pity for this splendid old fellow.  He experienced a sense
of pleasure that his visit could give the old man such
genuine delight.

"Now, Bernard, boy," said the Colonel, "I have a
word to say to you before we go in the house.  I have a
surprise waiting for you there, but before we go in I want
to ask you one thing?"

"What is it?" John asked quietly.

"It's this, Bernard, boy; you haven't been trusting
me.  You haven't relied upon me as a son should rely on
his father."

"In what way, sir?"

"You'll find that out, Bernard, boy, when we get
indoors," said the Colonel enigmatically.

John questioned him closely, but he could learn nothing,
and presently Gates, the old butler, drew open the door,
greeted John with a smile, and took his hat and gloves.

"Your suit-case arrived this morning, sir," he informed
John.  "I have taken it to your room."

"It's the south room, Bernard, boy," intervened the
Colonel; "it's the first time you've had the honour of
sleeping in the room that used to be your mother's.  But
this is a special reunion, Bernard.  I had to do
something to mark the occasion."

He took John's arm again, and together they ascended
to the library, the room in which John had first made his
acquaintance.  There was something on the Colonel's
mind which gave him pleasure, and filled him with an
air of humorous mystery.

"When you've seen who's in the library, Bernard,"
he said, as they drew near the green baize-covered door,
"you'll understand what I mean about trusting me better
in the future."

He drew open the door.

"Come in, Bernard, boy; come in."

John followed him into the big, handsome apartment,
with its mullioned windows and its fine view of the sea.
There was some one standing by the hearth with back to
the fire-place, and John suddenly caught his breath and
stood still.  Elaine Treves was there, smiling at him,
and as he entered the room she came forward, holding out
both hands in greeting.

"Bernard," she exclaimed, a light of happiness
radiating her gentle beauty; "you didn't expect to
find me here, did you?"

John's surprise was complete.  Thoughts of Elaine
had been with him during the greater part of his ride,
but he remembered Treves's secret in regard to his wife,
the fact that he had always kept his marriage from his
father's knowledge.  He was therefore astonished to
find Elaine installed under her father-in-law's roof.
She looked very much at home, and John wondered
consumedly how she had managed to come there.  He also
foresaw new difficulties for himself; nevertheless he was
delighted to see her, her freshness, her beauty, her
winning confidence in himself all tended to please him.
It took him very few minutes to observe that her presence
brightened Colonel Treves's home amazingly.  It was
obvious to John that she had already won her way into
the old fellow's heart, and as Elaine reached up and shyly
kissed him, the Colonel smiled upon them both with an
air of infinite benevolence.

"Now," exclaimed Colonel Treves, rallying John half
an hour later, when Elaine had gone to dress for dinner.
"Now do you see why I asked you to trust me?"

"I think I do," said John, somewhat awkwardly.

"Here, you young rascal, you go and marry a charming
girl, who would bring credit and honour to my family,
and you hide her away from me, pretending all the time
that I am the strict and cruel father.  That shows how
greatly you misunderstood me, Bernard boy.  Why, if
I had chosen a wife for you myself, I couldn't have made
as good a choice as you made in marrying Elaine.  She's
been here three days, Bernard, and already I feel towards
her as to my own daughter.  I always feared you would
make a fool of yourself in marrying."  He paused and
looked at John with his dim eyes.  "Sometimes, Bernard
boy," he said, with a touch of wistfulness in his tone,
"I cannot understand the change that has come over
you, the improvement.  But it's the good blood coming
out, eh—the Treves blood.  I always hold that blood
tells, and in your case my conviction has been proved
more than right.  Now, Bernard, how long can you stay
with me this time?"

"Only to-night, sir, I am sorry to say."

"Come, come," protested the old Colonel, "I'd
expected a week at least."  As he spoke the door opened,
and Elaine entered the room dressed for dinner.  For the
first time John saw her in evening apparel.  Her dress
was of an inexpensive pale yellow material, muslin or
silk, John did not know which, and did not care.  Her
dark hair was beautifully coiffeured, her cheeks glowed
with colour, and there was a light of happiness in her
eyes.

Colonel Treves glanced at the clock on his desk.

"Why, it's nearly seven!" he exclaimed.  "I had no
idea it was so late.  I must run away and change.  You'll
want to get out of those puttees, Bernard," he said,
glancing at John.

"Thank you," said John.  "I am in the south room, sir?"

The Colonel nodded, and John, wondering exactly
where the south room might be, went out of the library.
He walked along the corridor, and chanced upon a house-maid.

"Which is my room, please?" he said.

The housemaid preceded him along the passage, and
opened a door, switched on the electric light.

John thanked her, and found himself in an imposing
bedroom, beautifully furnished in the French style.  His
suit-case had been unstrapped and was upon a stand at
the foot of the bed.  Laid neatly out upon the bed
itself were his clothes for the evening.  A fine apartment,
thought John, and at that moment a knock fell upon
the door.

"Come in," he called.  The door opened quietly, and
Elaine stepped into the room.  She advanced across
the room in the most natural manner in the world.
There was a light in her fine grey eyes, and she was
visibly and quite frankly delighted to be alone with
John.  John, for his part, saw in a flash the awkwardness
of the position chance had imposed upon him.  In his
sudden surprise in finding Elaine under Colonel Treves's
roof he had overlooked a *tête-à-tête* of this kind.  He
had indeed hardly had time to think of the matter at all.

"Bernard, are you really pleased to see me?"

"Delighted," John answered, wondering what other
word he could use, for, as a matter of truth, he was
delighted and appalled at the same time.  He felt that
the situation involving him would require the utmost
finesse, if he meant to escape satisfactorily.  His own
nerves were strung up to a high pitch of tension, and it
came as a surprise to him that Elaine should act as
though their presence together in that stately sleeping
apartment was the most natural event in the world.

"Do you like my dress, Bernard?"

She came towards the glittering dressing-table and
turned slowly for his inspection.  Her attitude, her
confidence were exquisitely attractive to John.  Her
wifely anxiety to win her husband's approval was the
prettiest thing he had ever seen.  And once again the
splendid rich duskiness of her hair, the gentle glow of her
cheeks, the fine contours of her well-turned lips, and the
fairness of her skin won his admiration.  But it was not
this, it was in no sense her radiant and girlish beauty
that had evoked John's feelings.  Mrs. Beecher Monmouth
possessed beauty, but she lacked utterly the
frankness and generous natural trust, the appealing
femininity, in fact, which is always potent in the winning
of a man's love.  For it was love, and love only that
John felt for this girl who was Bernard Treves's wife, who
was nothing to him, and could never be anything.

To ease the situation he told her lightly that her dress
suited her to perfection.

"You said when we first met, Bernard, that this
primrose colour suited me best, so I put it on to-night."

"Only to please me?" asked John.

Elaine nodded.

"Of course I like to please your father, too, Bernard,"
she went on.  "I think he is wonderful; just the beau
ideal of a fine, upright soldier.  I cannot understand how
you could ever have doubted his generosity."

"I didn't doubt him," John answered.  "I only
misunderstood him, and acted like a fool."

"But in regard to our marriage.  If you had told him
months ago, I am sure he would have been just as pleased
as he is now.  Why didn't you, Bernard?"

"I don't know," John answered.  "But I am sure he
would have been pleased if I had been sensible enough to
trust him."

Elaine seated herself upon an ottoman, an old-fashioned
circular piece of furniture which decorated the middle of
the apartment.  For a minute she let her eyes wander
over the refined luxury of the room, then said quietly and
thoughtfully:

"So this used to be your mother's room, Bernard?"

John drew in his breath slowly.  "Yes," he answered,
and, as he spoke, he felt suddenly and acutely the falsity
of his position.  He was upon dangerous ground, and he
felt again intense dislike at having to deceive this woman,
who was everything in the world to him.

"I think it was so dear of your father," resumed
Elaine thoughtfully, "to let us have this room."  John
cast a swift look in her direction.  "He could not have
paid us a greater compliment," Elaine went on.

She was entirely absorbed in her thoughts.  To her
it was the most natural thing in life that the Colonel
should honour his son and his son's wife by allotting to
them this fine apartment.  In doing so he was tacitly
informing the young couple that Elaine in her turn was
to be the lady of the house.  But so far as John was
concerned, Elaine's quiet acceptance of himself and of
this fact filled him with consternation.  He felt himself
enmeshed and hopelessly bewildered.  This was not his
room only, but Elaine's.  It had not entered his mind
to look into the wardrobe; he had not even noticed the
pair of ladies' gloves which lay upon the dressing-table.
But now as he turned away, so that Elaine might not
read his glance, his eyes fell upon her gloves for
the first time.  A moment of acute crisis had arisen.
Nevertheless he still fenced, peeking a way out of
the situation.

"I cannot understand," he said, "how you managed
to get into touch with my father after all."

Elaine laughed brightly.

"I have been wondering when you would ask that,
Bernard.  It was all owing to the old butler, Mr. Gates.
He came to 65, Bowles Avenue.  It seems that you gave
that address once at the Savoy Hotel in case Mr. Dacent
Smith sent for you suddenly.  Gates went to the Savoy
to find you, to give you a message from your father, and
the Savoy people gave him my address.  I answered the
door to Gates myself, and in the course of his inquiries
about you, I told him who I was.  He had never heard of
me before and was very much surprised.  Naturally,
when he came back here, he told your father."

"I see," said John, "and my father invited you here?"

Elaine nodded.

"Not only invited me, but he has been absolutely
charming to me."

"I don't see anything very extraordinary in that,"
returned John.

"Oh, but I might have been the most horrid sort of
creature.  He knew nothing whatever about me."

"He only needed to look at you," John answered,
"to see that—that I had made an ideal marriage."

"I have made him tell me everything about your
boyhood, Bernard."

John winced.  He had no wish to discuss a boyhood
that was naturally a blank to him.

"I believe I know more about your schoolboy days
than you do yourself," smiled Elaine.

"I shouldn't wonder," said John with a smile.

Despite himself, against caution and his better judgment,
he was beginning to enjoy the scene.  He was still
at the dressing-table, and in the depths of the mirror he
could see behind him Elaine's reflection, a delicate and
beautiful picture, seated on the ottoman behind him,
looking at him with admiring and loving eyes, believing
in him, and trusting him.

