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Title: The Yellow Dove


Author: George Gibbs



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THE YELLOW DOVE


[Illustration: “His blond hair disheveled, his shoulders coatless,
Cyril emerged.”]


THE YELLOW DOVE

by

GEORGE GIBBS


Illustrated by the Author






[Illustration]


New York
Grosset & Dunlap
Publishers

Copyright, 1915,
By D. Appleton and Company

Printed in the United States of America




CONTENTS


 CHAPTER                                  PAGE
         PRELUDE                             1
      I. SHELTERED PEOPLE                    5
     II. THE UNDERCURRENT                   17
    III. RICE-PAPERS                        31
     IV. DANGEROUS SECRETS                  45
      V. THE PURSUIT CONTINUES              55
     VI. RIZZIO TAKES CHARGE                68
    VII. AN INTRUDER                        83
   VIII. EVIDENCE                           96
     IX. THE VIKING’S TOWER                108
      X. THE YELLOW DOVE                   121
     XI. VON STROMBERG                     131
    XII. HAMMERSLEY EXPLAINS               145
   XIII. THE UNWILLING GUEST               157
    XIV. VON STROMBERG CATECHISES          172
     XV. THE INQUISITION                   188
    XVI. THE GENERAL PLAYS TO WIN          206
   XVII. LINDBERG                          221
  XVIII. SUCCESS                           243
    XIX. THE CAVE ON THE THORWALD          260
     XX. THE FIGHT IN THE CAVERN           275
    XXI. HARE AND HOUNDS                   289
   XXII. FROM THE HEIGHTS                  306
  XXIII. HEADQUARTERS                      320




LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS


  “His blond hair disheveled, his shoulders coatless,
      Cyril emerged.”                                   _Frontispiece_

                                                          FACING PAGE
  “‘Not that,’ he whispered hoarsely, ‘for God’s
      sake--not that.’”                                            80

  “Her lips ... were whispering words that she
      hoped could follow him into the distance.”                  128

  “The truth, and he becomes an honorable prisoner of
      war. Silence, and he is shot tomorrow. Speak.”              218




THE YELLOW DOVE




PRELUDE


Rifts of sullen gray in the dirty veil of vapor beyond the reaches of
dunes, where the sea in long lines of white, like the ghostly hosts of
lost regiments, clamored along the sand....

A soughing wind, a shrieking of sea-birds, audible in pauses between
the faraway crackle of rifle-fire and the deep reverberations of
artillery--familiar music to ears trained by long listening. A shrill
scream of flying shrapnel, a distant crash and then a tense hush....

Silence--nearly, but not quite. A sound so small as to be almost lost
in the echoes of the clamor, an impact upon the air like the tapping of
the wings of an insect against one’s ear-drum, a persistent staccato
note which no other noise could still, borne with curious distinctness
upon some aërial current of the fog bank.

And yet this tiny sound had a strange effect upon the desolate scene,
for in a moment, as if they had been sown with dragon’s teeth, the sand
dunes suddenly vomited forth armed men who ran hither and thither,
their hands to their ears, peering aloft as though trying to pierce the
mystery of the skies.

“The blighter! It’s ’_im_ agayn.”

“_’Im! ’Oo’s ’im_, I’d like to arsk?”

“Stow yer jaw, cawn’t yer _’ear_? Ole Yaller-belly, agayn.”

The sounds were now clearly audible and to the south a series of rapid
detonations shivered the air.

“There goes ‘Johnny look in the air.’ Cawn’t get ’im, though. ’Strewth!
’E’s a cool one--_’e_ is!”

A hoarse order rang out from the trenches behind them--and the men ran
for cover. The fog lifted a little and a shaft of light touched the
leaden gray of the sea like the sheen on a dirty gun-barrel. The nearer
high-angle guns were speaking now--fruitlessly, for the sounds seemed
to come from directly overhead. The fog lifted again and a shaft of
pale sunlight shot across the line of entrenchments.

“There ’e is, not wastin’ no time--_’e_ ayn’t.”

“Yus. But they’re arfter ’im. There comes hyviashun. O _’ell_!”

The expletive in a final tone of disgust for the fog had fallen again,
completely obliterating the air-craft and its pursuers.

“_’Oo’s_ Yaller-belly?” asked a smooth-faced youth who still wore the
sallow of London under his coat of windburn.

“You’re one of the new lot, ayn’t yer? You’ll know b----y soon ’oo
Yaller-belly is, won’t ’e, Bill? Pow! That’s ’im--them sharp ones.”

“Garn!” said the one called Bill. “’E never ’its anythink but the dirt
an’ ’e cawn’t ’elp that.”

“’Tayn’t ’cos ’e don’t try. ’Ear ’em? Nice droppin’s fer a dove, ayn’t
they?”

“Dove?” said the newcomer.

“Yus. Tubs the swine calls ’em----”

“Tawb, yer blighter.”

“Tub, I says. Whenever troops is moving’, ’e’s always abaht--jus’ drops
dahn hinformal-like, out o’ nowhere----”

“And cawn’t they catch ’im?”

“Catch ’im--? Bly me--not they! A thousand ’orse-power, they say
’e ’as--flies circles round hour hair squad like they was a lot o’
bloomink captivatin’ balloons.”

“But the ’igh-hangles----?”

“Moves too fast--’ere an’ gone agayn, afore you can fill yer cutty.
They do say ’as ’ow when Yaller-belly comes, there’s sure to be big
doin’s along the front.”

“Aye,” said Bill. “When we was dahn at Copenhagen----”

“Compayn, gran’pop----”

“Aw! Wot’s the hodds? Dahn at Copenhagen, ’e flew abaht same as ’e’s
doin’ now.”

Bill paused.

“And what happened?”

“You’ll ’ave to arsk Sir John abaht that, me son,” finished the other
dryly.

“We was drillin’ rear-guard actions, wasn’t we, Bill?”

“Aye. We was drilled, right, left, an’ a bit in the middle.” Bill rose
and spat down the wind. “Tyke it from me,” he finished, with a glance
aloft through the mist, “there’ll be somethin’ happen between ’ere an’
Wipers afore the week is hout----”

“Aye--the ’earse, Bill.”

“Wot ’earse?” asked the newcomer again.

“The larst time ’e kyme--down Wipers-way. There was a lull in the
firin’ an’ ’tween the lines o’ trenches where the dead Dutchies was,
comes a ’earse--a real ’earse with black ’orses, plumes an’ all. We
thought ’twas some general they’d come to fetch and hup we stands hout
o’ the trenches, comp’ny after comp’ny, caps off, all respec’ful-like.
This ’ere ’earse comes along slow an’ mournful, black curt’ins an’ all
flappin’ in the wind an’ six of the blighters a-marchin’ heads down
behind it. They wheels up abreast of our comp’ny near a mound o’ earth
and stops, an’ while we was lookin’--the front side of that there
b----y vee-Hicle drops out an’ a machine-gun begins slippin’ it into us
pretty as you please. ’Earse--that’s wot it was--a ’earse! an’ it jolly
well made a funeral out o’ B Company.”

“Gawd!” said the newcomer. “And Yaller-belly----?”

“I ayn’t sayin’ nothin’ abaht _’im_. You wait, that’s all.”

The sounds of firing rose and fell again. The fog thickened and the
last crashes of the high-angle guns echoed out to sea, but the rush of
the flying planes continued. Three machines there were by the sound of
them, but one grew ever more distinct until the sounds of the three
were merged into one. Closer it came, until like the blast of a storm
down a mountainside, a huge shadow fell across the dunes and was gone
amid a scattering of futile shots into the fog which might as well have
been aimed at the moon.

Bill, the prescient, straightened and peered through the fog toward the
flying plane.

“A ’earse,” he muttered. “That’s wot it was--a ’earse.”




CHAPTER I

SHELTERED PEOPLE


Lady Betty Heathcote had a reputation in which she took pride for
giving successful dinners in a neighborhood where successful dinners
were a rule rather than an exception. Her prescription was simple
and consisted solely in compounding her social elements by strenuous
mixing. She had a faculty for discovering cubs with incipient manes
and saw them safely grown without mishap. At her house in Park Lane,
politics, art, literature, and science rubbed elbows. Here pictures
had been born, plays had had their real _premières_, novels had been
devised, and poems without number, not a few of which were indited to
My Lady Betty’s eyebrow, here first saw the light of day.

For all her dynamic energy in a variety of causes, most of them wise,
all of them altruistic, Lady Betty had the rare faculty of knowing
when to be restful. Tired Cabinet ministers, overworked lords of the
Admiralty, leaders in all parties, knew that in Park Lane there would
be no questions asked which it would not be possible to answer, that
there was always an excellent dinner to be had without frills, a lounge
in a quiet room, or, indeed, a pair of pyjamas and a bed if necessary.

But since the desperate character of the war with Germany had been
driven home into the hearts of the people of London, a change had
taken place in the complexion of many private entertainments and the
same serious air which was to be noted in the mien of well-informed
people of all classes upon the street was reflected in the faces of
her guests. Her scientists were engrossed with utilitarian problems.
Her literary men were sending vivid word-pictures of ruined Rheims
and Louvain to their brothers across the Atlantic, and her Cabinet
ministers conversed less than usual, addressing themselves with a
greater particularity to her roasts or her spare bedrooms. Torn between
many duties, as patroness to bazaars, as head of a variety of sewing
guilds, as president of the new association for the training and
equipment of nurses, Lady Heathcote herself showed signs of the wear
and tear of an extraordinary situation, but she managed to meet it
squarely by using every ounce of her abundant energy and every faculty
of her resourceful mind.

Many secrets were hers, both political and departmental, but she
kept them nobly, aware that she lived in parlous times, when an
unconsidered word might do a damage irreparable. Agents of the enemy,
she knew, had been discovered in every walk of life, and while she
lived in London’s innermost circle, she knew that even her own house
might not have been immune from visitors whose secret motives were
open to question. It was, therefore, with the desire to reassure
herself as to the unadulterated loyalty of her intimates that she had
carefully scrutinized her dinner lists, eliminating all uncertain
quantities through whom or by whom the unreserved character of the
conversation across her board might in any way be jeopardized. So it
was that tonight’s dinner-table had something of the complexion of a
family party, in which John Rizzio, the bright particular star in
London’s firmament of Art, was to lend his effulgence. John Rizzio,
dean of collectors, whose wonderful house in Berkeley Square rivaled
the British Museum and the Wallace Collection combined, an Italian
by birth, an Englishman by adoption, who because of his public
benefactions had been offered a knighthood and had refused it; John
Rizzio, who had been an intimate of King Edward, a friend of Cabinet
ministers, who knew as much about the inner workings of the Government
as majesty itself. Long a member of Lady Heathcote’s circle, it had
been her custom to give him a dinner on the anniversary of the day of
the acquisition of the most famous picture in his collection, “The
Conningsby Venus,” which had, before the death of the old Earl, been
the aim of collectors throughout the world.

As usual the selection of her guests had been left to Rizzio, whose
variety of taste in friendships could have been no better shown than
in the company which now graced Lady Heathcote’s table. The Earl and
Countess of Kipshaven, the one artistic, the other literary; their
daughter the Honorable Jacqueline Morley; Captain Byfield, a retired
cavalry officer now on special duty at the War Office; Lady Joyliffe,
who had lost her Earl at Mons, an interesting widow, the bud of whose
new affections was already emerging from her weeds; John Sandys,
under-secretary for foreign affairs, the object of those affections;
Miss Doris Mather, daughter of the American cotton king, who was known
for doing unusual things, not the least of which was her recent refusal
of the hand of John Rizzio, one of London’s catches, and the acceptance
of that of the Honorable Cyril Hammersley, the last to be mentioned
member of this distinguished company, gentleman sportsman and man
about town, who as everybody knew would never set the world afire.

No one knew how this miracle had happened, for Doris Mather’s brains
were above the ordinary; she had a discriminating taste in books and a
knowledge of pictures, and just before dinner, upstairs in a burst of
confidence she had given her surprised hostess an idea of what a man
should be.

“He should be clever, Betty,” she sighed, “a worker, a dreamer of great
dreams, a firebrand in every good cause, a patriot willing to fight to
the last drop of his blood----”

Lady Betty’s laughter disconcerted her and she paused.

“And that is why you chose the Honorable Cyril?”

Miss Mather compressed her lips and frowned at her image in the mirror.

“Don’t be nasty, Betty. I couldn’t marry a man as old as John Rizzio.”

Lady Betty only laughed again.

“Forgive me, dear, but it really is most curious. I wouldn’t laugh
if you hadn’t been so careful to describe to me all the virtues that
Cyril--hasn’t.”

Doris powdered the end of her nose thoughtfully.

“I suppose they’re all a myth--men like that. They simply don’t
exist--that’s all.”

Lady Betty pinned a final jewel on her bodice.

“I’m sure John Rizzio is flattered at your choice. Cyril is an old
dear. But to marry! I’d as soon take the automatic chess player. Why
are you going to marry Cyril, Doris?” she asked.

A long pause and more powder.

“I’m not sure that I am. I don’t even know why I thought him possible.
I think it’s the feeling of the potter for his clay. Something _might_
be made of him. He seems so helpless somehow. Men of his sort always
are. I’d like to mother him. Besides”--and she flashed around on her
hostess brightly--“he does sit a horse like a centaur.”

“He’s also an excellent shot, a good chauffeur, a tolerable dancer
and the best bat in England, all agreeable talents in a gentleman of
fashion but--er--hardly----” Lady Betty burst into laughter. “Good
Lord, Doris! Cyril a firebrand!”

Doris Mather eyed her hostess reproachfully and moved toward the door
into the hallway.

“Come, Betty,” she said with some dignity, “are you ready to go down?”

All of which goes to show that matches are not made in Heaven and
that the motives of young women in making important decisions are
actuated by the most unimportant details. Hammersley’s good fortune
was still a secret except to Miss Mather’s most intimate friends,
but the conviction was slowly growing in the mind of the girl that
unless Cyril stopped sitting around in tweeds when everybody else was
getting into khaki, the engagement would never be announced. As the
foreign situation had grown more serious she had seen other men who
weighed less than Cyril throw off the boredom of their London habits
and go soldiering into France. But the desperate need of his country
for able-bodied men had apparently made no impression upon the placid
mind of the Honorable Cyril. It was as unruffled as a highland lake in
mid-August. He had contributed liberally from his large means to Lady
Heathcote’s Ambulance Fund, but his manner had become, if anything,
more bored than ever.

Miss Mather entered the drawing-room thoughtfully with the helpless
feeling of one who, having made a mistake, pauses between the
alternatives of tenacity and recantation. And yet as soon as she saw
him a little tremor of pleasure passed over her. In spite of his
drooping pose, his vacant stare, his obvious inadequacy she was sure
there was something about Cyril Hammersley that made him beyond doubt
the most distinguished-looking person in the room--not even excepting
Rizzio.

He came over to her at once, the monocle dropping from his eye.

“Aw’fly glad. Jolly good to see you, m’dear. Handsome no end.”

He took her hand and bent over her fingers. Such a broad back he had,
such a finely shaped head, such shoulders, such strong hands that were
capable of so much but had achieved so little. And were these all that
she could have seen in him? Reason told her that it was her mind that
demanded a mate. Could it be that she was in love with a beautiful body?

There was something pathetic in the way he looked at her. She felt very
sorry for him, but Betty Heathcote’s laughter was still ringing in her
ears.

“Thanks, Cyril,” she said coolly. “I’ve wanted to see you--tonight--to
tell you that at last I’ve volunteered with the Red Cross.”

Hammersley peered at her blankly and then with a contortion set his
eyeglass.

“Red Cross--you! Oh, I say now, Doris, that’s goin’ it rather thick on
a chap----”

“It’s true. Father’s fitting out an ambulance corps and has promised to
let me go.”

John Rizzio, tall, urbane, dark and cynical, who had joined them,
heard her last words and broke into a shrug.

“It’s the khaki, Hammersley. The women will follow it to the ends of
the earth. Broadcloth and tweeds are not the fashion.” He ran his arm
through Hammersley’s. “There’s nothing for you and me but to volunteer.”

The Honorable Cyril only stared at him blankly.

“Haw!” he said, which, as Lady Betty once expressed it, was half the
note of a jackass.

Here the Kipshavens arrived and their hostess signaled the advance upon
the dinner-table.

One of the secrets of the success of Lady Heathcote’s dinners was the
size and shape of her table, which seated no more than ten and was
round. Her centerpieces were flat and her candelabra low so that any
person at the table could see and converse with anyone else. It was
thus possible delicately to remind those who insisted on completely
appropriating their dinner partners that private matters could be much
more safely discussed in the many corners of the house designed for the
purpose. Doris sat between Rizzio and Byfield, Hammersley with Lady
Joyliffe just opposite, and when Rizzio announced the American girl’s
decision to go to France as soon as her training was completed she
became the immediate center of interest.

“That’s neutrality of the right sort,” said Kipshaven heartily. “I wish
all of your countrymen felt as you do.”

“I think most of them do,” replied Doris, smiling slowly, “but you
know, you haven’t always been nice to us. There have been many times
when we felt that as an older brother you treated us rather shabbily.
I’m heaping coals of fire, you see.”

“_Touché!_” said Rizzio, with a laugh.

“I bare my head,” said the Earl.

“Ashes to ashes,” from Lady Joyliffe.