"Bernard!"  Her tone was low and intimate.

"Yes."

"Come and sit beside me."

"Oh, I don't know whether I can," said John; "I've—I've
got a letter to write."  He was quick at inventing
excuses.

"You can't care much for me, Bernard, if you bother
to write a letter, after not seeing me for so long."  She
rose and came towards him.  He felt foolish and awkward
when she took his hand in hers, led him to the
ottoman and seated him beside her.  "Tell me what
you have been doing all these long days."

"Oh, all sorts of things," John answered.

"Did you ever think of me?"

"Often," John answered, truthfully.

"Have you been loving me?  Look into my eyes and
say it, Bernard."

John turned his face towards hers.  He saw love in her
eyes; love that was offered to himself alone; and as he
sustained the radiant tenderness of her gaze a wild
impulse came to him to cast discretion to the winds.
He hovered on the verge of telling her frankly and bluntly
that he was not her husband.  Nevertheless he longed
to tell her that she was the one woman in all the world
for him, that she had won his deepest love, and that he
was prepared to break down all barriers, to risk
everything if——.  Then suddenly he caught himself up.
His lips were sealed.  As an honourable man, even if he
admitted his true identity, he must not utter his love.

"Why are you looking at me so strangely, Bernard?"  There
was a puzzled and anxious light in her eyes.

"Was I?"

"You suddenly drew your brows together and looked
at me so furiously that I thought I must have offended
you."

"You could never offend me."

"I don't think you love me after all."  She was holding
his hand in hers, looking wistfully up into his face.
"Do you?"

John slid his fingers away from her touch and rose.
He began to pace the floor uneasily.  As always, he was
seeking a way out, racking his brains for a solution.
But there was only one method of escape, and that lay in
sudden and ignominious flight.

"Look here, Elaine!" he said, suddenly and brutally.
"It has occurred to me that I ought to go away again
to-night, immediately after dinner!"

She rose and looked at him with startled eyes.  John
went on, clumsily:

"Something important has turned up!"

"Oh, but, Bernard, that would be too cruel.  I have
hardly seen you!"  She came to him quickly and laid
her hands on his shoulders.  There was entreaty in her
fine eyes, upraised to his.  "You'll stay just to-night,"
she implored, wistfully, "just for my sake."

John put her away from him almost roughly; his voice
was hoarse and low.

"It's impossible, Elaine!"

She stood for a moment regarding him with steady
gaze.  A long, tense silence lay between them.  Then
she spoke, quietly, and with a dignity that somehow
wrung John's heart.

"Then all your protestations of love for me mean
nothing at all!"

"They mean everything," said John, in the same low tone.

"And yet you repulse me as if you hated me?"

"I don't mean to act cruelly."

"If you had any regard for me at all, you'd stay.  It
isn't the first time, Bernard, that you—you've humiliated
me!"

John looked into her face that had grown suddenly
tragic.  He saw in a moment how completely justified
she was in her attitude.  He had protested his love for
her only a few minutes earlier, and had then snatched at
something that must have seemed to her the thinnest
of excuses for hurrying away—for leaving her.

"If you loved me really, Bernard, you'd stay."  Her
voice was very low.  "However, I have suffered the
humiliation of your refusal.  I shall not make the same
mistake again."  She turned and walked slowly towards
the door.  John saw that she could scarcely restrain her
tears; her head was uplifted—she was superb in her
dignity.  For the life of him John could not refrain from
striding a few paces towards her.

"Elaine!" he implored, in a voice that rang with
emotion.  "Don't misjudge me.  And as for humiliating
you, I'd do anything in the world rather than do that!
Look here, Elaine, you think I don't love you?"

She turned quietly and looked at him.

"I have every proof of it!  In London you refused to
stay with me; it is the same here.  Your words say one
thing—your actions another!"

"You will be able to make some excuse to your father
for not occupying the same room with me——"

In that moment, with her face pale, her head erect, a
strange light in her eyes, she was more than ever beautiful.
In John's eyes she was the fairest and finest-looking
woman that ever breathed.  Something made him put out
his hand and grip her fingers.

"Elaine!"

She strove with surprising strength to release herself.

"No, Bernard, don't!"

Then John's elaborate and well-sustained defences
fell.  He forgot everything in a sudden wild rush of
passion.

"I don't love you, Elaine?" he cried.

"You never loved me——" she began.  And in that
moment John's arms swept about her.  He forgot
everything—the world faded.  He and the fairest of
women—the woman of his love—were together, and he
was kissing her as he had never kissed any woman....
Elaine's weak protests faded; astonishment swept over
her, and gave place to a wonderful and radiant happiness.

"My God!" breathed John; "if you only knew how
much I loved you!"

"Bernard—Bernard—Bernard!" she whispered.
Then, to her infinite astonishment, John wrenched himself
free; he put his hands to his brows, and fell back several
paces, like a man who has received a stunning blow
between the eyes.

"Elaine," he said, with clenched fists, his face suddenly
pale, his eyes wild—"forget that I held you in my arms!
Forget what I said!  Forget everything!"  His voice
rose almost to a shout.

A moment later he had rushed out of the room, and
had drawn the door behind him.





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`CHAPTER XXX`:

.. class:: center large

   CHAPTER XXX

.. vspace:: 2

Almost as John closed the door of the south room Gates
began to strike, in rising and rhythmic cadences, the great
dinner-gong that stood in the hall.  The elderly butler
turned as John halted at his side.

"Is that the dressing-bell, Gates?" he asked.

"No, Mr. Bernard, the dressing-bell went at the usual
time, sir."

John looked at him in surprise.  He had heard nothing.
During that scene in the room upstairs, when he had lost
possession of himself, the sound of the bell had passed
unheard.  John felt no wonder at that; even now his
thoughts whirled through his brain.  His temperament
was naturally cool, equable, and determined.  Never in
his life could he recollect having completely forgotten
himself, as he had forgotten himself with Elaine a few
minutes earlier.  The power of love, indeed, had reduced
him to the common standard.  His nerve, his self-possession,
his swift power of decision—all the gifts, in
fact, that commended him to Dacent Smith, had deserted
him in a flash.  For a brief moment—for a space of a
moment—he had forgotten everything, save the fact that
he loved a woman.

He stood now thinking of these things, and was amazed
at the blind passion that had seized him.  He began to
condemn himself bitterly and savagely.  His deception
of Elaine stood before him as a monstrous thing.  The
thought that he occupied another's man shoes, and had
thus led her to pour out a love which she would have
otherwise concealed, struck him as a criminal proceeding
upon his part.  He was obliged to confess to himself that
he had dallied with the situation, that he had not acted
firmly enough.  On the other hand—a small voice
whispered this—his deception of Elaine was not his
fault; he had not wittingly deceived her.  He had,
indeed, acted all through as an honourable man.  This
last thought gave him a certain amount of comfort as
he crossed the great hall and entered the drawing-room.
Colonel Treves was the sole occupant of the room,
and was standing with his back to the white marble
fire-place, his hand resting on the stick he used as support.
John noticed that in evening clothes the old man looked
more imposing and distinguished than ever.  The Colonel
drew out his watch.

"Where's Elaine?"

John explained that he had left Elaine upstairs a few
moments ago, and presently Elaine, a little pale, came
into the drawing-room.  No glance passed between her
and John.  With a courtly air, Colonel Treves advanced
towards her and crooked his elbow.

"May I have the honour?" he said.

Elaine slipped her arm into his.  In her pale primrose
dress, with her well-coiffeured dark hair emphasising the
whiteness of her neck, she looked scarcely more than a
child.  John noticed with admiration that her head was
held erect.  She smiled and talked graciously to the
Colonel as he led her into the dining-room and placed her
upon his right hand.  For John there was no smile.

Just as the south room and the drawing-room were
strange to John, so also was the dining-room.  He seated
himself opposite Elaine at the head of a long gleaming
white table.  Gates moved from place to place softly
and noiselessly.  Colonel Treves, who was happier than
he had been for years, made a perfect host.  His
happiness intensified John's own loneliness.  A sensation of
being a pariah came upon him; he felt that he would
have given ten years of his life to be actually sitting
there in the flesh as the real son of the fine old man who
headed the table.

As to Elaine, and his relations with Elaine, he dared
not let his mind dwell upon that subject.  He was
attempting to indicate by his attitude his complete
contrition for what had occurred.  He tried to catch Elaine's
eye.  She looked at him, but there was something
enigmatical in her expression that he was unable to
understand.  Her good breeding was such that to the
outward eye—to the Colonel's eye, in fact—their
relationship was exactly as it had been before, and yet John
knew that a barrier had risen between them.

Elaine maintained her air of stately reserve during the
rest of the evening, and at ten o'clock, when she rose to
go to her room, the Colonel politely conducted her to the
door.  As he closed it upon her he turned and looked
towards John.

"You are a lucky man, Bernard!" he exclaimed.

He came slowly across the room, using his stick, as
was his general habit.

"I hope some day, my boy," he said, "when this
place is yours, Elaine will reign here as graciously and
be as well beloved as your dear mother was."

"I am sure she will, sir," answered John quietly.

The old man slid his arm through his.

"You shall take me up to the library.  We can smoke
there, and make ourselves comfortable."

In the library that night John heard much of Colonel
Treves's past history, much of the family history, of the
man whose identity he was wearing, and the more he
heard of Bernard Treves the more he realised what a
complete and utter waster that young man was.  Often
of late he had thought of Treves in the nursing home,
and wondered what were the conditions of his detention
there.  Dacent Smith was always reticent upon that
point.  The sinking of the *Polidor* through the agency of
Treves had been a black and irredeemable crime.  A
time was bound to come when the young man must
answer for that piece of black treachery against his
country.  Looking at the matter in the most charitable
light, John regarded Treves, as evidently Dacent Smith
regarded him, that is, as a feeble, will-less creature,
whose reason had been unseated, at any rate temporarily,
by the drugs which were a mania with him.