Kipshaven smiled. “Once in England gray hairs were venerated, even
among the frivolous. Now,” he sighed, “they are only a reproach.
_Peccavi._ Forgive me. I wish I could set the clock back.”

“You’d go?” asked Doris.

“Tomorrow,” said the old Earl with enthusiasm.

Miss Mather glanced at Hammersley who was enjoying his soup, a purée he
liked particularly.

“But isn’t there something you could do?”

“Yes. Write, for America--for Italy--for Sweden and Holland--for Spain.
It’s something, but it isn’t enough. My fingers are itching for a
sword.”

The Honorable Cyril looked up.

“Pen mightier than sword,” he quoted vacuously, and went on with his
soup.

“You don’t really mean that, Hammersley,” said Kipshaven amid smiles.

“Well rather,” drawled the other. “All silly rot--fightin’. What’s
the use. Spoiled my boar-shootin’ in Hesse-Nassau--no season at
Carlsbad--no season anywhere--everything the same--winter--summer----”

“You wouldn’t think so if you were in the trenches, my boy,” laughed
Byfield.

“Beastly happy I’m not,” said Hammersley. “Don’t mind shootin’
pheasant or boar. Bad form--shootin’ men--not the sportin’ thing, you
know--pottin’ a bird on the ground--’specially Germans.”

“_Boches!_” said Lady Betty contemptuously. She was inclined to be
intolerant. For her Algy had already been mentioned in dispatches. “I
don’t understand you, Cyril.”

Hammersley regarded her gravely while Constance Joyliffe took up his
cudgels.

“You forget Cyril’s four years at Heidelberg.”

“No I don’t,” said their hostess warmly, “and I could almost believe
Cyril had German sympathies.”

“I have, you know,” said Hammersley calmly, sniffing at the rim of his
wineglass.

“This is hardly the time to confess it,” said Kipshaven dryly.

Doris sat silent, aware of a deep humiliation which seemed to envelop
them both.

Rizzio laughed and produced a clipping from _Punch_. “Hammersley is
merely stoically peaceful. Listen.” And he read:

    “I was playing golf one day when the Germans landed
     All our troops had run away and all our ships were stranded
     And the thought of England’s shame nearly put me off my game.”

Amid the laughter the Honorable Cyril straightened.

“Silly stuff, that,” he said quite seriously, “to put a fellow off his
game.” And turning to Lady Joyliffe: “_Punch_ a bit brackish lately.
What?”

“Cyril, you’re insular,” from Lady Heathcote.

“No, insulated,” said Doris with a flash of the eyes.

Rizzio laughed. “Highly potential but--er--not dangerous. Why should he
be? He’s your typical Briton--sport-loving, calm and nerveless in the
most exacting situations--I was at Lords, you know, when Hammersley
made that winning run for Marylebone--two minutes to play. Every bowler
they put up----”

“It’s hardly a time for bats,” put in Kipshaven dryly. “What we need is
fast bowlers--with rifles.”

The object of these remarks sat serenely, smiling blandly around the
table, but made no reply. In the pause that followed Sandys was heard
in a half whisper to Byfield.

“What’s this I hear of a leak at the War Office?”

Captain Byfield glanced down the table. “Have you heard that?”

“Yes. At the club.”

Captain Byfield touched the rim of his glass to his lips.

“I’ve heard nothing of it.”

“What?” from a chorus.

“Information is getting out somewhere. I violate no confidences in
telling you. The War Office is perturbed.”

“How terrible!” said Lady Joyliffe. “And don’t they suspect?”

“That’s the worst of it. The Germans got wind of some of Lord
Kitchener’s plans and some of the Admiralty’s--which nobody knew but
those very near the men at the top.”

“A spy in that circle--unbelievable,” said Kipshaven.

“My authority is a man of importance. Fortunately no damage has been
done. The story goes that we’re issuing false statements in certain
channels to mislead the enemy and find the culprit.”

“But how does the news reach the Germans?” asked Rizzio.

“No one knows. By courier to the coast and then by fast motor-boat
perhaps; or by aëroplane. It’s very mysterious. A huge _Taube_, yellow
in color, flying over the North Sea between England and the continent
has been sighted and reported by English vessels again and again and
each flight has coincided with some unexpected move on the part of the
enemy. Once it was seen just before the raid at Falmouth, again before
the Zeppelin visit to Sandringham.”

“A yellow dove!” said Lady Kipshaven. “A bird of ill omen, surely.”

“But how could such an aëroplane leave the shores of England without
being remarked?” asked Kipshaven.

“Oh,” laughed Sandys, “answer me that and we have the solution of the
problem. A strict watch is being kept on the coasts, and the government
employees--the postmen, police, secret-service men of every town and
village from here to the Shetlands are on the lookout--but not a
glimpse have they had of him, not a sign of his arrival or departure,
but only last week he was reported by a destroyer flying toward the
English coast.”

“Most extraordinary!” from Lady Kipshaven.

“It’s a large machine?” asked Rizzio.

“Larger than any aëroplane ever built in Europe. They say Curtis,
the American, was building a thousand horsepower machine at
Hammondsport--in the States. This one must be at least as large as
that.”

“But surely such a machine could not be hidden in England for any
length of time without discovery.”

“It would seem so--but there you are. The main point is that he hasn’t
been discovered and that its pilot is here in England--ready to fly
across the sea with our military secrets when he gets them.”

“D--n him!” growled Kipshaven quite audibly, a sentiment which echoed
so truly in the hearts of those present that it passed without comment.

“The captain of a merchant steamer who saw it quite plainly reported
that the power of the machine was simply amazing--that it flew at about
six thousand feet and was lost to sight in an incredibly brief time.
In short, my friends, the Yellow Dove is one of the miracles of the
day--and its pilot one of its mysteries.”

“But our aviation men--can they do nothing?”

“What? Chase rainbows? Where shall their voyage begin and where end?
He’s over the North Sea one minute and in Belgium the next. Our troops
in the trenches think he’s a phantom. They say even the bombs he drops
are phantoms. They are heard to explode but nobody has ever been hit by
them.”

“What will the War Office do?”

Sandys shrugged expressively. “What would _you_ do?”

“Shoot the beggar,” said the Honorable Cyril impassively.

“Shoot the moon, sir,” roared the Earl angrily. “It’s no time for
idiotic remarks. If this story is true, a danger hangs over England. No
wholesome Briton,” here he glanced again at Hammersley, “ought to go to
sleep until this menace is discovered and destroyed.”

“The Yellow Dove is occult,” said Sandys, “like a witch on a
broomstick.”

“A Flying Dutchman,” returned Lady Joyliffe.

“There seems to be no joke about that,” said the Earl.




CHAPTER II

THE UNDERCURRENT


They were still discussing the strange story of Sandys when Lady
Heathcote signaled her feminine guests and they retired to the
drawing-room. Over the coffee the interest persisted and Lord Kipshaven
was not to be denied. If, as it seemed probable, this German spy was
making frequent flights between England and the continent, he must have
some landing field, a hangar, a machine shop with supplies of oil and
fuel. Where in this tight little island could a German airman descend
with a thousand horsepower machine and not be discovered unless with
the connivance of Englishmen? The thing looked bad. If there were
Englishmen in high places in London who could be bought, there were
others, many others, who helped to form the vicious chain which led to
Germany.

“I tell you I believe we’re honeycombed with spies,” he growled. “For
one that we’ve caught and imprisoned or shot, there are dozens in the
very midst of us. If this thing keeps up we’ll all of us be suspecting
one another. How do I know that you, Sandys, you, Rizzio, Byfield
or even Hammersley here isn’t a secret agent of the Germans? What
dinner-table in England is safe when spies are found in the official
family at the War Office?”

Rizzio smiled.

“We, who are about to die, salute you,” he said, raising his liqueur
glass. “And you, Lord Kipshaven, how can we be sure of you?”

“By this token,” said the old man, rising and putting his back to
the fire, “that if I even suspected, I’d shoot any one of you down
here--now, with as little compunction as I’d kill a dog.”

“I’ll have my coffee first,” laughed Byfield, “if you don’t mind.”

“Coffee--then coffin,” said Rizzio.

“Jolly unpleasant conversation this,” remarked Hammersley. “Makes a
chap a bit fidgety.”

“Fidgety!” roared the Earl. “We ought to be fidgety with the Germans
winning east and west and the finest flower of our service already
killed in battle. We need men and still more men. Any able-bodied
fellow under forty who stays at home”--and he glanced meaningly at the
Honorable Cyril--“ought to be put to work mending roads.”

The object of these remarks turned the blank stare of his monocle but
made no reply.

“Yes, I mean you, Cyril,” went on the Earl steadily. “Your mother was
born a Prussian. I knew her well and I think she learned to thank God
that fortune had given her an Englishman for a husband. But the taint
is in you. Your brother has been wounded at the front. His blood is
cleansed. But what of yours? You went to a German university with your
Prussian kinsmen and now openly flaunt your sympathies at a dinner of
British patriots. Speak up. How do you stand? Your friends demand it.”

Hammersley turned his cigarette carefully in its long amber holder.

“Oh, I say, Lord Kipshaven,” he said with a slow smile, “you’re not
spoofing a chap, are you?”

“I was never more in earnest in my life. How do you stand?”

“Haw!” said Hammersley with obvious effort. “I’m British, you know,
and all that sort of thing. How can an Englishman be anything else?
Silly rot--fightin’--that’s what I say. That’s all I say,” he finished
looking calmly for approval from one to the other.

Smiles from Sandys and Rizzio met this inadequacy, but the Earl, after
glaring at him moodily for a moment, uttered a smothered, “Paugh,” and
shrugging a shoulder, turned to Rizzio and Sandys who were discussing a
recent submarine raid.

Hammersley and Byfield sat near each other at the side of the table
away from the others. There was a moment of silence--which Hammersley
improved by blowing smoke rings toward the ceiling. Captain Byfield
watched him a moment and then after a glance in the direction of the
Earl leaned carelessly on an elbow toward Hammersley.

“Any shootin’ at the North?” he asked.

Hammersley’s monocle dropped and the eyes of the two men met.

“Yes. I’m shootin’ the day after tomorrow,” said Hammersley quietly.
Byfield looked away and another long moment of silence followed. Then
the Honorable Cyril after a puff or two took the long amber holder from
his mouth, removed the cigarette and smudged the ash upon the receiver.

“Bally heady cigarettes, these of Algy’s. Don’t happen to have any
’baccy and papers about you, do you, Byfield?”

“Well, rather,” replied the captain. And he pushed a pouch and a
package of cigarette papers along the tablecloth. “It’s a mix of my
own. I hope you’ll like it.”

Hammersley opened the bag and sniffed at its contents.

“Good stuff, that. Virginia, Perique and a bit of Turkish. What?”

Byfield nodded and watched Hammersley as he poured out the tobacco,
rolled the paper and lighted it at the candelabra, inhaling luxuriously.

“Thanks,” he sighed. “Jolly good of you,” and he pushed the pouch back
to Byfield along the table.

“You must come to Scotland some day, old chap,” said the Honorable
Cyril carelessly.

“Delighted. When the war is over,” returned Byfield quietly. “Not until
the war is over.”

“Awf’ly glad to have you any time, you know--awf’ly glad.”

“In case of furlough--I’ll look you up.”

“Do,” said the Honorable Cyril.

Hammersley’s rather bovine gaze passed slowly around the room, and just
over Lord Kipshaven’s head in the mirror over the mantel it met the
dark gaze of John Rizzio. The fraction of a second it paused there and
then he stretched his long legs and rose, stifling a yawn.

“Let’s go in--what?” he said to Byfield.

Byfield got up and at the same time there was a movement at the mantel.

“Don’t be too hard on the chap,” Rizzio was saying in an undertone to
Kipshaven. “You’re singing the ‘Hassgesang.’ He’s harmless--I tell
you--positively harmless.” And then as the others moved toward the
door: “Come, Lady Heathcote won’t mind our tobacco.”

Hammersley led the way, with Byfield and Rizzio at his heels.
Jacqueline Morley had been trying to play the piano, but there was no
heart in the music until she struck up “Tipperary,” when there was a
generous chorus in which the men joined.

Hammersley found Doris with Constance Joyliffe in an alcove. At his
approach Lady Joyliffe retired.

“Handsome, no end,” he murmured to her as he sank beside her.

“Handsome is as handsome does, Cyril,” she said slowly. “If you knew
what I was thinking of, you wouldn’t be so generous.”

“What?”

“Just what everybody is thinking about you--that you’ve got to do
something--enlist to fight--go to France, if only as a chauffeur.
They’d let you do that tomorrow if you’d go.”

“Chauffeur! Me! Not really!”

“Yes, that or something else,” determinedly.

“Why?”

She hesitated a moment and then went on distinctly.

“Because I could never marry a man people talked about as people are
talking about you.”

“Not marry--?” The Honorable Cyril’s face for the first time that
evening showed an expression of concern. “Not marry--me? You can’t mean
that, Doris.”

“I do mean it, Cyril,” she said firmly. “I can’t marry you.”

“Why----?”

“Because to me love is a sacrament. Love of woman--love of country, but
the last is the greater of the two. No man who isn’t a patriot is fit
to be a husband.”

“A patriot----”

She broke in before he could protest. “Yes--a patriot. You’re not a
patriot--that is, if you’re an Englishman. I don’t know you, Cyril. You
puzzle me. You’re lukewarm. Day after day you’ve seen your friends and
mine go off in uniform, but it doesn’t mean anything to you. It doesn’t
mean anything to you that England is in danger and that she needs
every man who can be spared at home to go to the front. You see them
go and the only thing it means to you is that you’re losing club-mates
and sport-mates. Instead of taking the infection of fervor--you go
to Scotland--to shoot--not Germans but--deer! Deer!” she repeated
scathingly.

“But there aren’t any Germans in Scotland--at least none that a chap
could shoot,” he said with a smile.

“Then go where there _are_ Germans to shoot,” she said impetuously. She
put her face to her hands a moment. “Oh, don’t you understand? You’ve
got to prove yourself. You’ve got to make people stop speaking of you
as I’ve heard them speak of you tonight. Here you are in the midst of
friends, people who know you and like you, but what must other people
who don’t know you so well or care so much as we? What must they think
and say of your indifference, of your openly expressed sympathy with
England’s enemies? Even Lady Betty, a kinswoman and one of your truest
friends, has lost patience with you--I had almost said lost confidence
in you.”

Her voice trailed into silence. Hammersley was moving the toe of his
varnished boot along the border of the Aubusson rug.

“I’m sorry,” he said slowly. “Awf’ly sorry.”

“Sorry! Are you? But what are you going to do about it?”

“Do?” he said vaguely. “I don’t know, I’m sure. I’m no bally use, you
know. Wouldn’t be any bally use over there. Make some silly ass mistake
probably. No end of trouble--all around.”

“And you’re willing to sacrifice the goodwill, the affection of your
friends, the respect of the girl you say you love----”

“Oh, I say, Doris. Not that----”

“Yes. I’ve got to tell you. I can’t be unfair to myself. I can’t
respect a man who sees others cheerfully carrying _his_ burdens,
doing _his_ work, accepting _his_ hardships in order that he may
sleep soundly at home far away from the nightmare of shot and shell.
_You_, Cyril, _you_! Is it that--the love of ease? Or is it something
else--something to do with your German kinship--the memory of your
mother. What is it? If you still want me, Cyril, it is my right to
know----”

“Want you, Doris--” his voice went a little lower. “Yes, I want you.
You might know that.”

“Then you must tell me.”

He hesitated and peered at the eyeglass in his fingers.

“I think--it’s because I--” He paused and then crossed his hands and
bowed his head with an air of relinquishment. “Because I think I must
be a”--he almost whispered the word--“a coward.”

Doris Mather gazed at him a long moment of mingled dismay and
incredulity.

“You,” she whispered, “the first sportsman of England--a--a coward.”

He gave a short mirthless laugh.

“Queer, isn’t it, the way a chap feels about such things? I
always hated the idea of being mangled. Awf’ly unpleasant idea
that--’specially in the tummy. In India once I saw a chap----”

“You--a coward!” Doris repeated, wide-eyed. “I don’t believe you.”

He bent his head again.

“I--I’m afraid you’d better,” he said uncertainly.

She rose, still looking at him incredulously, another doubt, a more
dreadful one, winging its flight to and fro across her inner vision.

“Come,” she said in a tone she hardly recognized as her own, “come let
us join the others.”

He stood uncertainly and as she started to go,

“You’ll let me take you home, Doris?” he asked.

She bent her head, and without replying made her way to the group
beyond the alcove.

Hammersley stood a moment watching her diminishing back and then a
curious expression, half of trouble, half of resolution, came into his
eyes.

Then after a quick glance around the curtain he suddenly reached into
his trousers pocket, took something out and scrutinized it carefully by
the light of the lamp. He put it back quickly and setting his monocle
sauntered forth into the room. As he moved to join the group at the
piano John Rizzio met him in the middle of the room.

“Could I have a word with you, Hammersley?” he asked.

“Happy,” said the Honorable Cyril. “Here?”

“In the smoking-room--if you don’t mind?”

Hammersley hesitated a moment and then swung on his heels and led the
way. At the smoking-room door from the hallway Rizzio paused, then
quietly drew the heavy curtains behind them.

Hammersley, standing by the table, followed this action with a kind of
bored curiosity, aware that Rizzio’s dark gaze had never once left him
since they had entered the room. Slowly Hammersley took his hands from
his pockets, reached into his waistcoat for his cigarette case, and as
Rizzio approached, opened and offered it to him.

“Smoke?” he asked carelessly.

“I don’t mind if I do. But I’ve taken a curious liking for rolled
cigarettes. Ah! I thought so.” He opened the tobacco jar and sniffed
at it, searched around the articles on the table, then, “How
disappointing! Nothing but Algy’s dreadful pipes. You don’t happen to
have any rice-papers do you?”

Hammersley was lighting his own cigarette at the brazier.

“No. Sorry,” he replied laconically.

Rizzio leaned beside him against the edge of the table.

“Strange. I thought I saw you making a cigarette in the dining-room.”

Hammersley’s face brightened. “Oh, yes, Byfield. Byfield has
rice-papers.”

“I’d rather have yours,” he said quietly.

The Honorable Cyril looked up.

“Mine, old chap? I thought I told you I hadn’t any.”

Rizzio smiled amiably.

“Then I must have misunderstood you,” he said politely.

“Yes,” said Hammersley and sank into an armchair.

Rizzio did not move and the Honorable Cyril, his head back, was already
blowing smoke rings.

Rizzio suddenly relaxed with a laugh and put his legs over a small
chair near Hammersley’s and folded his arms along its back.

“Do you know, Hammersley,” he said with a laugh, “I sometimes
think that as I grow older my hearing is not as good as it used to
be. Perhaps you’ll say that I cling to my vanishing youth with a
fatuous desperation. I do. Rather silly, isn’t it, because I’m quite
forty-five. But I’ve a curiosity, even in so small a matter, to learn
whether things are as bad with me as I think they are. Now unless
you’re going to add a few more gray hairs to my head by telling
me that I’m losing my sight as well as my hearing, you’ll gratify
my curiosity--an idle curiosity, if you like, but still strangely
important to my peace of mind.”

He paused a moment and looked at Cyril, who was examining him with
frank bewilderment.

“I don’t think I understand,” said Hammersley politely.

“I’ll try to make it clearer. Something has happened tonight that makes
me think that I’m getting either blind or deaf or both. To begin with
I thought you said you had no cigarette papers. If I heard you wrong,
then the burden of proof rests upon my ears--if my eyes are at fault
it’s high time I consulted a specialist, because you know, at the table
in the dining-room when you were sitting with Byfield, quite distinctly
I saw you put a package of Riz-la-Croix into your right-hand trousers
pocket. The color as you know is yellow--a color to which my optic
nerve is peculiarly sensitive.” He laughed again. “I know you’d hardly
go out of your way to make a misstatement on so small a matter, and if
you don’t mind satisfying a foible of my vanity, I wish you’d tell me
whether or not I’m mistaken.”

He stopped and looked at Hammersley who was regarding him with polite,
if puzzled tolerance. Then, as if realizing that something was
required of him Hammersley leaned forward.

“I say, Rizzio. What the deuce is it all about? I’m sorry you’re
gettin’ old an’ all that sort of thing, but I can’t help it. Now can I,
old chap?”

Rizzio’s smile slowly faded and his gaze passed Hammersley and rested
on the brass fender of the fireplace.

“You don’t care to tell me?” he asked.

“What?”

“About that package of rice-papers.”

“Byfield has them.”

“Not that package,” put in Rizzio with a wave of the hand. And then,
leaning forward, in a low tone, “The other.”

Hammersley sat upright a moment, his hands on the chair-arms and then
sank back in his chair with a laugh.

“I say. I can take a joke as well as the next, but--er--what’s the
answer?”

Rizzio rose, his graceful figure dominant.

“I don’t think that sort of thing will do, Hammersley.”

His demeanor was perfectly correct, his hand-wave easy and a well-bred
smile flickered at his lips, but his tone masked a mystery. Hammersley
rose, removing his cigarette with great deliberateness from its holder
and throwing it into the fire.

“If there isn’t anything else you want to see me about--” He took a
step in the direction of the door.

“One moment, please.”

Hammersley paused.

“I think we’d better drop subterfuge. I know why you were here
tonight, why Byfield was here and perhaps you know now why I am here.”

“Can’t imagine, I’m sure,” said Cyril.

“Perhaps you can guess, when I tell you that this party was of my own
choosing--that my plans were made with a view to arranging your meeting
with Captain Byfield in a place known to be above suspicion. I have
been empowered to relieve you of any further responsibility in the
matter in question--in short of the papers themselves.”

“Oh, I say. Vanished youth, cigarette papers and all that. You’re goin’
it a bit thick, Rizzio, old boy.”

Rizzio put a hand into the inside pocket of his evening coat and drew
out a card-case, which he opened under Hammersley’s eyes.

“Look, Hammersley,” he whispered. “Maxwell gave me this! Perhaps you
understand now.”

The Honorable Cyril fixed his eyeglass carefully and stared at the
card-case.

“By Jove,” he muttered, with sudden interest.

“Now you understand?” said Rizzio.

“You!” whispered Hammersley, looking at him. The languor of a moment
before had fallen from him with his dropping monocle.

“Yes, I. Now quick, the papers,” muttered Rizzio, putting the card-case
in his pocket. “Someone may come at any moment.”

For a long space of time Hammersley stood uncertainly peering down at
the pattern in the rug, then he straightened and, crossing the room,
put his back to the fireplace.

“There may be a mistake,” he said firmly. “I can’t risk it.”

Rizzio stood for a moment staring at him as though he had not heard
correctly. Then he crossed over and faced the other man.

“You mean that?”

Hammersley put his hands in his trousers pockets.

“I fancy so.”

“What are you going to do?”

“What I’ve been told to do.”

“My orders supersede yours.”

“H-m. I’m not sure.”

“You can’t doubt my credentials.”

“Hardly that. Er--I think I know best, that’s all.”

Rizzio took a pace or two before the fireplace in front of him, his
brows tangled, his fingers twitching behind his back. Then he stopped
with the air of a man who has reached a decision.

“You understand what this refusal means?”

Hammersley shrugged.

“You realize that it makes you an object of suspicion?” asked the other.

“How? In doing what was expected of me?” said Hammersley easily.

“You are expected to give those papers to me.”

“I can’t.”

Rizzio’s fine face had gone a shade paler under the glossy black of
his hair and his eyes gleamed dangerously under his shaggy brows. He
measured the Honorable Cyril’s six feet two against his own and then
turned away.

“I think I understand,” he said slowly. “Your action leaves me no other
alternative.”

Hammersley, his hands still deep in his pockets, seemed to be thinking
deeply.

“Oh, I wouldn’t say that. Each man according to his lights. You have
your orders. I have mine. They seem to conflict. I’m going to carry
mine out. If that interferes with carrying out yours, I’m not to blame.
It’s what happens in the end that matters,” he finished significantly.

Rizzio thought deeply for a moment.

“You’ll at least let me see them?”

“No, I can’t.”

“Why?”

“I have my own reasons.”

Another pause in which Rizzio gave every appearance of a baffled man.

“You realize that if I gave the alarm and those papers were found on
you----”

“You wouldn’t do that.”

“Why not?”

“Because of your card-case.”

“That signifies nothing to anyone but you and me.”

Hammersley smiled.

“I’ll take the risk, Rizzio,” he said finally.

The two men had been so absorbed in their conversation that they had
not heard the drawing of the curtains of the door, but a sound made
them turn and there stood Doris Mather.




CHAPTER III

RICE-PAPERS


Doris looked from the man whose hand she had accepted to the one she
had refused. Their attitudes were eloquent of concealment and the few
phrases which had reached her ears as she paused outside the curtain
did nothing to relieve the sudden tension of her fears. She hesitated
for a moment as Rizzio recovered himself with an effort.

“Do come in, Doris,” he said with a smile. “Hammersley and I
were--er----”

“Discussing the scrap of paper. I’m sure of it,” she said coolly.
“Nothing is so fruitful of argument. I shouldn’t have intruded, but
Cyril was to take me home and I’m ready to go.”

A look passed between the men.

“By Jove--of course,” said Cyril with a glance at his watch. “If you’ll
excuse me, Rizzio----”

“Betty is going to Scotland tomorrow early and I think she wants to go
to bed.”

Rizzio laughed. “The war has made us virtuous. Eleven o’clock! We’re
losing our beauty sleep.”

He followed them to the door, but pleading a desire for a night-cap,
remained in the smoking-room.

“I promised that you should take me home,” said the girl to Hammersley
as they passed along the hall. “But I’m sorry if I interrupted----”

“Awf’ly glad,” he murmured. “Nothing important, you know. Club matter.
Personal.”

Doris stopped just outside the drawing-room door and searched his face
keenly, while she whispered:

“And the threats--of exposure. Oh, I heard that. I couldn’t help
it--Cyril--”

He glanced down at her quickly.

“Hush, Doris.”

Something she saw in his expression changed her resolution to question
him. The mystery which she had felt to hang about him since he had said
he was a coward had deepened. Something told her that she had been
treading on forbidden ground and that in obeying him she served his
interests best, so she led the way into the drawing-room, where they
made their adieux.

Byfield had already gone and Sandys and Lady Joyliffe were just getting
into their wraps.

“You’ll meet me here at ten?” their hostess was asking of Constance
Joyliffe.

“If I’m not demolished by a Zeppelin in the meanwhile,” laughed the
widow.

“Or the Yellow Dove,” said Jacqueline Morley. “I’m _sure_ he alights on
the roofs of the Parliament Houses.”

“You’ll be safe in Scotland at any rate, Constance. We’re quite too
unimportant up there to be visited by engines of destruction--” she
laughed meaningly. “That is--always excepting Jack Sandys.”

Sandys looked self-conscious, but Lady Joyliffe merely beamed benignly.

“It will really be quite restful, I’m sure,” she said easily. “Is Cyril
going to be at Ben-a-Chielt?”

Hammersley awoke from a fit of abstraction.

“Quite possible,” he murmured, “gettin’ to be a bit of a hermit lately.
Like it though--rather.”

“Cyril hasn’t anyone to play with,” said Betty Heathcote, “so he has
taken to building chicken-houses.”

“Fearfully absorbin’--chicken-houses. Workin’ ’em out on a plan of my
own. You’ll see. Goin’ in for hens to lay two eggs a day.” And then
to Kipshaven, “So the submarines can’t starve us out, you know,” he
explained.

“I don’t think you need worry about that,” said the Earl dryly, moving
toward the door.

Doris Mather went upstairs for her wraps and when she came down she
found Hammersley in his topcoat awaiting her. As they went down the
steps into the waiting limousine her companion offered her his arm.
Was it only fancy that gave her the impression that his glance was
searching the darkness of the Park beyond the lights of the waiting
cars with a keenness which seemed uncalled for on so prosaic an
occasion? He helped her in and gave the direction to the chauffeur.

“Ashwater Park, Stryker, by way of Hampstead--and hurry,” she heard
him say, which was surprising since the nearer way lay through
Harlenden and Harrow-on-Hill. The orders to hurry, too, save in the
stress of need, were under the circumstances hardly flattering to her
self-esteem. But she remembered the urgent look in his eyes in the
hall when he had silenced her questions and sank back in the seat,
her gaze fixed on the gloom of Hyde Park to their left, waiting for
him to speak. He sat rigidly beside her, his hands clasped about his
stick, his eyes peering straight before him at the back of Stryker’s
head. She felt his restraint and a little bitterly remembered the cause
of it, buoyed by a hope that since he had thought it fit to enact
a lie, the whole tissue of doubts which assailed her might be based
on misconception also. That he was no coward she knew. More than one
instance of his physical courage came back to her, incidents of his
life before fortune had thrown them together and she only too well
remembered the time when he had jumped from her car and thrown himself
in front of a runaway horse, saving the necks of the occupants of the
vehicle. He had lied to her. But why--why?

She closed her eyes trying to shut out the darkness and seek the
sanctuary of some inner light, but she failed to find it. It seemed as
though the gloom which spread over London had fallen over her spirit.

“The City of Dreadful Night,” she murmured at last. “I can’t ever seem
to get used to it.”

She heard his light laugh and the sound of it comforted her.

“Jolly murky, isn’t it? I miss that fireworks Johnny pourin’ whiskey
over by Waterloo Bridge--and Big Ben. Doesn’t seem like London. All rot
anyway.”

“You don’t think there’s danger,” she asked cautiously.

He hesitated a moment before replying. And then, “No,” he said, “not
now.”

Silence fell over them again. It was as though a shape sat between, a
phantom of her dead hopes and his, something so cold and tangible that
she drew away in her own corner and looked out at the meaningless blur
of the sleeping city. Her lips were tightly closed. She had given him
his chance to speak, but he had not spoken and every foot of road that
they traversed seemed to carry them further apart. The end of their
journey--! Was it to be the end ... of everything between them?

After a while that seemed interminable she heard his voice again.

“I suppose you think I’m an awful rotter.”

She turned her head and tried to read his face, but he kept it away
from her, toward the opposite window. The feeling that she had voiced
to Betty Heathcote of wanting to “mother” him came over her in a warm
effusion.

“Nothing that you can _say_ to me will make me think you one, Cyril,”
she said gently.

“Thanks awf’ly,” he murmured. And after a pause, “I am though, you
know.”

She leaned forward impulsively and laid a hand on his knee.

“No. You’re acting strangely, but I know that there’s a reason
for it. As for your being a coward”--she laughed softly--“it’s
impossible--quite impossible to make me believe that.”

He laid his fingers over hers for a moment.

“Nice of you to have confidence in a chap and all that, but appearances
are against me--that’s the difficulty.”

“Why are they against you? Why should they be against you? Because
you--” She stopped, for here she felt that she was approaching
dangerous ground. Instead of parleying longer, she used her woman’s
weapons frankly and leaning toward him put an arm around his neck and
compelled him to turn his face to hers. “Oh, Cyril, won’t you tell me
what this mystery is that is coming between us? Won’t you let me help
you? I want to be in the sunlight with you again. It can’t go on this
way, one of us in the dark and the other in the light. I have felt it
for weeks. When I spoke to you tonight about going to France it was in
the hope that you might give me some explanation that would satisfy me.
My heart is wrapped up in the cause of England, but if the German blood
in you is calling you away from your duties as an Englishman, tell me
frankly and I will try to forgive you, but don’t let the shadow stay
over us any longer, Cyril. I must know the truth. What is the mystery
that hangs over you and makes----”

“Mystery?” he put in quickly. “You’re a bit seedy, Doris. Thinkin’
too much about the war. Nothin’ mysterious about me.” He turned his
head away from her again. “People don’t like my sittin’ tight--here in
England,” he said more slowly, “when all the chaps I know are off to
the front. I--I can’t help it. That’s all.”

“But it’s so unlike you,” she pleaded. “It’s the sporting thing, Cyril.”

“I want you to believe,” he put in slowly, “it isn’t the kind of sport
I care for.”

“I won’t believe it. I can’t. I know you better than that.”

“That’s the trouble,” he insisted. “I’m afraid you don’t know me at
all.”

“I don’t know you tonight,” she said sadly. “It almost seems as though
you were trying to get rid of me.”

He clasped her tightly in his arms and kissed her gently.

“God forbid,” he muttered.

“Then tell me what it is that is worrying you,” she whispered. “Not a
living soul shall ever know. What were the threats of exposure that
passed between you and Rizzio. He can’t bear you any illwill because I
chose you instead of him. I didn’t mean to listen but I couldn’t help
it. What was the menace in his tone to you? What is the danger that
hangs over you that puts you in his power? It’s my right to know. Tell
me, Cyril. Tell me.”

She felt the pressure of the arm around her relax and the sudden
rigidity of his whole body as he drew away.

“I think you must have been mistaken in what you say you heard,” he
said evenly. “I told you that it was a personal matter--a club matter
in which you couldn’t possibly be interested.”

They were speaking formally now, almost as strangers. She felt the
indifference in his tone and couldn’t restrain the bitterness that rose
in hers.

“One gentleman doesn’t threaten a club-mate with exposure in a club
matter unless--unless he has done something discreditable--something
dishonorable----”

The Honorable Cyril bent his head.

“You have guessed,” he said. “He--he is jealous. He wants to humiliate
me.”

She laughed miserably. “Then why did you threaten him?”

“I had to defend myself.”

“You! Dishonorable! I’ll have to have proofs of that. What are the
papers you have that he wants? And what is there incriminating in
Rizzio’s card-case? You see, I heard everything.”

“What else did you hear?” he asked quickly.

She drew away from him and sank back heavily in her corner.

“Nothing,” she muttered. “Isn’t that enough?”

It seemed to the girl as though her companion’s figure relaxed a
little. And he turned toward her gently.

“Don’t bother about me. I’m not worth bothering about. The worst of it
is that I can’t make any explanation--at least any that will satisfy
you. All I ask is that you have patience with me if you can, trust me
if you can, and try to forget--try to forget what you have heard. If
you should mention my conversation with Rizzio it might lead to grave
consequences for him--for me.”

The girl listened as though in a nightmare, the suspicions that
had been slowly gathering in her brain throughout the evening now
focusing upon him from every incident with a persistence that was not
to be denied. The shape sat between them again, more tangible, more
cold and cruel than before. All his excuses, all his explanations
gave it substance and reality. The phantom of their dead hopes it
had been before--now it was something more sinister--something
that put all thoughts of the Cyril she knew from her mind--the
shade of Judas fawning for his pieces of silver--a pale Judas in a
monocle.... She closed her eyes again and tried to think. Cyril! It was
unbelievable.... And a moment ago he had kissed her. She felt again the
touch of his lips on her forehead.... It seemed as though she too were
being betrayed.