The fact that Manwitz and Cherriton had plied him
with these drugs showed only the bold unscrupulousness
of the German methods.  The German Intelligence
Department had used Bernard Treves, and had moulded
him to its purpose as though he had been of wax.  And
had not Dacent Smith brilliantly substituted John for
Treves, untold disasters would have ensued.

"Bernard!"  The Colonel's voice startled John out
of his thought.  "Bernard, I have seen Gosport lately."

John wondered who Gosport might be.

"Yes," went on the Colonel.  "I was hasty with you,
but I have made everything right.  I have made up
my mind to leave everything to you after all.  What do
you say to that?"

"It is very generous of you, sir," John answered.
He knew that it was utterly impossible that a penny of
the Colonel's possessions should ever be his.

"No, no, it is only right," responded the Colonel.
"You have married well.  You have rehabilitated
yourself in every way, and I find you more what a Treves
should be every time we meet."  He suddenly gripped
John's hand in his.  "You have given me great happiness,
Bernard, and one of the reasons I made haste to
change my will is that the doctor has given me rather a
bad report of myself.  I don't think you'll have to put
up with me for very long, Bernard!"

"Don't say that, sir!" answered John, quickly and
impulsively.

"I fear it is the truth," said the Colonel; "but I can
face the next world with a far better grace than I could
have done a year ago."

He was thinking of the fine old house and the properties
which a year ago might have fallen into the hands of a
worthless son.  Now, as by a miracle, that son had
become a man—a man of honour—and a Treves.  The
two things were synonymous in the Colonel's eyes, and
the future, whatever it might be, however soon darkness
might come, held for him no terrors.

It was after eleven that night when the Colonel went to
his room.

"I'll sit up and write a few letters at your desk, if I
may, father," said John, after escorting the elder man
to the door of his bedroom.

He went back to the library, shut himself in, and
dropped into a chair at the hearth.  What Elaine was
doing, what were her thoughts, he could not guess.  He
wondered if she was waiting for him, expecting him to
come and ask for forgiveness.  Perhaps some time in
the dim future, when the whole truth was told, she
might forgive; but for the present he knew that nothing
he could do would right him in her eyes.

He sat in the arm-chair, dozing and thinking, until
dawn came.

When the breakfast gong rang next morning Elaine
descended and found the Colonel alone at the table.  The
old man looked disturbed, but in no way depressed.

"You will have to content yourself with me, Elaine,"
he said, "now that Bernard has deserted us again.  He
left me a note saying that important business has arisen,
and ran away before I was down.  But of course," added
the old man as an afterthought, "you know all about it."

Elaine inclined her head, and said nothing.  Colonel
Treves put out his hand and laid it on her slender fingers.

"When the war is over, you and my boy Bernard
will live here together, and be as happy as crickets."

"It is very, very dear of you to say so, father."  Sudden
tears glistened in her eyes.  She clasped the Colonel's
old, frail fingers in hers.  In that moment it seemed to her
that he was the only friend she possessed in the world.

So far as John was concerned, Elaine dared not let
herself think.  The strange scene in the south room had
burnt itself into her brain.  John's tremendous anxiety
to get away from her, together with the undoubted fact
that he loved her, was bewildering beyond solution.
The thought that her husband had reverted to the drug
habit had long been discarded.  None of the symptoms
that had marked him in the early days of their marriage
were present—he was as another man in her eyes.  She
loved him—she was afraid, and she was bewildered.
Every post that came found her anxiously awaiting a
letter from John.  But none came; two eventless days
passed.  But upon the evening of the second day after
John's departure a dramatic mischance that had been
impending—that had, indeed, been inevitable from the
beginning—occurred.

Elaine had made her way alone into the grounds.  Her
mood was one that called for solitude, and in the quiet
of the long, fir-treed avenue, the drive which led from
the mansion to the road, she found the seclusion she
needed.  The evening was clear, and through tree-stems
the ocean, glassily blue and empty of shipping, spread
to the far horizon.  The scene was calm, reposeful—everything,
in fact, a troubled spirit could require.

Presently, however, the entrance gate at the end of
the drive was pushed open.  A young man in a green
felt hat and wearing stiff Sunday clothes came into the
drive and walked slowly forward.  Elaine, as the stranger
drew near, noticed that he was a youth, little more than
twenty, wearing a service-rendered badge.  The young
man wore his green hat slightly on one side—his
complexion was fresh, his cheeks ruddy, and his general
expression one of amiable stupidity.

Elaine glanced at him and was about to pass, thinking
he carried a message to the house, when the visitor
halted in his walk and sheepishly lifted his hat.  As he
halted he drew from his pocket a crumpled, rather
grimy-looking envelope.

"Is that Colonel Treves's house, miss?"

"Yes," said Elaine.

"I've got a letter for there, miss," went on the young
man; "it's addressed to Mrs. Treves."

"There is no Mrs. Treves," Elaine answered; then
quickly remembering, she smiled the gracious smile that
was always so attractive to John.  "I'm Mrs. Bernard
Treves."

The young man handed her the letter, and instantly
Elaine's casual air vanished, for the address was in her
husband's handwriting, and had been scrawled hurriedly
in pencil.

She tore open the envelope and read the single sheet
of notepaper within.

.. vspace:: 2

DEAR ELAINE, ran the note, *I want you to give the
bearer of this ten shillings.  Then, if you can, and as
soon as you can, you must raise ten pounds and let him
bring it here to me.  General Whiston and a person called
Dacent Smith have been keeping me prisoner here.  The
suggestion is that I am* non compos mentis.  *I don't
know whether my father's in it or not, so on no account
mention this letter to him.  Whatever you do, don't fail
me; I have been suffering the tortures of the damned
here.  The young man who brings this can get to me,
and there is a nurse here who can help me to get away
if I can get hold of ten pounds.  Remember this, Elaine,
you are my wife, and I hope you aren't siding with
my father against me.  I can't stand the torture of
being here any longer, so I look to you to act quickly.
You can act quickly enough when you want to.  I am
nearly off my head with being deprived of the medicine
I used to take.  The bearer of this would get into trouble
if found out, so don't forget to treat him well.*

.. vspace:: 1

.. class:: noindent white-space-pre-line

*Your affectionate husband,*
    BERNARD TREVES.

.. vspace:: 2

As Elaine slowly read this letter for a second time the
colour fled from her cheeks.  Her heart-beat quickened
almost to suffocation—she could make nothing of it.

Her eyes travelled to the head of the missive and read:

"St. Neot's Nursing Home, Ambleside Road, Ryde."

"St. Neot's Nursing Home—St. Neot's Nursing
Home."  Under her breath she uttered the words in
a dazed, stupefied fashion.

It seemed impossible that her husband, who had been
with her only forty-eight hours before, could be
incarcerated there.  Then the strangeness of the
letter! ... She read it again, shrinking instinctively from its
tone.  Here was her husband as she had known him
from the beginning—querulous and domineering.

For a minute she wondered if there had been some
extraordinary and unexplainable mistake, but she knew
his handwriting.  Nevertheless, with a great effort to
steady herself, she looked into the face of the messenger.

"If you will come to the house," she said, "I shall
be pleased to give you something for being so kind as to
bring this to me."

"Thank you, miss."

"Are you one of the servants at St. Neot's Home?"

"No, miss.  I work for the dairy that supplies them."

Again Elaine glanced at the crumpled letter in her
fingers.  There was no possibility of forgery—and yet
how came it that Dacent Smith should wish to detain
her husband?  She recalled that the brilliant Chief of
the secret service had had nothing but praise for Bernard.

Again she looked quickly into the young man's face.

"Have you seen Mr. Treves lately?"

"I saw him this morning, miss."

It seemed ridiculous to put the question, to dally still
with the idea of forgery.  Nevertheless, she put it.

"Could you describe Mr. Treves to me?"

"Yes, miss.  He's a good-looking gentleman.  Tall,
dark hair——"

"Thank you," said Elaine, interrupting him—and her
last doubt vanished.

Something had happened to Bernard since yesterday
morning, since his departure from the house without
saying good-bye to her.  He had evidently been seized
and incarcerated in the nursing home against his will.
Yet, even now, as she strove to accept the fact, her
instinct rebelled against it.  The thing seemed so motiveless,
so utterly outside the natural order of events; and
Bernard must have been seized almost immediately
after he left his father's house, for she noted that his
letter was dated the day before.

She again questioned the young man.

"How long has Mr. Bernard Treves been at St. Neot's
Nursing Home?"

"The first time I saw him there, miss, was about two
months ago, when he asked me to get him something at
a chemist's; but he must have been there more than a
month before that.  I should think, miss, he's been there
going on for three months or thereabouts."

"Three months!"

"About that, miss."

Elaine looked at him with widened eyes.  The thing
was impossible and incredible.  Nevertheless, she dared
not let the matter rest where it was.  She decided to
act, and to act instantly.  As yet no suspicion of the
truth had dawned upon her.





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`CHAPTER XXXI`:

.. class:: center large

   CHAPTER XXXI

.. vspace:: 2

At the very hour when Elaine received the strange letter
signed "Bernard Treves," a letter which awoke all her
defensive feminine instincts, John occupied a chair in
the little mess-room at Heatherpoint Fort.  The occasion
was one of deep and portentous significance.  At the
head of the table, where Mrs. Beecher Monmouth had so
recently taken tea with Lieutenant Parkson, General
Whiston was seated in state.  His big, commanding
figure bulked largely in the chair usually occupied by
Colonel Hobin.  Beneath the General's eyes was a map
of the South Coast defences—an elaborate, minutely
particularised map, which in a layman's eyes would have
been almost undecipherable.

The General held a blue pencil over a particular section
of the Solent; his eyes, however, were fixed upon the
countenance of a naval captain who sat at his left hand,
a little farther down the table.  Opposite the naval
captain was Colonel Hobin, and next to Hobin sat old
Commander Greaves.

John occupied an insignificant position next to Greaves,
and near the end of the table there was a vacant chair.

"Is there no possibility, Captain," inquired General
Whiston, speaking to the naval officer, "of altering the
mine-field in the time at our command?"

Before the naval officer lay a small Admiralty chart of
the Solent clustered with a multitude of red crosses.

"Well," he said, deliberating upon the situation,
"this is a pretty elaborate field, and it would take us
quite two days to make an effective new arrangement.
Of course, we could mine the free channels, but that
prevents us coming in."

He went into technical details.

General Whiston cast a glance at John.

"You are quite sure your friends Voules and Company
intend to strike on the twenty-eighth?"

"All the evidence I have been able to get points to
that, sir," answered John promptly.

"The twenty-eighth is the day after to-morrow," put
in Greaves.

"Mr. Dacent Smith," said John, "had an idea that
the attack might be postponed, but he has now come
round to my view."

As a matter of fact, John had that day amply convinced
his chief that the German blow was to fall on the
date originally prescribed.  Since leaving Colonel Treves's
house, and since his embarrassing interview with Elaine,
John had made certain valuable discoveries, all of
which pointed to the imminence of the German attack
on the South Coast defences.  With infinite subtlety
von Kuhne had managed to institute nefarious schemes
in a dozen different directions.  The night of the
twenty-eighth had been marked out in the German general's mind
with the clockwork precision which was a second nature
to him.  And John believed that nothing would shake
his resolution.  Mrs. Beecher Monmouth's particular
work of the early part of that night was to see that
Lieutenant Parkson was not at his post.  All her potent
charms were to be expended to that end.  That she
would succeed in her task was, in von Kuhne's and the
lady's own eyes, a foregone conclusion.  As to Manwitz,
he was to be mysteriously occupied with certain men
of his Majesty's forces whose business it was to operate
the boom between Ponsonby Lighthouse and Windsor
Fort.  Cherriton's particular duty upon the eventful
night John had not been able to discover.  The tall
German still occupied the isolated cottage he had recently
taken on the Downs near Freshwater.  Since John's
visit to the cottage he had not had further meeting with
this particular formidable enemy.

In thinking of his visit to the cottage, however, John
was conscious that the man's attitude upon that day
had been singular in the extreme.  What had been in
Cherriton's mind he did not know, and he was, of course,
totally unaware that sentence of extermination had
been passed upon him.  It is no stretch of imagination
to say that in visiting the cottage he had, without knowing
it, walked within the very shadow of the grave.

"Friend Cherriton is no mean antagonist," thought
John, pondering upon the German's personality as he
sat in the little mess-room.

Now that the great blow was so soon to fall, Dacent
Smith—an unusual circumstance with him—had left his
post in London and come to the Isle of Wight.  General
Whiston and Captain Throgmorton, who respectively
commanded the counter military and naval measures,
found the pleasant, keen-eyed Chief of Intelligence an
invaluable ally.  His intuitive knowledge of the German
character proved to be of the utmost assistance.  He had
been studying Germany and the German secret service
for twenty years, and what he did not know about
Teutonic psychology, chicanery and guile, was not worth
knowing.

Dacent Smith, however, never made the mistake of
under-estimating his enemy.  Von Kuhne's blow would,
he conceded, be a well-wrought and scientifically delivered
attack.  There was one slight thing, however, which von
Kuhne had possibly overlooked—he had possibly overlooked
the important fact that the Isle of Wight is after
all an island, and that in gathering his forces upon this
particular portion of His Majesty's dominions he was
isolating himself from chances of escape in case of failure.

Dacent Smith thought a good deal upon this subject
during his first day at Heatherpoint Fort.  But when he
presently resumed his chair at the end of the table in the
little mess-room, opposite General Whiston, his pleasantly
good-humoured face showed nothing of the intense mental
activity within.

General Whiston lifted his eyes as Dacent Smith took
his seat.

"Well, have you found out anything else for us?"

"Nothing," answered Dacent Smith, "except further
confirmation that von Kuhne will make his attempt the
day after to-morrow.  He has disposed his forces with a
good deal of ingenuity.  This end of the Isle of Wight is
at present dotted with amiable Britishers who happen to
be Germans!"

A curious smile flitted across the face of John's
Chief.

"It must have been very gratifying," said he, "to
Captain Cherriton, Manners, and von Kuhne to say
'British subject' to our good-looking policeman as they
stepped on board the boat at Lymington.  Manners, so I
hear, was the only one of a dozen who came that way
who showed the slightest trace of nervousness.  I think
we shall have to reckon, General," he concluded, "upon
von Kuhne providing something pretty forceful and
daring!"

The naval captain whose eyes were still occupied with
the chart of the Solent, lifted his keen gaze.  "Something
in the nature of our own adventure at Zeebrugge and
Ostend, do you think?"

Here he turned his red-starred chart face downwards.
On its back were twenty or thirty neatly-pencilled lines.

"That," he said, pushing the chart towards Dacent
Smith, "is my forecast of what is going to happen in this
area during the next forty-eight hours.  If your date is
correct, I think my forecast will be pretty well right.
What do you think, General?"

Throgmorton's incisive, clean-cut features turned
towards Whiston.

"I think it's a devilish clever piece of work!" answered
General Whiston, generously.

Dacent Smith's eyes lifted from the pencilled forecast.
His vivid gaze rested for a minute in admiration on
Throgmorton's handsome, well-wrought features.

"Some day, young man," thought he, "you will be
ruler of the King's Navy."

He pushed back the chart towards the naval officer;
then turned towards John.

"You can go, Treves," he said, "with the General's
permission."

Whiston nodded.

John saluted and withdrew from the room.

As Manton passed out into the asphalted courtyard he
met Chief Gunner Ewins.

"Well, Ewins," he said, "what about your wife's
dangerous illness?"

"She wasn't ill at all, sir.  I can't make it out—I've
just got a letter from her to-day, saying she's as well as
ever she was."

"Of course, she never sent the wire," explained John.

"Who could have sent it?" said Ewins, looking at
John with puzzled eyes; "it's a silly sort of joke to play
on anybody, sir."

"Very silly," John admitted.  "It looked as if somebody
wanted to get you out of the fort for a day or two.
That's why the Colonel wouldn't grant you leave.  He
didn't think you were playing a trick on him.  He thought
some one was playing a trick on you.  How are your guns,
Ewins?"

"Nicely, sir, thank you," answered the chief gunner.
"But I'm sorry we've missed our nine-inch practice this
week."

"You won't miss much by that," John answered.
"You'll shoot as well as ever when the time comes."

He knew how soon the time would come, though
Ewins did not.

John descended the steps of the fort, took his bicycle,
and, with due observance of ceremonies, passed through
the great gate that had recently all but intimidated
Mrs. Beecher Monmouth.

An hour later, John, still pedalling steadily, descended
the winding road into Brooke.  At the outskirts of the
village he placed his bicycle against a gate, climbed into a
field, and, by a detour, made his way to the back of
Doctor Voules's house.  In the darkness he walked softly
forward under the shadow of the doctor's garden wall
He had made only a few paces when a voice came to him
out of the gloom.

"Who's that?" demanded the voice, in a guarded whisper.

"Treves," answered John.  "Is that you, Watson?"

"Yes, sir," came the answer.

John drew himself to the top of the garden wall and
looked down upon a corporal in uniform.

"Anything happened?" John asked.

"Yes," answered Watson; "three men came to the
house after dark, stayed a little while, and went away
again, sir."

As a matter of fact, half an hour earlier Doctor Voules
and two tall young men had stealthily mounted the wall
and entered the house by the back way.  Corporal Watson
had been concealed in the garden and witnessed this
visit, and Voules's and his friends' departure in the same
stealthy manner.

"They are evidently trying to give the impression that
the house is uninhabited, sir," the corporal amplified.

John, who had climbed into the garden and was standing
by him, gave a few further instructions as to Voules's
abode, presently mounted his bicycle and rode away.
Three quarters of an hour later, in a small clump of trees
on the heather-clad cliff-top near Freshwater, he spoke
to another soldier.  This man, with three others, had
been detailed to watch Cherriton's cottage.

"The captain's been in his cottage all the evening,
sir," said the man to John, "and the big, fat man's been
with him."

Having satisfied himself as to the whereabouts of
Cherriton and Manners, John cycled on and entered the
Freshwater Hotel.  Here he put through a trunk-call
to Newport.  When he had been connected with a
particular number he inquired into the telephone:

"Is that you, Gibb?"

"Yes, sir," came the answer.

"Do you know who is speaking?"

"It's Mr. Treves, isn't it?"

"Yes," John answered.

Having satisfied himself that he was in touch with the
gloomy-looking waiter at the Newport Hotel, he put
a discreet inquiry.  He had parted with certain Treasury
notes to the benefit of the gloomy waiter.  The waiter,
thereafter feeling himself a small but important wheel
in a piece of vast machinery, made himself busy and active
in John's service.

"Is anybody at home, Gibb?"

"She's not been out all day, sir, and went to bed
immediately after dinner.  She told her maid that she had
a lot to do to-morrow, and asked to be called at eight."

These details were, for the moment, enough to satisfy
John.

"You know where to ring me up, Gibb, if anything
exceptional occurs."

John, having concluded his duties for that day,
pedalled slowly back to the fort.  The night was overcast,
the air close, and as he led his bicycle up the long
white road to the gates, he could hear the waves softly
falling at the foot of the cliffs in the bay below him.
No other sound broke the stillness, and when the outer
sentinel suddenly barred his path and a challenge rang
out on the close air, John was startled out of a mood of
dreams.

He passed the second and the third sentries, a wicket
in the great gate of the fort opened and admitted him,
and, having reported himself to the Colonel, he went
straight to his room.  For the better part of that night
his mind occupied itself with the momentous doings of
the morrow.  The cloud that had gathered itself about
that end of the island was about to break.  What would
happen to himself and others on the morrow he could
not forecast.  But one thing he knew—the long, hidden
contest between Voules and Dacent Smith would reach
its culmination.  Each man, with his pawns, had
manoeuvred, moved, finessed and counter-moved.  The
subtlety of Dacent Smith had been pitted against the
precision and military skill of von Kuhne.  What was
to be the end?  John did not know, and at that moment
his mind was only secondarily occupied with the point;
he was thinking, not of to-morrow, but of yesterday, of
his interview with Elaine, of his abrupt separation from
her, of his apparent brutality and harshness.