“You ask something very difficult of me,” she stammered chokingly.

“I can only ask,” he said, “and only hope that you’ll take my word for
its importance.”

She shivered in her corner. The sound of his voice was so impersonal,
so different from the easy bantering tone to which she was accustomed,
that it seemed that what he had said was true--that she did not know
him.

Another surprise awaited her, for he leaned forward, peering into the
mirror beside the wind shield in front of Stryker and turned and looked
quickly out of the rear window of the car. Then she heard his voice in
quick peremptory notes through the speaking-tube.

“There’s a car behind us. Lose it.”

The driver touched his cap and she felt the machine leap forward. The
thin stream of light far in front of them played on the gray road and
danced on the dim façades of unlighted houses which emerged from the
obscurity, slid by and were lost again as the car twisted and turned,
rocking from side to side, moving ever more rapidly toward the open
country to the north. The dark corners of cross streets menaced for a
moment and were gone. A reflector gleamed from one, but they went by it
without slowing, the signal shrieking. A flash full upon them, a sound
of voices cursing in the darkness and the danger was passed! At the end
of a long piece of straight road Cyril turned again and reached for the
speaking-tube. But his voice was quite cool.

“They’re coming on. Faster, Stryker.”

And faster they went. They had reached the region of semi-detached
villas and the going was good. The road was a narrow ribbon of light
reeling in upon its spool with frightful rapidity. The machine was a
fine one and its usual well-ordered purr had grown into a roar which
seemed to threaten immediate disruption.

Doris sat rigidly, clutching at the door sill and seat trying to adjust
her braced muscles to the task of keeping upright. But a jolt of the
car tore her grasp loose and threw her into Cyril’s arms and there he
held her steadily. She was too disturbed to resist, and lay quietly,
conscious of the strength of the long arms that enfolded her and aware
in spite of herself of a sense of exhilaration and triumph. Triumph
with Cyril! What triumph--over whom? It didn’t seem to matter just then
whom he was trying to escape. She seemed very safe in his arms and very
contented though the car rocked ominously, while its headlight whirled
drunkenly in a wild orbit of tossed shadows. The sportswoman in her
responded to the call of speed, the chance of accident, the danger
of capture--for she felt sure now that there was a danger to Cyril.
Over her shoulder she saw the lights of the pursuing machine, glowing
unblinkingly as though endowed with a persistence which couldn’t know
failure. Under the light of an incandescent she saw that its lines were
those of a touring-car and realized the handicap of the heavy car with
its limousine body. But Stryker was doing his best, running with a wide
throttle picking his road with a skill which would have done credit to
Cyril himself. The heath was already behind them. At Hendon, having
gained a little, Stryker put out his lights and turned into a by-road
hoping to slip away in the darkness, but as luck would have it the moon
was bright and in a moment they saw the long spoke of light swing in
behind them.

“Good driver, that Johnny,” she heard her companion say in a note of
admiration to Stryker. “Have to run for it again.”

The road was not so good here and they lost time without the
searchlights, so Stryker turned them on again. This evasion of the
straight issue of speed had been a confession of weakness and the other
car seemed to realize it, for it came on at increased speed which
shortened the distance so that the figures of the occupants of the
other were plainly discernible, five men in all, huddled low.

A good piece of road widened the distance. The limousine, now
thoroughly warmed, was doing the best that she was capable of and the
tires Cyril told her were all new. Her question seemed to give him an
idea, for he reached for the flower vase and, thrusting out a hand,
jerked it back into the road.

“A torn tire might help a little,” he said.

But the fellow behind swerved and came faster.

It was now a test of metal. Their pursuer lagged a little on the levels
but caught them on the grades and, barring an accident, it was doubtful
whether they would reach the gates of Ashwater Park safely. She heard
a reflection of this in Cyril’s voice as he shouted through the open
front window.

“How far by the road, Stryker?”

“Five miles, I’d say, sir.”

“Give her all she can take.”

Stryker nodded and from a hill crest they seemed to soar into space.
The car shivered and groaned like a stricken thing, but kept on down
the hill without the touch of a brake. They crossed a bridge, rattled
from side to side. Cyril steadied the girl in his arms and held her
tight.

“Are you frightened?” he asked her.

“No. But what is it all about?”

Her companion glanced back to where the long beams of light were
searching their dust. When he turned toward her his face was grave. He
held her closely for a moment, peering into her eyes.

“Will you help me, Doris?” she heard him say.

“But how? What can I do, Cyril?”

He hesitated again, glancing over his shoulder.

“Bally nuisance to have to drive you like this. Wouldn’t do it if it
wasn’t most important----”

“Yes----”

“They want something I’ve got----”

“Papers?”

“You’ll laugh when I tell you. Most amusin’--cigarette papers!”

“Cigarette----”

“That’s all. I give you my word. Here they are.” And reaching down into
his trousers pocket he produced a little yellow packet. “Cigarette
papers, that’s all. These chaps must be perishin’ for a smoke. What?”
he laughed.

“But I don’t understand.”

“It isn’t necessary that you should. Take my word for it, won’t you?
It’s what they want. And I’m jolly determined they’re not goin’ to get
it.”

“You want me to help you? How?”

He looked back again and the lights behind them found a reflection in
his eyes. If, earlier in the evening she had hoped to see him fully
awake, she had her wish now. He was quite cool and ready to take an
amused view of things, but in his coolness she felt a new power,
an inventiveness, a readiness to resort to extremes to baffle his
pursuers. Her apprehension had grown with the moments. Who were these
men in the touring-car? Special agents of Scotland Yard? She had never
been so doubtful nor so proud of him. Weighed in the balance of emotion
the woman in her decided it. She caught at his hand impulsively.

“Yes, I’ll help--if I can--whatever comes.”

He raised her fingers to his lips and kissed them gently.

“Thank God,” he muttered. “I knew you would.” He looked over his
shoulder and then peered out in search of familiar land-marks. They had
passed Canons Hill and swung into the main road to Watford. If they
reached there safely they would get to Ashwater Park which was but a
short distance beyond.

She heard him speaking again and felt something thrust into the palm of
her hand.

“Take this,” he said. “It’s what they want. They mustn’t get it.”

“But who are _they_?”

“I don’t know. Except that they’ve been sent by Rizzio.”

“Rizzio!”

“Yes. He’s not with them. This sort of game requires chaps of a
different type.”

“You mean that they----”

“Oh, don’t be alarmed. They won’t hurt me and of course they won’t hurt
you. I’m going to get you out of the way--with this. My success depends
on you. We’ll drive past the Park entrance close to wicket gate in
the hedge near the house. Just as we stop, jump out, run through and
hide among the shrubbery. Your cloak is dark. They won’t see you. When
they’re gone, make your way to the house. It’s a chance, but I’ve got
to take it.”

“And you?” she faltered.

“I’ll get away. Don’t worry. But the packet. Whatever happens don’t let
them get the packet.”

“No,” she said in a daze, “I won’t.”

“Keep it for me, until I come. But don’t examine it. It’s quite
unimportant to anybody but me----” he laughed, “that is, anybody but
Rizzio.”

She stared straight in front of her trying to think, but thought seemed
impossible. The speed had got into her blood and she was mastered by
a spirit stronger than her own. He held her in his arms again and she
gloried in the thought that she could help him. Whatever his cause, her
heart and soul were in it.

They roared into Watford and, turning sharp to the left, took the road
to Croxley Green. The machine hadn’t missed a spark but the touring-car
was creeping up--was so close that its lights were blinding them.
Hammersley leaned forward and gave a hurried order to Stryker. They
passed the Park gates at full speed--the wicket gate was a quarter
of a mile beyond. Would they make it? The touring-car was roaring up
alongside but Stryker jockeyed it into the gutter. Voices were shouting
and Doris got the gleam of something in the hand of a tall figure
standing up in the other car. There followed shots--four of them--and
an ominous sound came from somewhere underneath as the limousine limped
forward.

“It’s our right rear tire,” said Stryker.

“Have we a spare wheel,” she heard Cyril say.

“Yes, sir.”

“When we stop put it on as quick as you can. A hundred yards. Easy--so
and we’re there, Stryker. Now. Over to the left and give ’em the road.
Quick! Now stop!”

The other machine came alongside at their right and the men jumped down
just as Cyril threw open the left-hand door and Doris leaped out and
went through the gate in the hedge.




CHAPTER IV

DANGEROUS SECRETS


Once within the borders of her father’s estate and hidden in a clump of
bushes near the hedge, all idea of flight left Doris’s head. She was
home and the familiar scene gave her confidence. From the middle of her
clump of bushes grew a spruce tree, and into it she quickly climbed
until she reached a point where she could see the figures in the road
beside the quivering machines. She had not been followed. The five
men were gathered around Cyril, who was protesting violently at the
outrage. They had not missed her yet. Stryker was on his knees beside
the stricken wheel.

“Come, now,” she heard the leader saying, “you’re not to be hurt if
you’ll give ’em up.”

“Why, old chap, you’re mad,” Cyril was saying coolly. “I was thinkin’
you wanted my watch. You chase me twenty miles in the dead of night and
then ask me for cigarette papers. You’re chaffin’--what?”

“You’ll find out soon enough,” said the tall man gruffly. “Off with his
coat, Jim.... Now search him.”

Cyril made no resistance. Doris could see his face quite plainly. He
was smiling.

“Rum go, this,” he said with a puzzled air. “I only smoke made
cigarettes, you know.”

But they searched him thoroughly, even taking off his shoes.

“I say, stop it,” she heard him laugh. “You’re ticklin’.”

“Shut up, d--n you,” said the tall man, with a scowl.

“Right-o!” said Cyril, cheerfully. “But you’re wastin’ time.”

They found that out in a while and the leader of the men straightened.
Suddenly he gave a sound of triumph.

“The girl!” he cried and, rushing to the limousine, threw open the door.

“Gone!” he shouted excitedly. “She can’t be far. Find her.”

He rushed around the rear wheels of the limousine and for the first
time spied the gate in the hedge.

“Tricked, by God! In after her, some of you.”

“It won’t do a bit of good,” remarked Cyril. He was sitting in the dirt
of the middle of the road near the front wheels of the machines. “She
doesn’t smoke, o’ chap. Bad taste, I call it, gettin’ a lady mixed up
in a hunt for cigarettes. Besides she’s almost home by this. The house
isn’t far. She lives there, you know.”

In her tree Doris trembled. She was well screened by the branches and
she heard the crackle of footsteps in the dry leaves as the searchers
beat the bushes below her, but they passed on, following the path
toward the house. As the sounds diminished in the distance she saw
Cyril still seated on the ground leaning against the front wheels
of the touring-car while he argued and cajoled the men nearest him.
Helping himself by a wheel as he arose he faced the tall man who had
come up waving his revolver and uttering wild threats.

“It won’t help matters calling me a lot of names,” said Cyril, brushing
the dust from his clothes. “You want something I haven’t got--that’s
flat. I hope you’re satisfied.”

“Not yet. They’ll bring the girl in a minute. She can’t have gone far.”

Cyril glanced around him carelessly and brushed his clothes again.

He had discovered that Stryker had put on the spare wheel and was
parleying with one of their captors.

“Oh, very well. Have your way. What more can I do for you? If you don’t
mind I’d like to be going on.”

“You’ll wait for the girl--here.”

Doris watched Stryker skulking along in the shadow of the limousine.
She saw him reach his seat, heard a grinding of the clutches and a
confused scuffle out of which, his blond hair disheveled, his shoulders
coatless, Cyril emerged and leaped for the running-board of the moving
machine.

“You forgot to search the limousine,” she heard him shout.

The tall man scrambled to his knees and fired at the retreating machine
while the others jumped for the touring-car.

It had no sooner begun to move than there was a sound of escaping air
and an oath from the chauffeur.

“A puncture,” someone said. And Doris heard a volley of curses which
spoke eloquently of the sharpness of Cyril’s pocket-knife.

Doris in her hiding-place breathed a sigh of relief. Cyril had gotten
safely off, and his last words had created a diversion in the camp of
the enemy. They were working furiously at the tire, but she knew that
the chance of coming up with Cyril again that night was gone. Now
that the affair had resulted so favorably to Cyril she began to regret
her imprudence in remaining to see the adventure to its end. Cyril had
played for time, and if she had followed his instructions she could
have gotten far enough away to have eluded her pursuers. By this time,
in all probability, she would have been safe beneath the parental roof.
The worst of it was that Cyril thought her safe. The packet in her
glove burned in her hand. Beneath her, somewhere between her refuge
and the house were two men, and how to pass them with her precious
possession became now the sole object of her thoughts. Cyril had told
her that the packet must under no circumstances fall into the hands
of their pursuers and the desperateness of his efforts to elude them
gave her a renewed sense of her importance as an instrument for good
or ill in Cyril’s cause--whatever it might be. Now that Cyril had gone
she felt singularly helpless and small in the face of such odds. For
a moment she thought of hiding the packet in the crotch of one of the
branches where she might come and reclaim it at her leisure and go down
and run the chance of being taken without it. But the unpleasantness
which might result from such an encounter deterred her, and so she sat,
her chilly ankles depending, awaiting she knew not what. She had almost
reconciled herself to the thought of spending several hours in this
uncomfortable position when the tall man in the road blew a blast on
a sporting whistle and soon the passing of footsteps through the gate
advised her that the men inside the grounds had returned.

This was her opportunity, and without waiting to listen she dropped
quietly down on the side of the tree away from the gate and, stealing
furtively along in the shadow of the hedge, made her way as quickly as
possible in the direction of the house. Out of breath with exercise and
excitement, when she reached a patch of trees at the edge of the lawn,
she stopped and looked behind her. Then she blessed her luck in coming
down when she did, for she saw the thin ray of a pocket light gleaming
like a will-o’-the-wisp in her place of concealment and knew that the
search for her was still on.

Fear lent her caution. She skirted the edge of the wide lawn in the
shadow of the trees, running like a deer across the moonlit spaces,
always keeping the masses of evergreens between her and the wicket gate
until she reached the flower garden, where she paused a moment to get
her breath. A patch of moonlight lay between her and the entrance and
the hedge was impenetrable. There was no other way. She bent low and
hurried forward, trusting to the good fortune that had so far aided
her. Halfway across the open she heard a shout and knew that she had
been seen.

There was nothing for it but to run straight for the house. So
catching her skirts up above her knees and scorning the garden path
which would have taken her a longer way, she made straight for the
terrace, the main door of which she knew had been left open for her
return. Across the wide lawn in the bright moonlight she ran, her heart
throbbing madly, the precious yellow packet clutched tightly against
her palm. Out of the tail of her eye she saw dark forms emerge from
the bushes and run diagonally for the terrace steps in the hope of
intercepting her. But she was fast, and she blessed her tennis for
the wind and muscle to stand the strain. She was much nearer her goal
than her pursuers, but they came rapidly, their bulk looming larger
every moment. She saw the lights and knew that servants were at hand.
Her father, too, was in the library, for she saw the glow of his
reading-lamp. She had only to shout for help now and someone would hear
her. She tried to, but not a sound came from her parching throat. With
a last effort she raced up the terrace steps, pushed open the heavy
door and shut and bolted it quickly behind her. Then sank into the
nearest piece of furniture in a state of physical collapse.

Doris Mather did not faint, an act which might readily have been
forgiven her under the circumstances. Her nerves were shaken by the
violence of her exercise and the narrowness of her escape, and it was
some moments before she could reply to the anxious questions that were
put to her. Then she answered evasively, peering through the windows at
the moonlit lawn and seeing no sign of her pursuers. In a few moments
she drank a glass of water and took the arm of Wilson, her maid, up the
stairway to her rooms, after giving orders to the servants that her
father was not to be told anything except that she had come in very
tired and had gone directly to bed.

For the present at least Cyril’s packet was safe. In her dressing-room
Wilson took off her cloak and helped her into bedroom slippers, not,
however, without a comment on the bedraggled state of her dinner
dress and the shocking condition of her slippers. But Doris explained
with some care that Mr. Hammersley’s machine had had a blow-out near
the wicket gate, that she had become frightened and had run all the
way across the lawn. All of which was true. It didn’t explain Mr.
Hammersley’s deficiencies as an escort, but Wilson was too well
trained to presume further. A little sherry and a biscuit and Doris
revived rapidly. While the maid drew her bath she locked Cyril’s
cigarette papers in the drawer of the desk in her bedroom, and when
she was bathed and ready for the night she dismissed Wilson to her
dressing-room to wait within call until she had gone to bed.

Alone with her thoughts, her first act was to turn out her lights and
kneel in the window where she could peer out through the hangings. It
was inconceivable that her pursuers would dare to make any attempt
upon the house, but even now she wondered whether it would not have
been wiser if she had taken her father into her confidence and had
the gardeners out to keep an eye open for suspicious characters. But
the motives that had kept her silent downstairs in the hall were even
stronger with her now. She could not have borne to discuss with her
father, who had an extraordinary talent for getting at the root of
difficulties, the subject of Cyril’s questionable packet of cigarette
papers. She was quite sure, from the adventure which had befallen
them tonight, and the mystery with which Cyril had chosen to invest
the article committed to her care, that Cyril himself would not have
approved of any course which would have brought the packet or his own
actions into the light of publicity.