He wondered at himself, that he, a capable, alert and
non-sentimental young man, an individual who had
withstood the seductive blandishments of Mrs. Beecher
Monmouth, he wondered to find himself deeply and
passionately in love with a girl whose knowledge of artifice
was of the slightest.  Elaine's genuine trust in him, her
belief in his integrity, her delight in the improvement
in his character, all helped to enchain John's deepest
affections.

As he lay now in the quiet and darkness of his room,
he felt he dared not let his mind dwell upon the future.
He had tricked and duped Elaine, and some day she
would be bound to find him out.

What would happen then?  What would happen when
she learned the truth?

"There is nothing for it," John pronounced suddenly
and emphatically.  "I must tell her myself—I must
confess the whole thing from the beginning."

Having arrived at this decision, he saw himself making
the confession, though he could not see what her attitude
would be.  He could visualise, always standing between
them as an impassable and sinister barrier, the man
whose identity he had borne for so many months.
Bernard Treves—his *alter ego*, his *doppel-gänger*—had
become what he had probably been from the first—his
evil genius.  From the very first he had disliked Treves;
he had later grown to despise him.  The man was
contemptible beyond words.

At this point John took himself resolutely in hand—or,
rather, he thought he took himself resolutely in hand.
What really happened was that he put away thoughts of
Elaine, hiding them courageously and tenderly in the
deeps of his mind, for the sole reason that to think of
her, to think of the hopeless situation between them,
meant nothing but misery and bitterness.

At eight o'clock, when John appeared in the little
mess-room, Colonel Hobin was alone at breakfast, at
the head of the table.

"Well, Treves," he said, "if your predictions are right,
this is going to be the day of our lives!"

"I think I am right, sir," John answered.

"We shall see," answered the Colonel.  "Pass the
marmalade, please."

John passed the marmalade.  He noticed the Colonel's
hand was steady—none of the nervous irritability that
characterised him usually was apparent—and the old
soldier's eyes had taken on a new masterful expression
of command—the countenance of a good captain on the
bridge in face of a great oncoming storm.





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`CHAPTER XXXII`:

.. class:: center large

   CHAPTER XXXII

.. vspace:: 2

The portentous day, the twenty-eighth of the month,
passed at Heatherpoint Fort with no untoward incident
whatever.  There was a difference, however; there
existed an atmosphere of tense expectancy.  Something
was afoot, for doubled sentries held all points of
vantage along the cliff-tops, doubled sentries guarded
the fort gates, and the barbed wire entanglements at
certain other places.  All leave had been stopped, and
at midday, when Lieutenant William Parkson asked
for leave for very urgent personal reasons, he was
astonished to find that the Colonel had grown totally
immovable.

"If you would let me go from eight o'clock till ten, sir,
I should be satisfied.  I assure you, sir, it is most
important."

It was indeed important in Parkson's eyes.  But
though rebellion surged in him there was no possible
means of getting out of the fort that night without the
Colonel's pass.  Only one person, in fact, left Heatherpoint
Fort that evening.  This person happened to be
John Manton.  General Whiston uttered final words of
advice as the young man took his departure.

"If you are successful, Treves," he said, "you will be
probably back here before the dust-up begins."

"I hope so," said John.  He saluted and clattered
down the flight of steps to the main gate.

It was still light as he cycled swiftly away along the
white road.  A smile curled the corner of his mouth.
The work he was upon was exactly to his liking; there
was something in it of danger, and something of finesse.
When John had cycled for half an hour he looked at his
watch.

"Parkson's appointment with her," he said, "was for
seven o'clock.  I wonder how she intended to handle him?"

He mused upon Parkson, and admitted that the young
man would be as wax in Mrs. Beecher Monmouth's adroit
fingers.  He recalled Mrs. Beecher Monmouth's long,
black record, her superlative daring, the manner in which
she had expended her great personal gifts and keen
intelligence in the service of the enemy.  He thought of
the *Malta*—of the two hundred fine lives sacrificed upon
her information.  And at the thought his lips tightened,
his smile vanished, and the face that Dacent Smith
always knew as good-humoured and pleasant to look
upon, grew hard and forbidding.

Darkness had fallen by the time John turned off the
Newport road towards Brooke.  He did not light his
lamp, however, but this time rode straight through the
village and alighted at Dr. Voules's house.  The
doctor's residence was completely dark.  No light shone
from any of the windows.  John advanced to the door
and placed his fingers on the bell.  He rang twice, but
no answer came to him, no sound of footfall reached him
from the interior of the house.  Then, noticing that the
door was slightly ajar, as if left purposely, he entered
the hall, and in complete darkness walked along towards
the room at the end of the passage, which he remembered
as Voules's dining-room.  He had advanced but ten
paces when a door opened quietly in the darkness, and
a low voice came to him.

"Is that you, Billy?"

John was silent for a moment.  He had braced
himself for an intensely violent scene.  Now, in a
flash, he realised that there were new and exciting
possibilities.  Nevertheless, caution animated his entire
conduct.

In regard to Mrs. Beecher Monmouth he did not know
that she had discovered his association with Dacent
Smith; he was not aware of the lady's sentiments of
bitter antagonism, of virulent hatred towards himself.
He was to learn these things later.  But at the moment
he felt there was little danger of stepping into a trap.
The beautiful woman whispering to him from the darkness
awaited William Parkson, not Bernard Treves or John
Manton.

"Is that you, Billy?"

Her voice came to him again in a tense whisper.

"Yes," answered John in a tone low as her own.  She
drew wider the door of Voules's dining-room.

"I told you to come straight in, Billy.  Why did you
ring the bell?" she admonished him, lifting her voice to
a more ordinary tone.

"Oh, I don't know; I forgot," answered John.

"Come in——"  Her hand groped forward and took
his.  She drew him into the heavily-curtained darkness
of the dining-room and closed the door.

"We mustn't light up till eight o'clock, Billy," she
whispered.

"Why not?"

"It's a fad of mine."

Then she put her face close to his; she let her smooth,
firm hand glide about his shoulder as she drew his face
down.  She kissed him firmly on the lips.

If John had been easy to deceive, that kiss would have
deceived him.  He would have believed absolutely and
implicitly that its fervour and passion were genuine.

"I thought," she whispered, her cheek close to his,
"that you would not be afraid of the darkness."

"Oh, I won't be afraid," responded John in her ear.
He could have laughed—the situation was throbbing
with exhilarating possibilities.

"I was afraid you would be late, or wouldn't be able
to come."

"You knew I'd come," said John.

He groped his way towards the hearth, holding her
hand in his.

"Won't you sit down?" he asked.

"You sit down."  She forced him into Dr. Voules's
comfortable chair, then seated herself on its arm, and
slowly smoothed his hair with her hand.  She lowered
her face and pressed it to his.  Her rounded cheek was
firm, cool and satin smooth.

"You can stay with me quite, quite a long time," she
whispered.

"Thanks," mumbled John; "that's awfully good of
you."  He squeezed her hand.  He could understand
what would have happened to Parkson at that moment—Parkson
already enamoured, flattered to think of a
woman of her social position and extraordinary beauty
flinging herself at his head.

"Will they miss you at the fort to-night, little Billy?"

"I don't know that they'll miss me particularly,"
said John.

"Oh, but you're so—so important there.  Did you
find it difficult to get away, Billy mine?"

"Not so very," John answered; "all the same, I
haven't much time—I've only managed to get two
hours' leave."

She drew in her breath sharply, then suddenly flung
out both arms and drew him towards her.

"Oh, Billy, Billy!" she protested.

John instantly made mental note that she had in her
mind a certain time during which she intended to detain
him there.

"Then you can't love me," she breathed ardently.
"You said you'd stay—a long time."

"Three-quarters of an hour is every minute I can stay,"
John said.

"Oh, but it won't matter if you're just a tiny, tiny
bit late—just once in a lifetime!  You don't know how
difficult it is for me, Billy.  I have risked everything for
you!  I should be ruined utterly if it was discovered
that I gave you this *tête-à-tête* here at this time of night....
You must stay, Billy, until I'm ready to let you go;
it will make it easier for me."

"I don't see that," protested John.  "You can slip away——"

"No, no; don't ask questions—don't say that!  If
you only knew how difficult it was.  You won't bother
me with questions, will you dear, dear Billy?  And
you'll be nice to me and let me get you something to
drink.  You bad boy," she said, after a moment's pause,
"I don't believe you realise the honour I am conferring
on you!"

"Oh I do—I am fully aware of it," answered John.
She had risen from the arm of the chair, and had gone to
the window.  John heard the creak of the window blind
as she drew it up upon the semi-darkness of the garden.
For an instant he was startled, wondering if her
movement portended some sort of signal.

As the blind ascended the complete darkness of the
room sped away.  He could now make out the rich
shadows of her hair, and something of the outline of her
fine features.  Her hands in contrast with the black
widow's weeds, looked unusually white.

"I thought you were fond of the darkness?" questioned John.

"I am, silly Billy."  John guessed that she was wasting
a coquettish smile upon the encumbering gloom.

She had gone to the sideboard, which was in shadow
at the far end of the room and returning now to the middle
table, placed upon it glasses, a soda syphon, and a whisky
bottle.

"I must give you just a little peg!"

John heard the gurgle of liquid, and the "squirt" of a
syphon.  A moment later Mrs. Beecher Monmouth came
across the room, put a glass in his hand, and lightly kissed
his ear.

"I wish it was a little lighter," she whispered in a
cooing fashion that was peculiar with her, "then I could
see my pretty boy's face."

"If you did see your pretty boy's face," thought John,
"you'd get the shock of your life!"

He took the whisky glass from her fingers.  Silence
lay between them for a moment, then Mrs. Beecher
Monmouth spoke again.

"Drink," she whispered urgently.

John, who had been holding his glass in his left hand,
shifted it to his right.

"Well, here's to you," he said, lifting the glass.

"Have you drunk it?"

"What else do you think?" inquired John, and laughed.

As a matter of fact he had not drunk it, for before
raising the glass he had dexterously poured its contents
upon the carpet.  Her trick was too obvious.  Parkson,
blinded, enamoured by love, might have fallen into the
trap, but he, John, knew his antagonist in this singular
duel which was taking place in the semi-darkness.  He
came well armed with a knowledge of her character.

Minutes passed, during which Mrs. Beecher Monmouth
held him enchained, as she believed, by her finished
coquetry.

John, who had been probing about in his mind, hoping
that she might divulge something useful, rose at last and
stretched his legs.

Mrs. Beecher Monmouth was again at the window.  He
noticed that several times during the last quarter of an
hour she had drifted there, as if with some intent and
watchful purpose.

"Why do you keep going to the window?" he asked,
suddenly and abruptly.

"I like to look out at the night."

"There's nothing much to see," returned John.  "It's
clouded over again, and the air is close enough to stifle
one!"

"Yes," answered she.

In the gloom John saw her put up her hands to her
throat.  "It is enough to stifle one," she breathed,
slowly and intensely.

Then John knew that big things were afoot, that she
was waiting, strung up tensely to more than concert pitch.
He put up his hand, pushed up the catch of the window,
and opened it quietly upon the sultry night.  A faint
wind stirred, rustling the leaves.  There was silence for
a minute, then Mrs. Beecher Monmouth seemed to
remember the role she was playing, slid her fingers into
his and looked up into his face.

"Billy," she whispered.

And at that moment a sudden thunderous and heavily-resonant
boom rent the stillness of the night.

John knew it in an instant as the detonation of a heavy
gun.  The door of the room creaked under the heavy
vibration, the casements of the window rattled, and a
red smear of light blazed against the low clouds and
vanished.

Mrs. Beecher Monmouth had turned her face to the
window.  For an instant John saw it, tense and ecstatic
in the glare of light—then darkness fell again.

And suddenly Mrs. Beecher Monmouth stood away in
the dark room.  The passionate sibilance of her whisper
smote John's ears, like that of a snake.

"At last!  At last! ... Oh, you can go now, Billy,
Mr. Parkson.  Yes—go, or stay!  It matters not!"

"But it does matter," said John, "a deuce of a lot!"

And as he spoke the room was shaken with the detonation
of a heavy gun—was again lit up with a red light.
A second and a third gun was fired—one sound mingling
with the other in tremendous crashing reverberation.
And at each report a red glow filled the room, searching
out the darkness in its most distant corners.

Mrs. Beecher Monmouth had turned towards John—in
the leaping red light, amid the roar of artillery, her
eyes pinioned themselves upon his.  She drew nearer—peering,
as it were, with all her senses, her hands clenched.

Their faces were close together when a red glare
revealed his features in every lineament.  He was smiling,
looking down upon her with easy nonchalance.  Even in
the fleeting light John caught the swift distortion of her
features.  She made a movement in the darkness——

In Mrs. Beecher Monmouth's entire life of daring
adventure, in all her vicissitudinous career, never had such
a blow stricken her as that moment.  She had expected
to see the good-humoured and somewhat stupid countenance
of Parkson, and instead, she had seen John.  She
had been outwitted by the enemy whom of all others she
hated most.  From the very first this pleasant looking,
resourceful, cool young man had outmanoeuvred her.
What had happened to Parkson, and how John had
managed to substitute himself for that enmeshed young
man, she could not guess.  She was conscious only that
in the darkness her mortal enemy had received her
caresses, and laughed in his sleeve.

Her tryst had been with Lieutenant Parkson, and by
a manoeuvre that was a mystery to her this other had
substituted himself....

John heard her move softly in the darkness, and draw
in a low, sibilant breath.  He was taking no chances,
however, and had already stepped cautiously behind the
big dining table.  Here he paused for a moment, listening,
then swiftly struck a match.  In the orange glow
of the light he saw Mrs. Monmouth's face of undeniable
beauty contorted with fury.  As the match flared and
John put out his hand to light the lamp which was on the
table, she made a strong effort to control her features.
She was a woman who seldom remained long at a
disadvantage.  Every move in the whole gamut of feminine
emotion seemed to be at her command.  There had been
a momentary stillness; now the roar of heavy artillery
thundered again and again.  The red glow from the
window filled the room.

A false expression of smiling irony crossed Mrs. Monmouth's
features.

"So, Mr. Treves, you have been exercising your
cleverness again!"

"What I did was all in the day's work," John began;
then he stepped swiftly towards the end of the table and
barred the way to a certain chair upon which her long
black coat had been thrown.

"No, don't go to your coat," he politely admonished
her.  "I am afraid I don't trust you!"  He knew that
ladies of Mrs. Beecher Monmouth's temperament and
activities are apt to carry lethal weapons, and are not
scrupulous in the use of the same.  She had already
made an attempt upon him with what he shrewdly and
correctly guessed to be drugged whisky.

"How subtle and resourceful you are!" laughed
Mrs. Monmouth.  She turned and strolled with an air of
indifference towards the window.

John was wondering what her next move would be.
He had already made up his mind as to his own next
move, when Mrs. Beecher Monmouth strode to the table,
and, in a flashing change of mood, smote it sharply.

"You think yourself extraordinarily clever, Mr. Treves!"

"Oh! not at all!" protested John.  He really did
not think himself clever, but he was satisfied with the
present position as he found it.  He had taken her coat,
and was holding it over his arm.  There was no weapon
in its pockets.

A roar of artillery again filled the room.  Mrs. Beecher
Monmouth's eyes blazed in exaltation and excitement.

"Do you hear those guns?"

"I can hear scarcely anything else!"

Beecher Monmouth's widow paused, looking him over,
excoriating him with her fine eyes; then went on slowly
and intensely.

"Well, Mr. Treves, perhaps it will surprise you and
your friends to know that we have outwitted you from
the beginning."

"I don't quite get your meaning," said John.

She lifted her head and laughed aloud in his face.  Her
mask was off.  She let herself go.  She swept her arm
toward the darkness of the night, then looked at him
with the eyes of a fiend.  "Those guns you hear now
mean that we are making our great attack."  Her voice
rose shrilly; her scarlet lips writhed.  She was truly
possessed at that moment.  "For all your espionage and
cunning we shall be able to make our way into Portsmouth.
We shall deliver a blow from which you will not
easily recover.  Your ships——"

John moved to the end of the table and motioned
towards the door.

"Thank you," said he, "that is very interesting, no
doubt, but I think it is time we were going."

The fury beyond the table paid no heed.  With both
hands on its surface she thrust her chin towards him and
spat out her words.

"Every fort on this coast has been silenced by our
finesse!"

John, listening to the roar of the guns, was unperturbed.

"That was a pretty heavy one," he remarked, as
the room reverberated again to the renewed crash of
artillery.

"Our guns, you fool!"  Mrs. Beecher Monmouth
lifted her voice to a scream.  "Our guns—German guns!"

John stared at her.  He had never seen anything like
the tornado of passion that was sweeping through her.
He listened, enthralled, against his will.  Nevertheless,
he was master of the scene.  She hated him—loathed
him—because he had tricked her.  She had expended
charm, she had enveloped him in the sunshine of her
beauty to no end.  Her vanity was outraged.  He had
enjoyed her caresses and laughed in his sleeve.

"The boom——"

"What about the boom?" John asked.

"From Ponsonby Lighthouse to Windsor Fort the
boom is not down to-night.  Think of that.  Your
searchlights—where are they?  Dark—dark—every one
of them."  She dropped her voice suddenly in a
measured, triumphant whisper, "and our Unter-see boats
are creeping in."

Even now she was beautiful, but there was something
animal-like in the distortion of her mouth.

"Where, precisely, are your U-boats creeping into?"
inquired John calmly.

"Into—into Portsmouth."  She mouthed the name
of the great harbour.

"You thought to outwit us, and we outwit you!"

John bowed.  "I have only your word for it."

She paid no heed and went on.  "So you see, Mr. Treves,
what you get in wasting your time on me—a woman!"

His obstinate coolness maddened her, and in a wild
gust of rage she crashed her fist on the table.

"You fool!  You fool!  You sheep's head!" she
announced, elegantly.  She paused a moment, breathing
heavily, then sweeping round the table, snatched her
coat from his arm and strode towards the door.

"There is no hurry, Mrs. Beecher Monmouth——"

She halted and gave him a glance that would have
turned Parkson to stone.

"What do you mean?" she demanded.

"I mean that our interview is not at an end!"

The menace of her eyes glittered upon him.  If her
strength of body had been equal to it at that moment, she
would have leapt forward and strangled him with her
bare hands.  Knowledge of her own peril, of the Nemesis
that was sweeping upon her, had not yet entered her
disordered mind.

John made—in pursuance of his prearranged plan of
action—no effort to stay her as she went towards the
door.  But as Mrs. Beecher Monmouth paused and cast
a final look at him, a sudden doubt crept into her eyes.
For John had gone to the window.  He appeared no
longer to be occupied with her.  His back was towards
her, and presently he lifted a whistle to his lips and blew
two short, shrill blasts.

A transformation passed over Mrs. Beecher Monmouth's
face that was startling.  The colour flowed from
her cheeks.  Her lips seemed suddenly to become bloodless.

"Why do you do that?"

John turned upon her slowly.  There was no pity in
his eyes.

"When I did it," he answered, grimly, "I was thinking
of the *Malta*, and two hundred fine fellows who died
at your hands.  I am thinking now of other things—of
the *Polidor* and her scores of non-combatant passengers
who were drowned by your machinations....  You
have had a long run for your money, but at last——"

He stopped—a sound came to him, a tramp of heavy
booted men advancing in the passage.  Some one pushed
open the door, and a corporal—a tall, grim-looking
fellow—appeared on the threshold.

"Is that you, Davis?"

"Yes, sir!"

John spoke over Mrs. Beecher Monmouth's head to the
man beyond.

"This is the lady, Davis!"

"Very good, sir!"

"You will take her at once.  Put her in a car and
drive her to Newport to-night.  I have already
communicated with the Chief Constable, who has made
arrangements to receive her."

He turned his eyes once more, and for the last time in
life, on the beautiful woman in the doorway.





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.. _`CHAPTER XXXIII`:

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   CHAPTER XXXIII

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"Hallo—what's that?"