The packet of cigarette papers! With a last scrutiny of the landscape
she pulled the shades and hangings so that no ray of light could reach
the outside of the house, then groped her way across the room. A thin
line of light beneath the door of her dressing-room showed that Wilson
was still there. So she took the precaution of locking that door as
well as the others leading to the upstairs hall, then went to her desk
and turned on her lamp. She unlocked the drawer of the desk and taking
the small object gingerly in her fingers, scrutinized it carefully.
It was yellow in color, quite new, bound with a small rubber band, a
very prosaic, a very harmless looking object to have caused so much
excitement and trouble to all who had been concerned about it. She
turned it over and stretched its rubber band, snapping it thoughtfully
two or three times. Now for the first time since Cyril had given it to
her did she permit herself to think of the hidden meanings the thing
might possess. In the machine, during the chase Cyril had won her
unreservedly to his side. As against the mysterious men of John Rizzio
Cyril’s cause had been the only one to be considered. She had been
carried off her feet and there hadn’t been time to think of anything
but the real necessity of acceding to Cyril’s wishes in getting the
small object to a place of safety. Then it had only been a packet of
cigarette papers--a mere package of Riz-la-Croix which everybody, for
some reason or other, seemed to want. Now, weighed lightly in her
hand, the seclusion of her room gave it a different character. She
recalled Cyril’s bantering tone at having been chased twenty miles
for a cigarette. But his attitude deceived Doris no more than it had
his pursuers. There was material here for something more deadly than
cigarettes. She took the yellow packet in both hands and pressed it
to her temples as though by this act she could pass its secrets into
her own brain. In spite of herself she was frightfully curious and
frightfully afraid.

She got up and paced the floor rapidly. No--it couldn’t go on. She must
know the truth. As the key of the one unopened room fascinated Blue
Beard’s wife, as the box fascinated Pandora, so this unopened yellow
packet plagued and fascinated Doris Mather. She hesitated another long
moment and then slipped off the rubber band and opened it, trembling so
that the first leaf of paper came out in her fingers and fell to the
floor. She picked the paper up and examined it minutely, holding it up
to the light. There was nothing unusual about it, no mark, no sign of
any kind that might indicate a secret mission. Leaf by leaf, slowly at
first and then more rapidly she went through the leaves, examining each
page back and front, without success. It was not until she was almost
half through it that she came upon the writing--four pages written
lengthways in ink with a line too fine almost for legibility.

She put the packet down for a moment, her heart throbbing with
excitement and incredulity, too apprehensive to read, in mortal dread
of a revelation which was to change the whole course of her life and
Cyril’s. There was still time to close the book and go to bed. Why did
she sit there holding the thing open, stupidly gazing at nothing? If
Cyril----

Yes, if Cyril was the unspeakable thing of her doubts, it was time that
she knew it and no compunctions of honor should hold her with such a
man. Besides she had promised him nothing. Hesitating no longer, she
held the leaves under the light of her lamp and slowly deciphered the
thin script.

At first she could make little of it, as it seemed to consist of
numerals which she couldn’t understand, but here and there she made
out the names of towns, the names of regiments familiar to her and a
series of dates, beginning in March and ending in May. As the meaning
of the writing grew clearer to her, she read on, her eyes distended
with horror. Even a child could have seen that this was a list of
the British forces under arms, the proposed dates for the completion
of their equipment, training and departure for France. When she had
finished reading the written pages, her inert fingers slowly turned the
blank papers over to the end. There was nothing more. God knows it was
enough! Cyril--the Honorable Cyril--a spy of the Germans!

She sank low in her armchair, her senses numb from the horror of the
revelation. Her thoughts became confused like those of a sick person
awaking from a nightmare to a half consciousness, peopled with strange
beautiful images doing the dark things of dreams. Cyril--_her_ Cyril--a
spy!

What would happen now. And which way did duty lie? Toward England or
toward Cyril? She sat crouched on the floor in an agony of misery at
the thought of Cyril’s baseness, the package of paper clenched in her
hand, trying to think clearly for England, for Cyril, for herself, but
the longer she battled the deeper became her desperation and despair.

The world seemed to be slipping away from her, the orderly arrangement
of her thoughts was twisted and distorted so that wrong had become
right and right wrong. She had lost her standard of judgment. She did
not know which way to turn, so she bent her head forward into her hands
and silently prayed. There seemed to be nothing else to do. For a long
while she remained prostrate by the window, her brain tortured, her
body stiff with weariness, until she could think no more. Then slowly
and painfully she rose and, still clutching the yellow packet, groped
her way to bed, into which she fell exhausted in mind and body.




CHAPTER V

THE PURSUIT CONTINUES


At eight o’clock Doris was awakened by a loud knocking on the door
leading to her dressing-room. She had slept the sleep of utter
exhaustion and aroused herself with difficulty, a little bewildered at
the unusual sounds. Then she dimly remembered locking the door and got
quickly out of bed, put the yellow packet in the drawer of her desk and
pushed back the bolt of the door.

To her surprise her father confronted her and behind him were other
members of the family in various stages of their morning toilets.

“Thank the Lord,” said David Mather with a sigh of relief.

“What on earth is the matter?” asked the girl, glancing from one to the
other in alarm.

Her father laughed. “Oh, nothing, now that you’re all right. Burglars,
that’s all.”

Doris’s heart stopped beating as in a flash of reviving memory the
incidents of the night before came quickly back to her.

“Burglars!” she stammered.

“Yes, they got in here--came up the water spout,” pointing to the
dressing-room window, “and a fine mess they made of things. You’ll have
to take account of stock, child, and see how you stand.”

She glanced around the disordered room, very much alarmed. The drawers
of her cupboards were all pulled out and their contents scattered
about on the floor.

“When did--did it happen?” she asked timorously, more because she had
to say something than because that was what she wanted to know.

“Some time before dawn,” said her father. “Wilson was here until three
thinking that you might want her and then went out to her own room in
the wing.”

“Yes, I remember,” said the girl, passing her hand across her eyes. “I
wasn’t feeling very well--so I asked her to stay here for a while. But
I can’t understand why I didn’t wake.”

“That’s what frightened us,” Cousin Tom broke in. “We were afraid the
snoozers might have got in to you----”

“It’s lucky you had your door locked.”

“They were at my library desk, too,” she heard her father saying. “Must
have gone down the hall from here. But so far as I can see, they didn’t
get anything.”

Her Aunt Sophia gasped a sigh.

“Thank the Lord,” she put in reverently. “At least we’re all safe and
sound.”

Stunned at the daring of Rizzio’s men and bewildered by the persistence
with which they had followed their quest while she was sleeping, Doris
managed to formulate a quick plan to hide the meaning of this intrusion
from the members of her family.

She had been examining the disordered contents of the upper drawers of
a bureau.

“My jewel case, fortunately, I keep in my bedroom,” she said, “but
there was an emerald brooch to be repaired which I put in this drawer
yesterday. It’s gone.”

She saw a puzzled look come into the eyes of Wilson, who stood near the
window, and a glance passed between them.

“Oh, well,” her father said as he turned toward the door, “we’re lucky
it wasn’t worse. I’m ’phoning to Watford for a constable.”

This was what Doris had feared and yet she could not protest. So she
shut her lips firmly and let them go out of the room, leaving her alone
with Wilson.

She knew that the woman was devoted to her and that she was not in the
habit of talking belowstairs, but her mistress had seen the look of
incredulity in the woman’s eyes last night and the puzzled expression
a moment ago which indicated a suspicion connecting Doris’s arrival in
the Hall with the mysterious entrance of the dressing-room. Doris knew
that she must tell her something that would satisfy her curiosity.

“My bath please, Wilson,” she said coolly in order to gain time. “And
say nothing, you understand.”

“Of course, Miss Mather,” said Wilson, with her broad Kentish smile. “I
wouldn’t ha’ dreamed of it.”

The cool water refreshed and invigorated the girl, and she planned
skillfully. By the time Wilson brought her breakfast tray she had
already wrapped the yellow packet of cigarette papers and her Cousin
Tom’s tobacco pouch in a pair of silk stockings surrounded by many
thicknesses of paper and in a disguised handwriting had addressed it to
Lady Heathcote at her place in Scotland. She had also written a note to
Betty advising her of a change in plans and of her intention to come to
her upon the following day, asking in a postscript twice underlined to
keep a certain package addressed to her and carefully described safely
under lock and key for her without opening until her arrival. She would
explain later.

A gleam of hope had penetrated to her through the gloom that
encompassed her thoughts--only a gleam at the best, but it was enough
to give her courage to go on with her efforts to save Cyril from
immediate danger. And this was the belief born of the forcible and
secret entry of the house that the men who were in pursuit of the
fateful packet were not in any way connected with Scotland Yard or
the War Office. Otherwise if they believed the papers to be in her
possession they would have come boldly in the light of day and demanded
of her father the right to search the house. These were not times
when the War Office hesitated in matters which concerned the public
interest. John Rizzio, for some reason which she could not fathom, was
acting upon his own initiative with a desire as urgent as Cyril’s to
keep his object secret.

She pondered those things for a long while and then with a sigh of
uncertainty dismissed them from her thoughts, which were too full of
the immediate necessity to carry out her carefully formulated plans.
First she called Wilson and after assuring herself that she was making
no mistake, took her partially into confidence, telling her of the
important paper intrusted by Mr. Hammersley to her care which it was to
the interest of other persons to possess and the necessity for getting
them safely out of the house. Her mistress’s confidences flattered the
maid and she entered very willingly into the affair, concealing the
emerald brooch which Doris produced from her jewel box, in a trunk
containing old clothes which had long stood neglected in a dusty corner
of the attic.

After the visit of the man from Watford, who went over the situation
with a puzzled brow and departed still puzzled, she confided to her
father the letter and package which were to be mailed from London, the
letter in the morning, the package not until night.

“Don’t fail me, daddy. It’s _very_ important----” she said as she
kissed him. “It’s a surprise for Betty, but it mustn’t get to Scotland
until tomorrow night at the earliest. And good-by----” And she kissed
him again. “I’m going with it.”

“Tonight?”

“Tomorrow.”

Mr. Mather smiled and pinched her cheeks. He was quite accustomed
to sudden changes of plan on the part of his daughter and would as
soon have thought of questioning them as he would the changes in the
weather. He hadn’t liked the idea of her hunting or playing polo, but
she had done them both and cajoled him into approving of her. He had
objected fearfully when she went in for aviation, but had learned to
watch the flights of her little Nieuport with growing confidence and
had even erected a shed for her machines in the meadow behind the
stables.

“Take care of yourself,” he said lightly. “You’re looking a little
peaky lately. If you don’t get rosier I’ll withdraw my ambulance corps.”

She laughed. “Don’t forget!” she flung after him as he got into the car.

With the departure of the yellow packet a weight had been lifted from
Doris’s mind. John Rizzio’s men might come now if they liked--and she
would invite them to search the place. She was not in the least afraid
of herself, and she knew that the danger to Cyril had passed--at least
for the present.

She hoped that Cyril wouldn’t come today--or telephone her. She wanted
time to think of what she should say to him. At moments it even seemed
as though she didn’t care if she ever saw him again. But as the day
passed and she had no word from him, she grew anxious. What if Rizzio
had told the War Office!

That night men from Watford kept a watch upon the house, but there was
no disturbance. Her watchers had evidently taken the alarm. But it was
in no very certain or very happy state that Doris drove her machine out
of the gate of the Park in the later afternoon of the next day with
her cousin Tom beside her and Wilson and the luggage in the rear seat.
The main road to London was empty of vehicles except for a man on a
motor-cycle just ahead of her bound in the same direction. At least,
she was no longer to be watched. There was plenty of time, so she drove
leisurely, reaching Euston Station with twenty minutes to spare. She
sent a wire to Lady Heathcote and then Tom saw her safely into her
carriage.

The movement of the train soothed her and she closed her eyes and
slept, Wilson like a watchful Gorgon, guarding against intrusion.

There was but one incident which destroyed the peace of the journey.
Toward morning, Wilson, who slept with one eye open, wakened her
suddenly and asked her quietly to look out of the window. Her train had
stopped at a large station, the platform of which was well lighted.
From the darkness of their compartment she followed the direction of
Wilson’s figure. Outside, pacing the platform and smoking cigarettes,
were two men.

“What is it?” asked Doris, half asleep.

“The big one,” whispered Wilson excitedly. “It was him that was ridin’
the motor-cycle.”

Doris remembered passing and repassing the vehicle on the road to
London, and the face of its driver came back to her. She peered out
at him eagerly and as the man turned she saw the face and figure of
the larger man clearly. It was the motor-cycle man, and in a rush the
thought came to her that his figure and bearing were strangely familiar.

“It’s true,” she whispered, her fingers on Wilson’s arm. “We’re
followed. It’s the same man. Last night, too.”

“Last night?”

“Yes. It’s the man called Jim, who searched Mr. Hammersley in the road.”

“No,” said Wilson, her eyes brightening. “You don’t say so, Miss
Mather. Of all the brazen----”

“Sh--” said Doris.

But there was no more sleep for either of them that night. Bolt
upright, side by side, they watched the dawn grow into sunrise and
the sunrise into broad day. They saw no more of the motor-cycle man
and Doris reassured herself that there was nothing to be feared now
that the packet was-- She started in affright. The packet at Betty
Heathcote’s! Perhaps at this very moment lying innocently in Betty’s
post-box or in the careless hands of some stupid Scotch gardener, or
worse yet inviting curiosity on Betty’s desk or library table. Her
heart sank within her as she realized that her brave plans might yet
miscarry.

It was with a sense of joyous relief that the train pulled at last
into Innerwick Station. When she got down she saw Betty Heathcote’s
yellow brake, the four chestnuts restive in the keen moorland air, and
looking very youthful and handsome in a brown coat which made the
symphony complete, the lady herself, the wind in her cheeks and in her
cheery greeting.

“Of course, Doris, you’re to be trusted to do something surprising. Oh,
here’s Jack Sandys--you didn’t know, of course.”

The sight of these familiar faces gave Doris renewed confidence, and
when from the box seat she glanced around in search of her pursuer he
had disappeared.

Sandys clambered up behind them. Wilson got into the back seat with the
grooms, the boxes went in between, and they were off.

“Constance was tired, Jack. At least she said she was. I really think
that all she wanted was to disappoint you. Nothing like disappointment.
It breeds aspiration. But,” she added mischievously, “I’m sure she’s
_dying_ to see you. Awf’ly sad--especially since it’s not quite
forty-eight hours since you were waving a tearful good-by in Euston
Station.”

“Did you get my package?” whispered Doris in her ear, at the first
opportunity.

“What package? Oh, yes, the stockings. It was torn and awf’ly muddy.
Higgins dropped it from the dog-cart on the way over and had to go
back for it. Lucky he found it--in the middle of the road. What a
silly thing to make such a mystery of. And the cigarette papers--you
might be sure I’d have something to smoke at Kilmorack House. I can’t
understand. You really _could_ smoke here if you want to without so
much secrecy about it.”

“I--I didn’t know,” stammered the girl. “I--I’ve just taken it up and I
thought you mightn’t approve.”

Betty glanced at her narrowly.

“Whatever ails you, child? _I_ disapprove! You know I smoke when I feel
like it--which isn’t often.”

The subject fortunately was turned when they passed the road to
Ben-a-Chielt.

“I always envied Cyril his cliffs. I love the sea and Cyril hates it.
‘So jolly restless,’” she mimicked him. “Makes one ‘quiggledy.’ And
there I am--away inland--five miles to the firth at the very nearest.
But I suppose,” she sighed, “one has to overlook the deficiencies of
one’s grandfather. If he had known I’d have liked the sea, Cyril, of
course, would have come into _my_ place.”

With this kind of light chatter, of which Lady Heathcote possessed
a fund, their whip drove them upon their way, her own fine spirits
oblivious of the silence of her companions. But at last she glanced at
them suspiciously. “If I didn’t know that you were both hopelessly in
love with other persons, I’d think you were _épris_ of each other.”

Doris laughed.

“We are. That’s why we chose opposite ends of the train.”

But Sandys only smiled.

“Nothing that’s happening makes a chap happy nowadays. I bring bad
news.”

Lady Heathcote relaxed the reins so that one of her leaders plunged
madly, while her face went white.

“Not Algy----”

“No, no--forgive me. He’s safe. I’ve kept watch of the bulletins.”

“Thank God!” said Lady Heathcote, and sent her whiplash swirling over
the ears of the erring leader.

“Not Algy--Byfield----”

“Byfield--not dead----?”

“No. Worse.”

“What----?”

“In prison. He was taken into custody yesterday afternoon as he was
leaving the War Office. Orders from ‘K.’”

“You can’t mean that Richard Byfield is----”

Sandys nodded quickly.

“Yes. He was one of the leaks--a spy.”

“A spy!” Betty Heathcote whispered in awestricken tones. “A spy--Dick!
Horrible! I can’t--I won’t----”

“Unfortunately there’s not the least doubt about it. They found
incriminating evidence at his rooms.”