A red glare of light saturated the low hanging clouds
and suddenly vanished.  Close, windless air vibrated
under the detonation of heavy artillery.  A Sergeant,
who had been concealed in the shelter of a stone wall
which ran round Captain Cherriton's cottage, turned to
the man at his side.

"What d'you reckon it is, Nobby?"

"It must be night practice."

"Not it," answered the Sergeant, "that's the
'nine-inch' at Heatherpoint, with a full charge!"

As the words left his lips a second crashing roar
reverberated from the fort.  Then, almost before Sergeant
Watson could further comment upon the fact, a sound
like rapid beating of a tom-tom came to them.  Busy,
drum-like notes, some deep and long-drawn, as if coming
from the bowels of the earth, some sharp, short, and
angry, took up the refrain.

"Hallo!" exclaimed Watson, amazed, "they're all
at it.  There's something up."

He stared at the sky, thence out to sea.

"Hallo, where's all our searchlights?" exclaimed Nobby.

"That's just what I was going to ask you," Watson
answered; then instantly dropped down behind the wall,
pulling his companion with him.  Watson had seen a
figure approaching from the road.  The stranger wore
mufti and a soft felt hat, and as he came stumbling and
hurrying through the grass, leaping artillery flashes
momentarily lifted him into view, and again plunged him
into utter darkness.

Watson, with Nobby and two other men, had,
under John's directions, kept a three-days' watch on
Cherriton's cottage.  At the present moment Cherriton
himself was alone in the low, single-storied building which,
from two workmen's dwellings, had been converted into
an artistic residence.

Watson waited.  And presently, in the silence between
the roll of drumfire at the western end of the island, he
could hear the fall of footsteps, and presently, through
the screen of bushes, and in the light of gunfire he made
out the figure of a tall young man, whose face for a
moment looked familiar to him, then caused him to pull
Nobby by the arm.

"Who is it, Nobby?" he asked.

The new-comer had reached Cherriton's gate and was
hurrying into the little garden.

"Why, it's Lieutenant Treves!"

"What's he doing out of uniform?"

"I don't know," answered Nobby.  "It's him right
enough.  Look again."

"He looks as if he'd had the fright of his life—I've
never seen him look like that."

"Nor me, neither," answered Nobby, eyeing the figure
hurrying towards Cherriton's door.

Both men watched the visitor disappear into the
cottage, then discussed the matter in low tones.  There
was something that puzzled them about Treves's visit
to Captain Cherriton—there was something that to
Sergeant Watson's intelligent mind seemed altogether
wrong about that visit, and yet he could not tell what.

Cherriton had been at the back window of his cottage
peering out since the heavy gunfire began, and a look of
triumph animated his pallid, hollow-cheeked countenance.
He was startled at length by a low, feverish rapping at
the cottage door.  He paused a moment in thought
before answering, then shifted a Mauser pistol from his
hip pocket to the left hand pocket of his coat.  He was
a left-handed man, a fact which at certain moments of
crisis was apt to redound to his advantage.  With a due
amount of caution he drew open the door, and the man
from the threshold strode in upon him.

As Cherriton's eyes fell upon the stranger in the candle
light the lines of his mouth altered.

"Why, it's you, Treves—this is a surprise!" he
exclaimed.  He gripped the young man's hand and drew
him forward into the room.

Bernard Treves, pale, haggard, swept the room with
his restless glance.  His likeness to John Manton was
striking even now.

"Have you got anybody here?" he asked quickly.

"No."

"Where's Manners?"

"He isn't here," answered Cherriton.

"Where is he?"  Treves came forward and laid a
hand on the other's arm.  "I must see Manners."

"Why?"

Cherriton looked at him with sudden malice.  He felt
that this man who had tricked and betrayed them from
the beginning, was still pursuing his deep game.
However, they were playing now upon even terms.
Mrs. Beecher Monmouth's information had opened wide his
eyes.  Moreover, a mandate had been issued.  General
von Kuhne had spoken....

A sickly smile crossed the visitor's pallid, handsome
countenance.  "It's no good trying to keep it quiet,"
he said; "but I must have cocaine.  It's a matter of
life and death with me.  Look at my hands!"

He held out his hands which shook visibly.

"I don't mind saying it," he went on; "but I've been
pretty nearly over the brink two or three times lately.
Yesterday I tried every chemist's shop in Ryde and
Newport, but I couldn't get anything."

He wiped his brow with a handkerchief.  Cherriton
was regarding him closely, puzzled at the change in him.

"You managed to get along without it for a long
time," retorted Cherriton, looking at him coldly.

"I had to—there was nothing else for it.  That damned
nursing home——"  Suddenly he put out his hand and
laid it on the German's arm.  "Where's Manners, for
God's sake tell me—tell me?  I must have some——"

Then he became aware of a narrowing of the other's
gaze.  "Why are you looking at me like that?"

The Captain laughed.

"Don't do it; it makes my blood run cold," Treves
protested.

"I was thinking of your drug habit—how conveniently
it comes and goes."

"Don't sneer at me, for God's sake," pleaded Treves.
"I'm desperate."  He walked the floor in a state of
nervous tension, which would have been pitiable to
witness, had there been in Cherriton any spirit of mercy.
"It seems there's been a law passed forbidding
chemists—you can't get cocaine anywhere," he jerked out,
hopelessly.

Cherriton's dark gaze was again upon him.

"I can't give you cocaine, Treves," he said, "but if
you come into my bedroom there, I'll give you something
else."

Treves clutched his arm.

"What?"

"Morphia," answered Cherriton.

He led the way into a low-ceilinged bedroom at the end
of the cottage, carrying the candle from the parlour table
as he went.  He placed the light on the dressing table
near the window, took a key from his pocket, and opened
a drawer in the only chest of drawers in the small room.

Treves, watching him with impatient eyes, moistened
his lips and waited.

Cherriton searched in the drawer and drew out a
syringe and a small bottle.

"Here," he said to Treves, "sit over on the chair
near the dressing table."

Treves greedily eyed the syringe, and obediently
seated himself with his back to the little mirror.  The
candle on the white dimity cloth of the dressing table
threw its light full upon him.  He watched Cherriton fill
the syringe with morphia, and almost clutched it from
his hand.

"Wait," said the German, holding him off, "you shall
have it full."

"Thanks—thanks—thanks."

Treves watched him as a famished dog watches a bone.

"You don't know what I've suffered, Cherriton—that
nursing home, St. Neot's, curse it—it's been hell!"

"You are so clever, Treves, I wonder you didn't get
cocaine before?"

"My God, if you knew how I've tried."

Cherriton was standing about a yard away from Treves,
with his big chin thrust forward.  The expression of his
face at that moment would have shot terror into his
visitor's heart, if he had lifted his eyes.  But Treves was
busy.  He was pulling back his sleeve, and in another
instant he had dug the needle into the flesh of his
forearm.  His lips tightened as he forced the morphia into
his blood.  Then he slowly raised his head, a look of
ecstatic happiness glowed in his eyes; he drew a deep
sigh of contentment.

"A-h-h," he exclaimed.

And Cherriton, who had been standing still as a statue,
still as death, moved.  The veiled light in his eyes blazed
into murder.  With swiftness and stealth he whipped
the Mauser from his pocket, aimed and fired.  His
shot passed through Treves's heart....  Before the
reverberation had died, he fired into Treves's body a
second time, and this time so near was he that the blaze
scorched his victim's waistcoat.  He had made assurance
doubly sure, and his next quick move was to lean forward,
blow out the candle, drop his pistol near the body, that
had fallen heavily, and fling open the window.

Two minutes later he was speeding swiftly across
the yard at the back of the cottage.  As he ran a
gun-flash from Heatherpoint lifted the darkness for a
moment, and again he was enveloped in the surrounding
gloom.

Before Sergeant Watson and his three men could reach
the door of the cottage, Cherriton had vanished into a
clump of trees.

"There's something wrong!" said Watson.  "I'm
going in."  He took Nobby with him, hurried along the
path, and knocked at Cherriton's portal.

No answer came.  He thrust open the door and found
the living-room in darkness; he struck a match, lit a
candle from the mantelshelf, and held it aloft.

"Hallo, there's nobody here."

The door of the bedroom was open, and the draught—a
puff of close air—from the open window beyond
suddenly blew shut the front door with a crash.

Sergeant Watson was a man of steady nerve, but he
did not like the crash, neither did he like the silence, the
heavy, brooding silence.  Nevertheless, he lifted his
voice valiantly.

"Is there anybody there?" he called.

He could hear the curtain rings faintly rattling in the
bedroom, but no answer came to him.  Then with the
candle in his hand and followed by Nobby, gripping his
rifle, he went into Cherriton's bedroom.  On the floor
beyond the end of Cherriton's bed, near the dressing
table, they could see a foot and the lower part of Treves's
trouser leg.

"My God!" exclaimed Watson, hurrying forward
with a fleeting glance at the open window.

The figure lying near the dressing table with a revolver
near it, and a morphia syringe a little distance away,
was huddled and motionless.

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   \*      \*      \*      \*      \*

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Three minutes later, Watson, Nobby and two other men
stood in an open space on the downs, forty yards before
Cherriton's cottage.  Watson was busy rearing a tripod
stand about five feet in height.  When the tripod was
ready Nobby handed him a lantern, which was
dexterously screwed upon its apex.  He struck a match,
lit the lantern and flicked open a shutter.

"Stand back out of the line of light," he cried to one
of his men.

Then with little scraping clicks of the lantern shutter,
the single eye of light turned westward, he began to spell
out a message.

Three times he gave his opening call before receiving an
answer by signal lantern from behind the fort at Freshwater.
Having achieved connection he patiently spelt
out the following message:

"Report to officer in command Heatherpoint."

"Who are you?" came the answer.

"Watson, emergency light number 6."

"Yes, what is it?"

"Lieutenant Treves been murdered.  Lying dead
Heather Cottage."

The lantern at Freshwater took the message, and
before signalling on said, "Repeat."

Watson, with a grim face, repeated the message and
added:

"Shot by Captain Cherriton.  Murderer escaped,
running north by east."





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`CHAPTER XXXIV`:

.. class:: center large

   CHAPTER XXXIV

.. vspace:: 2

John having disposed of Mrs. Beecher Monmouth
returned to Heatherpoint Fort.  Within the fort gates the
ground quivered and vibrated.  Far below him the
Solent was alive with the sweeping beams of
Throgmorton's cunning emergency lights.  John could see
flashes of fire from Ponsonby Point, from Scoles Head, and
from a new secret battery beyond Windsor Fort.  His
time was emphatically not his own, he had received
orders to leave the fort on a new mission.  Within
five minutes he had passed the rear defences and the
barbed wire of the fort, and was out upon the downs.
He sprinted forward over the short springing turf, and
soon came to the cliff edge and the narrow path that
descended the chalk to South Bay.

As he reached the cliff edge and looked down an
amazing panorama smote his eyes.  Dover lights—tremendous,
blinding blue-white illuminations—floated
upon the surface of the water shedding forth almost
painful rays of light.  The yellow of the sand in the little
bay became a ghost-like floor in this radiance.  Sinclair,
he knew, was down there busy at his telephone, but it
was not Sinclair nor the drama of the scene that occupied
his thoughts; he was thinking not of them, but of a
slip of paper Throgmorton had handed him bearing the
message of his own death, and of Throgmorton's words,
"Somebody was murdered."

"Yes," thought John, "somebody who was mistaken for me."

His mind projected itself upon the scene in Cherriton's
cottage, and the thing he had suspected from the very
first instant revealed itself fully.  Bernard Treves had
escaped in his second effort to free himself from his
enforced detention at St. Neot's, and, of course, the first
thing he had done was to search out the whereabouts of
Cherriton and Manners in order to obtain the drugs that
were a passion with him.  He had gone to the cottage,
Cherriton had received him, and had clearly shot him in
cold blood....

John turned his mind away from the possibilities
Treves's death had created for himself.  After all, he was
sorry.  Treves's broken and enfeebled will had been too
much for the young man to contend against.  He had
failed—death had come upon him suddenly and terribly,
but perhaps, after all, it was for the best....

His thoughts turned to Colonel Treves....  As was
to be expected, and inevitably the delicately beautiful
vision of Elaine rose before him....  Her life of bondage
was at an end....  Then John drew himself up and
took himself severely to task.  These thoughts were not
for him.  In this hour of drama, of tragedy, he must
not let his thoughts dwell upon her.  There were decencies,
and he was a man of honour; nevertheless, in the depths
of his heart, something moved, a dim obliterated ray of
hope flickered into life....

To the music of the guns he continued his descent of
the chalk path.  Where the damp penetrated it was
slippery beneath his feet, nevertheless he went quickly
with steps that must have been noiseless.  The path
reached the beach some distance away from the scene of
activity, of which Sinclair was the centre.  And as John
came within thirty or forty feet of the shore, he saw
below him, at the bend of the path, a man crouching.
The man was huddled in a sheltered corner, intent upon
some occupation invisible to John, who halted and
looked down upon him with some curiosity.  The silent
figure was in khaki, and his shoulder and half his cap
were visible.  He was deeply absorbed, and John was able
to go forward and descend two or three turns of the path
without being observed.

Presently, walking softly on the narrow path in the
cliff's face, he came full into view of the stranger, whose
presence was concealed by the projection of a cliff from
the pitiless Dover flares.

The man was Captain Cherriton.

John was not in the least surprised to find his able and
resourceful enemy crouching down working a flashlight
towards a portion of the sea cut off from the fort
lights.

Manton knew that the hour of destiny had arrived.
The thought came to him that Cherriton's hands were
stained with blood, that not an hour ago he had——

He moved forward a pace, his face grim and set.  Cherriton,
still crouching, heard him, and turned, but in the
gloom of that sheltered place he did not see clearly.
Quick as thought, however, he turned his electric torch
and flashed it full upon John's face.  In the circle of
incandescent light he saw something that caused him to
choke with horror—that something was the face and the
living eyes of the man he had murdered an hour ago.

The sight was too much for him, the light fell from his
fingers.  John, guessing what had happened, resolved
to give him no chance of discovery.  With a shout he
leapt forward and flung his arms about him.

Half in terror, half in growing knowledge that he had
to deal with a living and determined enemy, Cherriton
struggled like a maniac.  Each man put forth his entire
strength.  John sought to get his hands round the
German's throat.  Together they rocked, bumped, and
swayed, and, finally, together they fell, tumbling and
thumping to the sand, fifteen feet below.

For a minute each man lay still, stunned by the
impact of the fall.  Then John, first to recover, creeping
on hands and knees, approached Cherriton and fell upon
him again.

"I'm done," breathed the German, "get off me...."  There
was a truce for some minutes after that, during
which John sat with a Mauser in his hand, and recovered
himself fully.

Cherriton, who had been lying on his back in the sand,
turned.

"Who are you?" he asked, staring with strained eyes
into John's face.

The mystery was beyond him.  Were there two
Bernard Treves?  He had killed, or as he would have
put it, he had legitimately executed Bernard Treves in
the cottage less than two hours ago.  So far all was clear
to him.  But this other man, this replica and simulacrum
of Treves, who was he?  He was Treves, and he was not
Treves.  He continued to stare and his mystification
deepened.  John, feeling that the moment for
explanation had come, came to his aid.

"You are recalling that you killed me in your cottage
less than two hours ago?"

"Yes," began Cherriton.

"All along," went on John, "you and your colleagues
have been mistaken in me.  I have played the part of
Bernard Treves with some success, but my real name
happens to be John Manton."

.. vspace:: 2

Dawn came, and with it victory for the defenders of
the Solent.  In the last moment von Kuhne's plans had
gone astray.  His submarines which had intended to cause
havoc among the multitude of shipping at Portsmouth
had indeed passed the boom, only to meet destruction
beyond.  Eight submarines went to the credit of the
R.G.A. and the Navy that night; eighty German marines
were captured on the little shore of South Bay.  And now,
in the fort mess-room that had known so much of drama
during the last few months, Colonel Hobin occupied his
chair at the head of the table.  Beside him was seated
Throgmorton, the Flag-Lieutenant.  Commander Greaves
and John Manton were also present, grouped at the end
of the room, near the window whence the dawn crept in.
At the far end of the room stood Ewins, something of a
hero that morning, but the time for compliment had not
yet arrived.

"Bring them in, Ewins," commanded Hobin.

Ewins saluted and clattered away.

Five minutes later he returned with a squad of men
who waited in the little passage outside.  And Ewins
ushered into the mess-room Captain Cherriton, still in
British uniform.  With him was the tall German naval
lieutenant John had some time ago seen at Voules's house
at Brooke.  The last prisoner to enter the room was
Voules himself, the General von Kuhne who had so
industriously instituted the attack which had met with
disaster.

Colonel Hobin put a few questions.

"I am an officer of the German Navy," said the tall
lieutenant.  "I demand all the privileges of an
honourable prisoner of war."

"Certainly," intervened Throgmorton, "in your case
there is no question of the death penalty."

"I, too, am an officer," began Voules in his rasping
voice.

"I am afraid the fact," said Colonel Hobin, "that you
neglected the formality of wearing uniform in your attack
upon us will tell somewhat severely against you.  All I
want this morning," he concluded, "is that you should
each admit your identity."

The three Germans had no objection to this.

When the prisoners had been removed Hobin and then
Throgmorton gripped John by the hand—in fact,
everybody in the room shook hands in the grey of the dawn
that morning.

"All the luck in the world was ours, Treves," said
Throgmorton.

"My name is Manton," John reminded him.

"Of course, of course—I had quite forgotten that."

.. vspace:: 2

John's life story was only just beginning—the
recovery of his own name marked an epoch.  Summer
went and autumn came; the sun of Peace rose over the
horizon.  Letters at first somewhat formal, but later
growing in cordiality, passed between himself and Elaine.
Then, at last, on a certain autumn day—a red-letter day
for John—he received an epistle in Colonel Treves's shaking
hand.  "*My dear boy,*" ran the Colonel's letter, "*I want
you to come and visit me.  We have been friends a long
time—you have played your part well and truly.  That
which my poor boy failed to do, you have done in his name.
You have done credit to my house and to the name of Treves.
I am well again now, and shall welcome you with all my
heart.*"

John did not know how it was, but a film came before
his eyes as he finished reading the old Colonel's letter.
And on the Saturday following, when he drove up to the
Colonel's house in a hired motor, from Freshwater, the
sun was setting over the Solent and yellow leaves were
falling in the long drive.

Gates drew open the front door of the mansion before
John alighted and conducted him straight to the Colonel,
in the library.  The old man, who had been standing in
the window expecting his arrival, came across the room
and gripped his hand.  He looked into John's face, then
smiled.  There was conviction in his voice.

"Yes," he said.  "You're a Treves in everything
except name."

There was much to talk about.  In the first place the
Colonel spoke of Elaine always as his daughter-in-law.
She had completely won his heart.

"This gives me a new lease of life, my boy," he said to
John.  Then the smile that was so attractive in him lit
up his face.  "And when that lease is run out she shall
have all that is mine just as she would have had if my
boy had lived."  The Colonel laid his hand on John's
shoulder.

"John, my boy," he said, "your attention's wandering,
it isn't me you want to hear talking, so I'll take myself
off now."

He went out of the room, and John, walking to the
window, looked for a moment upon the autumn scene
outside.  Then a sound came to him, and he turned to
see Elaine, radiant yet doubtful, and strangely
shy—looking like spring in autumn.

For a moment John was still; then he hurried across
the room and took her hands in his.

"Elaine," he whispered, "is everything forgotten and
forgiven?"

Elaine lifted her eyes to his.  She was ten times more
beautiful at that moment than the image he had treasured
in his heart.

"There is nothing to forget, and nothing to forgive,
John," she said quietly.

John drew in a deep breath.

"You love me, don't you?"

"You know I do."

Again John drew in a deep breath, this time of
complete happiness.

"Thank goodness," he said—"so that's all right!"  Then,
without more ado, he swept her into his arms.
"I'm going to make mad love to you until seven o'clock,"
he announced masterfully.

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Printed in Great Britain by Wyman & Sons Ltd., London and Reading

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