“My God!” said Lady Heathcote. “What are we coming to? Dick
Byfield--why, two nights ago he was a guest at my table--with you, and
you----”

Doris nodded faintly, the landscape swimming in a dark mist before her
eyes. Byfield--Cyril--Rizzio--all three had been at Lady Heathcote’s
dinner. Something had happened that night--only a part of which she
knew. Byfield was arrested--and Cyril---- She clutched desperately at
the edge of the seat and set her jaw to keep herself from speaking
Cyril’s name.

“Were there--any others?” she asked, with an effort.

“None so far. But there must have been others. God help them! They
won’t get any mercy.”

“But what made him do such a thing?” asked Betty. “I could have
sworn----”

“Money--lots of it. He wasn’t very well off, you know.”

They were swinging over the ridge towards Kilmorack House in a tragic
silence mocked by the high jubilant notes of the coach horn which the
groom was winding to announce their approach.

Doris got down swiftly, summoning her courage to be silent and wait.
In the drawing-room when the news was told, Constance Joyliffe added
another note of gloom.

“We’re going to be a lively party,” said Lady Heathcote bitterly.
“Thank the Lord, John Rizzio is coming.”

“Rizzio!”

Doris flashed around, her terror written so plainly that anyone might
read.

“Yes. I had his wire at Innerwick when I was waiting for you.” And then
catching the girl by the arm, “Why, dear, what is the matter?”

“I--I think I’ll go up to my room if you don’t mind, Betty. I won’t
have any luncheon. A cup of tea is all.” She moved toward the door, her
hand in Lady Heathcote’s. “And Betty--the package, please--I--I think
it may soothe me to smoke.”

Betty examined her quizzically but made no comment, though she couldn’t
understand such a strange proceeding in a girl who was accustomed to
do exactly as she pleased. She got the package from her desk in the
library and handed Doris the silk stockings, tobacco, and the yellow
packet. The wrapping paper which had been soiled had been relegated to
the scrap-basket.

“And Betty----” pleaded Doris as she quickly took them, “promise me
that you won’t tell John Rizzio.”

Lady Heathcote glanced at her quickly and then laughed.

“I suppose I’m the least curious woman in Scotland,” she laughed, “but
I would really like to know----”

“Don’t ask me, Betty,” Doris pleaded. “I’ve a reason--a silly one,
perhaps, but I ask you--not to speak of this--to anyone.”

“Oh, very well,” said Lady Heathcote, “I won’t. But don’t be
mysterious. All mysteries nowadays are looked on with suspicion. Even
such an innocent little mystery”--and she laughed--“as a package of
cigarette papers.”

Doris made some light reply and went to her room, where, with the doors
locked, she quickly examined the packet to be sure that it had not been
tampered with. Nothing seemed to have been changed and she gave a sigh
of relief to think that thus far her secret had escaped detection. It
was very clear to her now that John Rizzio had decided that the secret
information was in her possession and that his visit was planned with
the object of getting it away from her. This should never be. By the
light of the window she read and re-read the thin script until the
lines were etched upon her memory. She would burn the papers if they
were in danger. If Cyril was to meet Captain Byfield’s fate, it would
be upon other evidence than this. Her hands, at least with regard to
Cyril, must be clean.

A knock upon the door and she hurriedly thrust the packet under a table
cover and answered. It was the maid with her tea, and upon the tray lay
a note in an unfamiliar handwriting. When the maid had gone she tore
the flap and read:

    Mr. Hammersley begs that Miss Mather will not be unduly alarmed
    upon his account. Business of an urgent nature has detained
    him but he assures her that he will join her at the earliest
    possible moment. He begs that she will be careful.

There was no signature and the handwriting was curious--like none to
which she was accustomed, but the message seemed somehow to sound like
Cyril. She rang for the maid, questioned her, and found that the note
had just come over by messenger from Ben-a-Chielt.

When the maid went down, Doris re-read the message thankfully. Cyril
was safe--at least for the present. And her relief in the knowledge was
the true measure of her relation to him. Whatever else he was, he was
the man she had promised to marry--the man who a little later would
have been hers for better or for worse. And between Cyril and John
Rizzio it had not been difficult to choose. It did not seem difficult
now.

She took up the packet of papers and paused before the open fire, a
smile playing for the first time at the corners of her lips. John
Rizzio! He was clever, as she knew, but there was more than one way
of playing the game. Perhaps with her John Rizzio might be at a
disadvantage. She hesitated a moment and then--pulled up her skirts and
slipped the yellow packet into her stocking.




CHAPTER VI

RIZZIO TAKES CHARGE


Rizzio was to arrive that night. Meanwhile, with the papers hidden
about her and bright fires burning in all the living-rooms of the house
in which they could in a moment be destroyed, Doris thought herself
well placed upon the defensive. Cyril’s note had cheered her, and after
removing the dust of her journey she went down into the library, where
she joined the other members of the house party assembled. Black seemed
to be the prevailing color, for, in addition to the weeds of Lady
Constance, there was Wilfred Hammersley, Cyril’s uncle, who had lost
an only son at La Bassée, and the Heatherington girls, who had lost a
brother.

“Ugh!” Lady Betty was saying. “I came to Scotland to try and forget,
but the war follows me. Dick Byfield a traitor! Who next? Let’s not
even speak of it. Come, I’ve ordered the brake, Doris. We’re going out
for a spin. You and I and Angeline. Constance of course has a headache,
and Jack will be having another for sympathy.”

The air outside was life-giving, and when she returned later Doris felt
that her brain had been swept clear of its cobwebs of perplexity. She
found Wilson standing in her room gazing with a puzzled expression at
the tray of her unpacked box, the contents of which were in a state of
confusion.

“It’s strange, Miss Mather. Someone has been at your things while I
was down in the servants’ hall at luncheon.”

“You’re sure?”

“Yes, Miss Mather, sure. Quite positive, in fact. Those waists were
lying flat when I left.”

“The window wasn’t open?” asked Doris with a glance around.

“Oh, no, Miss.” She looked about and lowered her voice. “It’s somebody
inside.”

“Curious,” said Doris thoughtfully. “Nothing has been taken? Is the
jewel box there?”

Together they examined the things and found that nothing was missing.

“Say nothing about this, Wilson,” said Doris thoughtfully. “Unless
something is taken, I shouldn’t care to disturb Lady Heathcote.”

“It can’t be----” Wilson paused, her voice hushed.

“The papers are safe, Wilson--as long as I am safe,” replied the girl,
and told the maid of her place of concealment.

Wilson looked dubious. “I wish you’d give them to me, Miss Mather.”

But the girl shook her head--she was thoroughly alive now to the perils
which hung about her, here within the very doors of Lady Heathcote’s
house, but she had determined that if she could not find it possible to
keep the papers until Cyril appeared she would destroy them. She was
not frightened, for however clumsy John Rizzio’s agents might be she
was in no danger from himself. Whatever the interests which made the
possession of the yellow packet so vital, she knew the man well enough
to be sure that if there came an issue between them, he would act with
her as he had always acted--the part of a gentleman.

Instead of apprehension at his approaching visit she now felt only
interest and a kind of suppressed exhilaration as at the prospect of a
flight in a new plane or the trying out of a green hunter--excitement
like that which preceded all her sportive ventures.

So that when she met John Rizzio in the drawing-room after dinner--he
had not been able to manage a more opportune train--she gave him a warm
hand-clasp of greeting and a smile which caused him some surprise and
not a little regret--surprise that she was carrying off a difficult
situation with consummate ease; regret that such self-possession and
artistry were not to be added to the ornaments of his house in Berkeley
Square. Perhaps still----

“How agreeable,” she was saying charmingly. “The great man actually
condescends to come to the land of Calvin, oatcake and sulphur, when
there are truffles and old Madeira still to be had in London.”

He laughed, his dark eyes appraising her slender blond beauty eagerly.

“I have no quarrel with Calvin. Oatcake--by all means. Sulphur--er--I
suppose the sulphur will come in time.”

“Not if you’re polite,” said the girl coolly, “and tell me what brought
you so unexpectedly to Scotland.”

They were standing near the fire apart from the others, Doris with one
slipper on the fender, which she was regarding approvingly, her head
upon one side. He admired her careless tone. She was quite wonderful.

“Perhaps you will not believe me,” he said suavely, “if I were to tell
you that I came to see you.”

“Me? I _am_ flattered. I thought that great collectors were always
deterred by fear of the spurious.”

She was carrying the war into his camp. He met the issue squarely.
“They are _only_ deterred by the spurious. Therefore I am here. The
inference is obvious.”

He had always showed the slightest trace of his foreign accent. It went
admirably with his shrug and mobile fingers.

“I am genuine in this,” she laughed, “that however much you know about
pictures, about _objets de vertu_--women must remain for you and for
all other men an unknown quantity.”

“Not when they are both,” he said gallantly.

“There are good and bad pictures--objects of virtue, excessively
ugly----”

“Objects of virtue are usually excessively ugly, especially if they are
women.”

“Thanks,” said Doris. “You’re most flattering. There’s something in the
air of Scotland that makes one tell the truth.”

He laughed. “If Scotland is as merciless as that, I shall be off in the
morning. I could imagine no worse purgatory than a place in which one
always tells the truth. Lying is one of the highest arts of a mature
civilization. I haven’t the slightest notion, nor have you, that either
of us means a thing he says. We were all born to deceive--some of us do
it in one way, some in another, but we all do it to the very best of
our bent. For instance, you said a while ago that it was agreeable for
you to see me. But I’m quite sure, you know, that it wasn’t.”

“It isn’t agreeable if you’re going to be horrid and cynical. Why
_shouldn’t_ I be glad to see you? You always stimulate my intelligence
even if you don’t flatter it.”

The others had moved on to the library and they had the room to
themselves.

“I don’t see how I could flatter it more than I have already done,” he
said in a low tone of voice.

She raised her chin a trifle and peered at him slantwise.

“Do you think that you flatter it now when you recall the mistakes of
my past?”

He searched her face keenly but her blue eyes met his gaze steadily.
She was smiling up at him guilelessly.

“A mistake--of course,” he said slowly. “You are young enough to afford
to make mistakes. But I am old enough to wish that it hadn’t been made
at my expense.”

“You still care?” she asked.

“I do.”

“If I hadn’t thought that you wanted me for your collection----”

“You are cruel----”

“No. I know. You wanted me for your portrait harem, and I should have
been frightfully jealous of the Coningsby Venus. I couldn’t compete
with that sort of thing, you know.”

He smiled at her admiringly and went on in a low tone.

“You know why I wanted you then, and why I want you now--because you’re
the cleverest woman in England, and the most courageous.”

“It took courage to refuse the hand of John Rizzio.”

“It takes more courage in John Rizzio to hear those words from the lips
that refused him.”

She laid her hand gently on his arm.

“I am sorry,” she said.

He bent his head and kissed her fingers.

“It is not the Coningsby Venus who is essential to my happiness,” he
whispered. “It’s the Doris Diana.”

She laughed.

“That’s the disillusionment of possession.”

“No. The only disillusionments of life are its failures--I got the
Venus by infinite patience. The Diana----” He paused and drew in his
breath.

“You think that you may get the Diana by patience also?” she asked
quietly.

He looked at her with a gaze that seemed to pierce all her subterfuges.

“I waited for the Coningsby Venus,” he said in measured tones, “until
the man who possessed her--was dead.”

She started, and the color left her cheeks.

“You mean--Cyril?” she stammered.

“I mean,” he replied urbanely, “precisely nothing--except that I will
never give you up.”

She recovered her poise with an effort, and when she replied she was
smiling gayly.

“I’m not at all sure that I want to be given up,” she said, with a
laugh that was meant to relax the tension. “You are, after all, one of
the best friends I have.”

“I hope that nothing may ever happen to make you think otherwise.”

Was this a threat? She glanced at him keenly as she quoted:

“‘Friendship is constant in all other things save in the office and
affairs of love.’ May I trust you?”

“Try me.”

“No, I might put you to a test that would be difficult.”

“Try me.”

“Very well, I will. Go back to London in the morning.”

He looked at her and laughed.

“Why?”

“It will be easier for you to be patient there than here----”

“When Hammersley comes?”

“Oh,” she said quickly, “then he _is_ coming?”

“I don’t know why he shouldn’t,” he said slowly.

There was a pause.

“Shall you go?”

“To London? I’ll think about it.”

“There! You see? You refuse my first request.”

“I would like to know your purpose.”

“I think you know it already,” she put in quickly. “You want something
that I cannot give you--something that is not mine to give.”

She had come out into the open defiantly and he met her challenge with
a laugh.

“Because it is Hammersley’s?” he said. “You think so and Hammersley
thinks so, and possession is nine points of the law. But I will
contest.”

“Your visit is vain. Go back to London, my friend.”

“I find it pleasanter here.”

“Then you refuse?”

“I must.”

“Then it is war between us.”

“If you will have it so,” he said, with an inclination of the head.
Doris put her foot on the fender and leaned with her hands upon her
knee for a moment as though in deep thought. Then she turned toward
the door.

“Come,” she said coolly. “Let us join the others.”

There was a relief in the thought that at least they had come to an
understanding and that the matter of the possession of the papers had
at last become a private contest between them. She had brought the
interview to an end not because she was afraid to continue it but
because she wanted to think of a plan to disarm him. She felt that she
was moving in the dark but she trusted to her delicate woman’s sense of
touch to stumble upon some chance, some slip of his tongue, which might
lead her into the light.

In the drawing-room by common consent all talk of war had been
abolished. She sat in at a hand of auction, but playing badly, she
was gladly relinquished by her partner at the end of the rubber. John
Rizzio, who disliked the game, had gone off for a quiet smoke, but when
she got up from the card table he was there waiting for her.

“Cyril shall know of this,” laughed Betty, as they went toward the
door. “They say that absence makes the heart grow fonder--of the other
fellow.”

Doris led the way to the gun-room, a place used by Algie Heathcote for
his sporting implements and trophies of the chase. It was comfortably
furnished in leather and oak and a cheerful fire was burning in the
grate. Doris sank into the davenport and motioned to her companion to
the place at her side. She was thoroughly alive to her danger, but the
sportswoman in her made her keen to put it to the test.

“We are quite alone here,” she said coolly. “The others are not even
within call. Now what do you want of me?”

Her audacity rather startled him, but he folded his arms and leaned
back smiling.

“The papers of Riz-la-Croix, of course,” he said amiably.

“And how do you know they’re in my possession?”

He shrugged.

“Because they couldn’t possibly be anywhere else.”

“How do you know?”

“Because I have exhausted every other resource.”

“You’re frank at least--including the burglary at Ashwater Park and the
messing in my box upstairs?”

“And since you must know the full truth,” he continued politely, “the
careful search of your room in your absence this evening--including the
removal of the rugs and bedding. Oh, don’t be disturbed, I beg of you,”
as she made a movement of alarm, “they have all been replaced with a
nice care for detail.”

“And if I told Lady Heathcote of this----”

“I am quite sure that the best interests of all,” he said politely,
“are conserved--by silence.”

She meditated a moment, her gaze on the coals.

“Yes,” she said slowly, “you’re clever--more than ordinarily clever. I
can’t understand how I could ever have refused you. But don’t you think
your methods have been a little--er--unchivalrous?”

“The importance of my objects admitted of no delay. I hope you have not
been inconvenienced----”

“Not in the least,” calmly. “My recollection of your many civilities
merely made me think that your agents were overzealous.”

“I am sorry,” he said genuinely. “It could not be helped. You and I are
merely pawns in a game greater than anything the world has ever known.”

“I didn’t want you to apologize. I merely thought in order to avoid
comment that you might have come to me yourself.”

“I thought I might save you the unpleasantness of a controversy which
can only have one end.”

“You mean--that you will win.”

“I do.”

“How?”

“You will give me the papers--here, tonight.”

“And if I told you that I had destroyed them?”

“That would be manifestly untrue, since at the present moment in the
position of your body their outline is quite clearly defined on the
inside of your right knee.”

Doris put both slippers upon the ground, her feet together, her face
flushing warmly.

“I hope you will forgive my frankness,” she heard him say gently, “but
the method of your challenge--is--unusual.”

She clasped her hands around her knees and frowned into the fire.

“You mistake, I think, my friend. It is not a challenge. It is merely a
method of defense--the safest, I am sure, against John Rizzio.”

He bowed low with deep ceremony.

“Of course, I am helpless.” And then, “I can only rely on your good
sense and”--here his voice sunk a note lower--“and on your loyalty to
the cause of England.”

This was the opening that she had been waiting for. She thrust quickly.

“And if the cause is England’s why didn’t Scotland Yard come to
Ashwater Park?”

“Dunsinane to Burnam Wood!” he shrugged. “They would have made asinine
mistakes as they always do--the chief of which would have been that of
denouncing Miss Doris Mather as an agent of England’s enemies.”

The girl tapped her toe reflectively upon the rug.

“I won’t attempt subterfuge. Of course, I know the contents of that
packet.”

“You wouldn’t be a woman if you didn’t.”

“And how it was passed from Captain Byfield to Cyril Hammersley.” This
was a random shot but it hit the mark. Rizzio’s eyes dilated slightly,
but she saw them.

“Byfield! Impossible.”

“Not at all. Cyril told me,” she lied.

“He told you----?” he paused aghast, for now she was laughing at him.

“No--but you have.”

His brow tangled and he folded his arms again.

“Of course, you know the importance to Cyril and Captain Byfield of
keeping such a matter secret.”

He had not heard! He did not know! She remembered that the subject of
the dreadful news from London had not been reopened and Jack Sandys’
sources of information were probably semiofficial.

She controlled her voice with an effort.

“I would hardly be the one to mention names under the circumstances--since
my own fortunes seem to be involved in the matter, but as for Captain
Byfield, I’m afraid that further secrecy will hardly help him.”

“What do you mean?”

“Merely that he was arrested late yesterday afternoon as he was leaving
the War Office.”

She had not counted on the effect she created. She knew that her last
thrust had put him more carefully on guard, but he could not hide the
sudden intake of breath and the quick searching glance his dark eyes
shot at her.

“What is your source of information?”

“Jack Sandys. He came here directly from Downing Street.”

She saw Rizzio’s lips meet under his mustache in a thin line.

“So. It has come sooner--than I expected.”

He got up and paced the floor, his fingers twitching behind his back.
She said nothing, waiting for him to rejoin her. When he did, it was
with a serious expression.

“I suppose you know what this means to--to Hammersley,” he said in a
low voice.

Doris sat without moving, but her brain was busy weighing Rizzio.

“No,” she replied calmly, “I don’t. Won’t you tell me?”

He leaned forward toward her along the back of their seat, his look and
voice concentrated upon her.

“Is it possible,” he continued, “that you haven’t realized by this time
exactly what Cyril Hammersley is?”

“No,” she said staunchly. “I will believe nothing of him unless he
tells it to me himself.”

He waited a moment, watching her, and fancied that he saw her lips
tremble slightly. Her loyalty to Hammersley inflamed him. He followed
up his advantage quickly.

“There are reasons why I should dislike to give you pain, greater
reasons why I should be generous with a successful rival, and I have
done what I can to take this matter out of your hands. There is still
time. Will you give me that packet?”

She shook her head.

“Then I must speak,” he went on. “My duty demands it, whatever happens
to him--whatever happens to you. Don’t make me go to extremes with you.
I cannot bear to do it. Hammersley is a German spy. Those papers were
to be forwarded to Germany. You are saving them for him, that he may
betray England.”

“That is not true,” she said chokingly. “I do not believe it.”

“You must. Isn’t there proof enough in what you have read?”

“There is some mistake.”

“No. There can’t be. Your sentiments are blinding you.”

“One moment, please.” Doris had risen and faced him across the hearth,
a new fire of resolution in her eyes. To Rizzio, the lover of beauty,
she was a mockery of lost happiness. She was Diana, not the huntress
but the hunted.

“You have told me what Cyril Hammersley is. Now if you please I would
like to know what _you_ are!”

He paused a moment and then with a step toward her said gently:

“I think my interests should be fairly obvious. I am acting for the
English Government.”

“I have only your word for it. Have you any papers that would prove
it--in your card-case, for instance?”

He started back, his fingers instinctively reaching upward. Then he
shrugged and laughed.

“You are surely the most amazing person. Unfortunately I have no
documents. I am only doing my duty as a private citizen--a loyal
resident of the Empire.”

“But not a Briton. Neither am I. We meet on equal terms.”

“Then you refuse me--definitely, finally.”

“Yes, I must.”

“I beg that you will consider carefully the alternatives. If you give
me the papers--silence on my part--safety for Hammersley. If you refuse
to give them up----” he paused.

“Then what will you do?” she defied him.

“It would be the most terrible moment of my life--but I will denounce
him--here tonight--tomorrow in London. Those papers must not reach
Germany--even if I have to denounce you, too.”

“And if I promise that the papers will not reach Germany?”

He hesitated a moment.

“There is too much at stake. I can’t take the risk. No woman can be
trusted----”

“Not even the woman John Rizzio would have made his wife?”

He moved his shoulders expressively. Her youth and cleverness were
bewildering him.

“No, that will not do,” he said in desperation. “You must give me the
papers.”

“I will not. You shall have to take them from me.”

He leaned toward her along the mantel aware of her dominant loveliness.

“You would not drive me to that!”

“Yes. It _is_ a challenge. I offer it. I will fight you, and I am
strong. I have a voice and I will raise an outcry. They will come and
I will tell them. Then you can denounce me? Will you dare?”

He came toward her while she fled around the davenport, eluding him
with ease. She was swifter of foot than he. He stopped a moment near
the gun-rack to plead. She kept the huge oak lounge between them and
listened by the fire. Something she saw in his eyes decided her, for as
he came forward to leap over the davenport she threw something yellow
toward him.

He gave a gasp of relief, picked the object up and made a cry of dismay.

“The cover! I must have the papers,” he cried, coming forward again.

By this time the girl was standing upright, a poker in one hand, the
thin cigarette papers cramped in the fingers of the other, over the
open fire.

Rizzio paused in the very act of leaping.

“Not that,” he whispered hoarsely, “for God’s sake--not that.”

[Illustration: “‘Not that,’ he whispered hoarsely, ‘for God’s sake--not
that.’”]

“Stay where you are, then,” said the girl in a low resolute tone.

Rizzio straightened. Doris still bent over the fire.

“Give it to me,” he said again.

“No. England’s secrets shall be safe.”

“Don’t you understand?” he whispered wildly. “I’ve got to prove that
they are.”

“I can prove that as well as you----”

“But you won’t. Hammersley is----”

He paused and both of them straightened, listening. Outside in the hall
there was a commotion and a familiar voice as the Honorable Cyril, his
face and fur coat spattered with mud, came into the room.




CHAPTER VII

AN INTRUDER


He looked from one to the other with a quickly appraising eye. The girl
was fingering the lace of her bodice. Rizzio had turned toward the
newcomer recovering his poise.

“Hope I’m not intrudin’,” said Hammersley, with a laugh.

“Well, hardly. You’ve come in a hurry.”

“Yes,” drawled Hammersley. “I missed your train, I think. Too bad.
Jolly slow work travelin’ alone. Stryker picked me up at Edinburgh and
we came on by motor.”

He took off his fur coat in leisurely fashion and crossing to the
fireplace took Doris’s proffered hand. “You had my note?” he asked
carelessly.

The girl nodded. “I was glad,” she said.

“Well, I’m here. Jolly happy, too. Had a narrow squeak of it, though.
Some bally idiot stretched rope across the road over by Saltham Rocks,
but we saw it in time, and went around. Fired a few shots at us, too.
Must have taken me for Rizzio. What?” he laughed.

Thus directly appealed to, Rizzio smiled grudgingly.

“You don’t ask me to believe that story, Hammersley,” he said dryly.

“You don’t have to, Rizzio.”

The girl’s look was fixed on Hammersley’s face. Suddenly she broke in
with a voice of alarm.

“Cyril--you’re hurt--and there’s blood on your coat----”

“Is there? By Jove, so there is--it doesn’t matter. I wouldn’t mind a
peg though--and a cigarette.”

Doris had started for the door in alarm.

“Wait!” Hammersley’s voice came sharply. And as she paused, “Ring,
Doris.”

She understood and touched the button beside the door.

“We might as well have an understanding before they come, Rizzio,” put
in Hammersley quickly. “Do you prefer to believe my story--or would you
like to invent one of your own?”

Rizzio shrugged. “As you please,” he said. “It seems that I am _de
trop_ here.” At the door he paused and finished distinctly. “I hope
that your explanations will prove satisfactory.”

Doris had helped Cyril off with his coat and by the time the maid
brought Betty Heathcote, had cut away the sleeve of his shirt with
Cyril’s pocket knife. It was merely a gash across the upper arm, which
a bandage and some old-fashioned remedies would set right.

Lady Heathcote heard the story (from which Hammersley eliminated
the rope) with amazement, and was for sending at once for the local
constabulary.

“Oh, it’s hardly worth while,” said the Honorable Cyril, sipping his
whiskey and water, comfortably. “Poor devils--out of work, I fancy.
Wanted my money. If they’d come to Ben-a-Chielt tomorrow I’d give it to
’em. But I wouldn’t mind, Betty, if you could put me up for the night.
I’m not keen to be dodgin’ bullets in the dark.”

“Of course,” said Lady Heathcote. “How extraordinary! I can’t
understand--Saltham Rocks--that’s on my place. Something must be done,
Cyril.”

Hammersley yawned. “Oh, tomorrow will do. Couldn’t catch the beggars
in the dark. Besides, it’s late. Do me a favor, Betty. Don’t let those
people come in here again. I want a word with Doris.”

He had stretched himself out comfortably on the Davenport, his eyes on
the girl, who still stood uncertainly beside him.

Lady Betty shrugged, and taking up her basin and lotion moved toward
the door.

“It’s most mysterious. Are you sure we’re quite safe?”

“Quite. But I think it might be better if I had the room between yours
and Doris’s.”

“I was putting John Rizzio there.”

“Well, change--there’s a dear. And say nothing about it. I--I might
need a new dressing on this thing in the night.”

She examined him curiously, but he was looking lazily into the fire,
having already taken her acquiescence for granted.

When she went out, Hammersley sat up and threw his cigarette into the
fire.

“You have it still?” he whispered anxiously, taking Doris by both hands.

She nodded.

“Thank God for that. I seemed to have arrived at the proper moment.”

“I was about to burn them.”

He drew a long breath of relief.

“You know what they are?”

“Yes. I read them.”

“I was afraid you would. You have spoken to no one.”

“No,” proudly. “Hardly. After what I went through.” And, with an air of
restraint, she told him everything.

He listened, a serious look in his eyes.

“It was my fault. I should have left them in the machine. I got away
scot free.”

“Yes, I know. I saw you.”

“You poor child,” he said softly. “I was desperate. I thought it
necessary. How can I ever thank you?”

“You can’t.” The tones of her voice were strange.

“I’d jolly well give my life for you, Doris. You know that,” he said
earnestly.

“It’s something less than that that I want, and something more--your
word of honor.”

“My word----?”

“Yes,” she went on quietly. “To forswear your German kinship and give
me an oath of loyalty to England. Difficult as it is, I’ll believe you.”

“Sh--!” He glanced toward the door. All the windows of the room were
closed. “He told you that I was a German spy?” he whispered anxiously.

“You forget that I had proof of that already.”

He sat up and looked into the fire. “I hoped you wouldn’t read ’em. It
has done no good.”

“I have no regrets. I will not betray England, Cyril, even for you.”

He rose and paced the rug in front of her for a moment. Then he spoke
incredulously in a whisper.

“You mean that you won’t give ’em to me?”

“I mean that--precisely.”

“But that is impossible,” he went on, with greater signs of excitement
than she had ever seen in him. “Don’t you realize now that every moment
the things are in your possession you’re in danger--great danger? Isn’t
what you’ve gone through--isn’t this”--and he indicated his arm--“the
proof of it?”

“Yes,” she said firmly. “But I would rather suffer injury myself than
see you share the fate of Captain Byfield.”

He started. “Oh, you heard that?”

“Yes. Jack Sandys is here.” She put her face in her hands in the throes
of her doubts of him and then suddenly thrust out her hands and laced
her fingers around his arm.

“Oh, give it up, Cyril, for my sake give it all up. Can’t you see
the terrible position you’ve placed me in? If I give these papers to
Jack Sandys they’ll come and take you as they took Captain Byfield.
I’ve kept them for you, because I promised. But I cannot let this
information get to Germany. I would die first. What shall I do?” she
wailed. “What on earth _can_ I do?”

His reply made her gasp.

“There’s a fire,” he said quietly. “Burn ’em.”

Her fingers went to her corsage and her eyes gleamed with a new hope.
She took the crumpled rice-papers out and looked at them. Then in a
flash the thought came to her.

“You know the information contained in these papers?” she asked in an
accent of deprecation.

“No,” he replied shortly. “I merely glanced at them.”

“You hadn’t the chance to study them?”

“No.”

Still she hesitated. “But what--what is Rizzio?”

He walked to the door of the room, opening it suddenly. Then he shut
it quietly and coming back to the fire took the poker and made a hole
between the glowing coals.

“Burn ’em!” he commanded.

She obeyed him wonderingly and together they watched the package
of rice-papers flame into a live coal and then turn to ashes. When
the last vestige of them had disappeared, they sat together on the
davenport, Cyril thoughtful, the girl bewildered.

“What is Rizzio?” she repeated. “He told me that he was an agent of the
English Government.”

“I can’t tell you,” he whispered hoarsely. “I can’t tell you
anything--even you. Don’t you understand?”

“No, I don’t. It’s your word against his. I would rather believe you
than him. I want to, Cyril. God knows I want to.”

“Didn’t I ask you to burn the papers? Didn’t he try to prevent it?”

“Yes.”

“Can’t you see? If he were acting for England, it wouldn’t matter what
became of ’em if they didn’t reach Germany.”

“Oh, I thought of that--but what you have told me bewilders me. Why
should you run away with secrets of England--given you by a traitor
who is about to pay the penalty with--with death? What does it mean?
Why didn’t you take those papers at once to the War Office? Why did
Captain Byfield give them to you? He--a traitor--to you--Cyril! It
is all so horrible. I am frightened. Your danger--Rizzio’s men,
here--tonight--all about us.”

“If they were English secret service men,” Cyril put in quietly,
“wouldn’t they come here to this house and arrest me in the name of the
law?”

“Yes. There must be other reasons why they can’t. What is the contest
between you and Rizzio? Tell me. Tell me everything! I will believe
you. Haven’t I kept your trust? If I could do that--for your sake--do
you not think that I could keep silent for England’s sake?”

Her arms were about his neck, and her lips very close to his, but he
turned his head away so that the temptation might not be too strong for
him.

“I can’t,” he muttered, “I cannot speak--even to you. I am sworn to
secrecy.”

She drooped upon his arms and then moved away despairingly. It was the
failure of the appeal of her femininity that condemned him.

“Oh, you won’t let me believe in you. You won’t let me. It’s too great
a test you’re asking of me. Everything is against you--but the worst
witness is your silence!”

He stood by the mantel, his head lowered.

“It is hard for you--hard for us both,” he said softly, “but I can’t
tell you anythin’--anythin’.” He raised his head and looked at her with
pity. She had sunk upon the divan, her head upon her arms in a despair
too deep for tears.

He crossed and laid his hand gently upon her shoulder.

“You must trust in me if you can. I will try to be worthy of it. That’s
all I can say.” He paused. “And now you must go to bed. You’re a bit
fagged. Perhaps in the mornin’ you’ll pull up a bit and see things
differently.”

She straightened slowly and their eyes met for a moment. His never
wavered, and she saw that they were very kind, but she rose silently
and without offering him her lips or even her hand, moved slowly
toward the door.

He reached it in a stride before her and put his hand upon the knob.

“There’s one thing more I’ve got to ask.”

Her look questioned.

“You must sleep in my room tonight, next to Betty’s. I shall sleep in
yours.”

Her weary eyes sought his with an effort.

“You mean you think Rizzio--would still----?”

She paused.

“Yes, he thinks you would not give them to me.” And then, with a laugh,
“You wouldn’t, you know.”

“And if I tell him I have burned them----”

“He will not believe you.”

“He would not believe me,” she repeated in a daze.

“You must do what I ask,” Cyril went on quietly. “I know what is best.
I’ll arrange it with Betty.” He glanced at his watch. “One o’clock. By
Jove! It’s time even for auction players.”

She promised him at last after a protest on his own account.

“Nothin’ to worry about,” he laughed. “They may not try anythin’, and
when they find I’m there they’ll bundle out in a hurry.”

Thus reassured she went out to the drawing-room where the card players
were just rising. Rizzio was nowhere to be seen. Cyril at once took
their hostess aside and told her that Doris was a little upset by the
shooting, asking if Betty would mind letting her take the room next to
her own, so that she could open the door between.

“Don’t say anything about it, Betty,” he urged. “Just ask her in, won’t
you, when you get upstairs.”

“And you?”

“I could do a turn on steel spikes,” he laughed.

“Your arm?”

“Right as rain. It’s nothing at all.”

Doris accepted the situation without a word. Indeed she was numbed
with the fatigue of strained nerves. The swift rush of incident since
Betty’s London dinner, with its rapid alternations of hope and fear,
had left her bewildered and helpless. But it was the interview with
Cyril tonight that had plunged her into the dark abyss of despair. She
had tried so hard to believe in him, but he would do nothing to take
away the weight that had been dragging her down further and further
from the light. A new kind of love had come to her, born of the new
Cyril who had won her over by the sheer force of a personality, the
existence of which she had not dreamed. A short time ago she had wanted
to see him awake--a firebrand--and she had had her wish, for she had
kindled to his touch like tinder. But tonight, in her utter weariness,
it seemed as though her spirit was charred, burnt to a cinder, like
the package of papers in the grate in the gun-room, destroyed, as the
secret message had been, in the great game that Cyril was playing.

She undressed slowly, listening for any sounds that might come from
the room next door, but the only sign she had of him was the familiar
smell of his pipe tobacco which came through the cracks and key-hole.
A little later Betty Heathcote came in prepared for what she called a
“back hair talk,” but found her guest so unresponsive that at last she
went into her own room and bed. Doris lay for a while watching the line
of light under Cyril’s door, wondering what he was doing and what the
night was to bring forth. One memory persisted in the chaos of the
night’s events. Cyril didn’t know the contents of the papers and yet he
had commanded her to burn them. The thought quieted her, and at last
she saw the light in his room go out, then, after a time, in spite of
her weariness, she slept.

       *       *       *       *       *

She awakened, trembling with terror, listening for she knew not what.
And then as her wits slowly came to her, she was aware of the sounds
which had awakened her. They were suppressed, secret, and strange, but
none the less terrible, the shuffling of feet, hoarse whispers, and the
creaking of straining furniture. She sat upright, slipped to the floor
quickly, and, getting into the dressing-gown at the foot of the bed,
stood for a moment in the middle of the room, her heart beating wildly.
Then with quick resolution she moved swiftly to Betty Heathcote’s room
and, after assuring herself that her hostess still slept, closed the
door softly and passed the bolt.

Again she hesitated. The sounds from Cyril’s room continued, the hard
breathing of men who seemed with one accord to be trying to keep their
struggles silent. Aware of her danger, but considering it less than the
physical need for immediate action, with trembling fingers she turned
the key and quickly opened the door.

At first, silence, utter and profound, but full of a terror which a
breath might reveal.

“Cyril! What is it?” she managed to whisper.

“Sh--” she heard. And dimly, in the pale moonlight, she made out the
dark blur of figures upon the floor in the corner of the room.

“Cyril!” she repeated.

“It’s all right,” she heard in a breathless whisper. “Go back to your
room. It’s nothin’.”

But having ventured thus far she did not hesitate, and closing the door
behind her came forward. Upon the floor, half against the wall, was the
figure of a man. Cyril was sitting on his legs and holding him with one
hand by the neck cloth.

“You’re safe?” she whispered.

“Yes. Go back to bed. Don’t you understand--if anyone came----?”

“I don’t care.” Her curiosity had triumphed. She leaned forward and saw
that it was John Rizzio.

“Rizzio!” she whispered. “My room!”

“I ought to kill him, Doris,” said Cyril savagely, “but I’ve only
choked him a little. He’ll come around in a minute.” And then more
quietly: “Get me a glass of water, but don’t make a fuss, and don’t
make a light. There are men outside.”

She obeyed, and in a moment Rizzio revived and sat up, Cyril standing
over him, his fist clenched.

“Oh, let him go, Cyril, please,” Doris pleaded.

At the sound of the girl’s voice Rizzio started and with Cyril’s help
struggled to his feet.

“Yes, he’s going the way he came--by the window,” growled Hammersley.
“Head first, if I have my way.”

Rizzio succeeded in a smile, though he was still struggling for breath.

“I suppose--I--I must thank you for your generosity, Hammersley,” he
said with as fine a return of his composure as his throat permitted. “I
have been guilty of--of an error in judgment----”

“I’m sorry you think it’s only that,” said Cyril dryly. “Now go,” he
whispered threateningly, pointing to the window.

“In a moment--with your permission,” he said, recovering his suavity
with his breath. “In extenuation of this visit, terrible as it seems
to Miss Mather, I--I can only say that if I had succeeded I would
have saved her from remembering some day that she had given England’s
secrets into the hands of the enemy.”

“You’re mistaken,” said Doris quietly. “I have burned them.”

“You--you burned them?”

“Yes--tonight.”

Rizzio peered at her in silence for a long moment and then shrugged.
“Oh,” he said, “in that case, I have made two errors in judgment----”

“You’ll make a third, if you’re not out of that window in half a
second,” said Cyril.

But Rizzio laughed at him.

“I don’t think it would be wise to make a disturbance----” he said
coolly. “I think Miss Mather will admit my generosity to herself and to
you when I say that I’ve only to raise my voice and have half a dozen
men up here in a moment.”

Doris clutched him fearfully by the arm, thinking of Cyril.

“You’d not do that----?”

Hammersley laughed dryly.

“There’s no danger,” he said.

“No,” returned Rizzio with a touch of his old magnificence. “There is
no danger of that--the reasons are obvious.”

As he moved toward the window Hammersley touched him lightly on the arm.

“I warn you, Rizzio,” he said in a low concentrated tone, “that you’re
playing a dangerous hand. I should punish you--but other agencies----”

Rizzio halted. “Yes, other agencies----” he replied significantly. He
bowed in the girl’s direction and sitting on the window-sill he threw
his feet outside. “I bid you good night.” And carefully feeling for his
footing he slowly descended.

Cyril Hammersley followed him to the window, and Doris took a step in
his direction, when her thinly slippered foot touched something in the
wooden floor--something which slid upon the polished surface from the
shadow into the moonlight. Instinctively she glanced down and then
started--scarcely restraining a gasp. There, unmistakable in the shape
and color for so many hours graven on her mind, was a yellow packet of
Riz-la-Croix cigarette papers. She glanced at Cyril, who was closing
the casement window, then stooped and, picking up the packet, fled
noiselessly into her room and quickly locked the door.




CHAPTER VIII

EVIDENCE


Inside her own room she stood for a moment tremulously in the dark,
fingering the guilty thing in her hands as she had fingered the other
one--the one she had destroyed. Or hadn’t she destroyed it? For a
moment the thought came to her that Cyril had practiced some trick upon
her when they had knelt before the fire, substituting other papers for
the ones that were to be burned. But that was impossible. The papers
had not touched his fingers. He it was who had made a hole for them
in the fire, but her fingers had thrust the original papers into the
glowing coals. She turned the packet over and over in her fingers,
glancing at the closed door that separated her from Cyril. Another
message! It must be.

She pulled the curtains at the window and then moving quietly to the
bed, lit the candle on the night-stand. Another packet of Riz-la-Croix,
new like the other, with its tiny thin rubber band. She opened it
quickly and scanned its pages, finding what she sought without
difficulty. The writing was not in the same hand. It was rounder and
less minute, covering in all seven pages, and it was written carelessly
as if the writer had been in a hurry. Cyril’s own handwriting it
seemed. The purport of its message was the same.

No. She remembered the dates. These were somewhat different. The
names of the regiments were the same, but the dates instead of days
in April and May gave days in the months of June and July. And the
numerals which at first had puzzled her were smaller. For instance,
among “Highland Regiments Foot” the numerals of which she remembered
particularly, instead of 120,000 she saw the numerals 42,000. It was
the same under other headings in the remainder of the items. Under
“shrapnel” there were changes, and under “artillery”----

She closed the packet in icy fingers, for the figures swam before her
eyes. They were all true--all the horrible things that she had thought
of Cyril! This was later and more accurate information--the exact
reason for which she did not pretend to understand--and was intended to
follow the previous message--perhaps to be used as a code in connection
with it. Cyril was---- Oh, the dishonor of it! And she had gone to
sleep almost ready to believe in him again--because he had let her burn
the other papers. What did it matter to him whether she burned the
papers when he had other messages to send and had committed to memory
the facts he had let her destroy? He had lied to her. He was false as
Judas and more dangerous, for now she knew that he was desperate as
well as cunning, stooping to any means, no matter how ignoble, to gain
his ends. She had been a mere bauble in his hands, a child upon whose
credulity he had played without scruple. He had used her, the woman he
had said he loved, for his own unworthy ends as he used Betty Heathcote
and her house. She was filled with shame for him and for herself, who
could love something shameful.

And John Rizzio! Rizzio, Cyril’s enemy, stood for England and right,
and she had permitted herself to see through Cyril’s eyes just as Cyril
had wanted her to see.

It seemed as she compared them that Rizzio’s nobility attained a firmer
contour. He had come to her room to save her from her own ignorance
and wilfulness, from committing a crime, the greatest of all crimes
against England. Rizzio knew what Cyril was and on her account had
refrained from giving Cyril up to the officers of the law, although
they were within call--even when he felt himself yielding to the fury
of Cyril’s superior physical strength. Not even the spirit of revenge
for the punishment Cyril had given him, not even the humiliation
he had suffered before her eyes had been enough to make him forget
his intention to save, if he could, for the woman who loved him, a
successful rival. And she, Doris, had stood by Cyril’s side warm in
Cyril’s cause, against the one man who held Cyril’s fate as the bearer
of treacherous messages, in his hand.

There was still danger in the air. The last words of the two men to
each other had been hidden threats of “other agencies,” whatever they
were, and she found herself praying in a whisper that the agency of
England, even if it meant Cyril’s danger, might conquer. O God! It
would have been better, it seemed, if the bullet at Saltham Rocks that
had grazed Cyril’s arm had killed him. That death would at least have
been free from the shame of that which awaited Captain Byfield.

She gazed with wide eyes at her guttering candle. She was wishing for
Cyril’s death! She shivered with pity for herself and for him and
huddled down in the bed, a very small, very miserable object, seeking
in vain some hope, some rest for her mind amid the torture of her
thoughts.

Suddenly she started up and sat clutching the yellow packet to her
breast, her gaze fixed on the door into Cyril’s room. Had she heard a
knock? Or was it only imagination? Yes. There it was again. She leaned
over hurriedly and blew out the candle and lay very still, her teeth
chattering with the cold, her body trembling. He was knocking again, a
little louder this time, and she heard his voice through the keyhole
whispering her name. She made no response and feigned sleep. He knocked
again still louder and she heard her name spoken quite distinctly. He
would awaken the house if this went on. When he knocked again she got
up and went over to the door.

“Doris!” he was saying.

She answered him.

“Will you open the door--just a crack?”

“No,” she whispered.

“I want to speak to you.”

“You cannot.”

“Please.”

“I’m listening. What do you want to say?”

“I’ve lost something--something that must have fallen from my pocket.”

She was silent.

And then in quick anxious tones:

“You didn’t see--anythin’--on the floor by the door?”

“No,” she lied, trembling. “I didn’t.”

She heard him mutter.

“You’re sure?” came his voice again.

“Yes.”

And then in dubious tones:

“Oh, very well then. Sorry to have troubled you. Good night.”

She didn’t reply and stole back through the darkness to her bed, into
which she crept, like some thin wraith of vengeance, biding her time.

Into bed, but not to sleep. She watched the moonlight grow pale into
the west and saw the first gray streaks of dawn paint the wooded slopes
of Ben Darrah across the valley of the Dorth. In pity for herself and
Cyril she watched the new day born, a new day, bleak and cheerless,
which seemed by its very aspect to pronounce a sentence upon them;
the new day which was to mark the passing of all the things growing
womanhood holds most dear, her first faith, her first tenderness, her
first passion.

Doris kept to her room until Betty came in, awakening her from a heavy
sleep into which she had fallen just before sunrise. Lady Heathcote
rang for Wilson and then retired to the ministrations of her own maid,
leaving Doris to dress for the morning at her leisure. And when the
girl got downstairs to breakfast she found that the other guests had
preceded her. But Betty Heathcote was still in the breakfast room
picking with dainty fingers at the various dishes upon the sideboard
and making sparkling comment as was her custom on men and things. She
found the disappearance of John Rizzio, bag, baggage and man, from
Kilmorack House without even a line to his hostess both unusual and
surprising, since her guest was a man who made much of the amenities
and forms of proper behavior. Doris commented in a desultory way,
trying to put on an air of cheerfulness, aware of Cyril Hammersley
somewhere in the background awaiting the chance to speak to her alone.
She did not hurry, and when Betty arose sauntered into the library
where the other guests were waiting for the horses to come around.
Twice Cyril tried to speak to her, but she avoided him skillfully,
contriving to be a part of a group where personal topics were not to be
discussed. That kind of maneuvering she knew was a game at which any
woman is more than a match for any man. But she saw by the cloud that
was growing in Cyril’s eyes that he was not in the mood to be put off
with excuses, and realized that the sooner the pain of their interview
was over, the better it would be for both of them. She was dressed in
the long coat and breeches which she wore in the hunting field, and in
her waistcoat pocket was the yellow packet.

“I’ve got to see you for half an hour alone,” he said at last, taking
the bull by the horns.

“I shall miss my ride.”

“They’re taking the long road to Ben-a-Chielt. I’ll take you there in
the motor and send your mount on by a groom.”

She acquiesced with a cool shrug which put him at once upon his guard,
but Doris had reached a pass when all she wanted was to bring their
relations to an end as speedily and with as little pain as possible. So
that when the others had gone she sank into a chair before the fire,
coldly asking him what he wanted. He stood with his back to the hearth,
his hands clasped behind him, in a long moment of silence as though
trying to find the words to begin.

“Well?” she asked insolently.

“What has happened since last night to change you so, Doris?”

“I’ve had a chance to think.”

“Of what?”

“That it was time you and I had an understanding.”

“I don’t see----”

“Wait!” she commanded, with a wave of the hand. “There isn’t anything
that you can say that will make me change my mind. Therefore the sooner
this talk is over the better for both of us. I’ve told you and you know
already that my whole soul is wrapped in the cause of England in this
war. I can have nothing but pity and contempt for any Englishman----”

She paused, for at this moment, the parlor maid appeared and, gathering
up some brasses on Lady Heathcote’s desk, went out of the room.

“I beg that you will be more careful, Doris,” Cyril whispered.

She was silent a moment, and then after a glance at the dining-room
door, went on with more restraint.

“Pity and contempt are hardly the kind of ingredients that love can
live on. They’ve poisoned mine. It’s dead. I don’t want to see you
again,” she finished coldly--“ever. I hope you understand.”

He bowed his head and for a moment made no reply.

“I asked----” he said slowly, “I hoped--that you would be willin’ to
trust me--that you’d wait until I was able to speak to you--to explain
the--the things you do not understand.”

“Unfortunately,” she put in distinctly, “there is nothing that I do not
understand. I know--God help you!--what you are. I have done what I can
to save you from the fate you’re courting--and I shall still do so, for
the sake of--of what once was--was between us. But I do not want to see
you again. I have put you out of my life--completely--as though you
never had been in it. And now,” she rose, “will you let me go?”

“One moment, please,” he said calmly. “You found those papers last
night?”

“Yes,” she said coolly. “And if I did?”

He seemed to breathe more freely.

“I have nothing to say,” he muttered.

“Oh,” she said quickly, “I’m glad of that. You don’t deny----?”

“I deny nothing,” he said with a shrug. “I see that it would be
useless.”

“I’m glad you give me credit for that much intelligence,” she said
scathingly. “You haven’t done so before.”

“It was not your intelligence,” he said gently, “so much as your heart
that I had relied upon.”

“Oh, you thought I was a fool that you could use--indefinitely----”

“No. I thought you were a woman that I could count on indefinitely.”

Something in the tone of his own voice made her turn and look at him.

“A woman--yes, but not an enemy of England.”

He was silent again, and when he spoke it was not to argue. His voice
was subdued--shamed even it seemed.

“And now--I suppose you will give the--the papers to Sandys,” he said.

She examined him closely and pity for him seemed even stronger than
shame.

“It is a part of our misunderstanding,” she said coolly, “that you
should think so little of me. I have told you that I shall protect you.
My hands shall be clean, if my heart isn’t.”

“What will you do with the papers?” he asked.

“This,” and she turned toward him--“burn them.” She put her hand into
her pocket, drew out the papers and went toward the hearth. Her hand
was even extended toward the fire when, with a quick movement, he
snatched the yellow packet from her fingers.

She fell away from him in dismay, as if she had been touched by
something poisonous, touching her wrist and the fingers into which her
rings had been driven. Then she hid her face in her hands and closed
her eyes.

“Oh!” she gasped. “You’d pay my generosity--with _this_!”

He had examined the papers coolly and had put them into his pocket.

“I? I don’t count in a game like this--nor do you. I’m sorry. They were
mine. You took them. I had to have them.”

“Then _this_----” she stammered, “_this_ was what you kept me here for?”

“I had to have them,” he repeated dully. That was all. Her wrist and
fingers burned where he had hurt them. A brute--a coward--as well as a
traitor. She straightened proudly and with a look at his bowed head,
she went by him and out of the room.

Hammersley stood as she had left him for a moment and only raised his
head when the parlor maid came in again and replaced the brasses on
Lady Heathcote’s desk. In his eyes there came a keen look and he took a
step forward.

“Do you always clean Lady Heathcote’s brasses on Friday?” he asked the
maid.

She turned around with a startled air.

“Oh, yes, sir,” she replied demurely. “Friday, sir.”

“Oh!” said Hammersley. “Thanks.”

She stood a moment as if awaiting further questions and then went out.

Hammersley followed her with his gaze and then with a last look around
the room went into the hall, put on his fur coat and cap and quickly
made his way toward the garage.

Upstairs Doris paced her room in an agony of rage and humiliation. She
had meant to give him his dismissal kindly, but it was his abjectness
that had made her scornful--abjectness worn as she now knew with an
object that was indifferent to scorn. It was only with the purpose
of getting the papers from her that he had kept her there, and the
contempt that she had shown for him seemed but a piteous thing beside
the enormity of his brutality. He had not cared what she thought of
him. He had not cared. He had said so himself. Their love was a trifle
beside the greater matter that concerned him.

He had led her on under the guise of a shame he did not feel, from one
revelation to another, playing upon her emotions, upon things, which
should have been sacred even to him in such an hour until with infinite
cunning he had made her bring out the papers--and then----

Rage possessed her. She felt that she had been tricked--with weapons
that he should have scorned to use. She hated him at that moment, not
as she hated the secrecy and dishonor of his cause, but as a man who
could take advantage of a woman, as a hypocrite, a coward, a bully.

She knew the fury of Dido, but she felt the pain of Ariadne too.
She heard the sound of his roadster and ran to the window, peering
dark-eyed through the muslin curtains, and saw him go by under her
windows, low down in his seat, his gaze fixed on the road ahead,
driving fast, Stryker beside him. He passed without even a glance
upward or back--out of her life. It seemed to her that if he had turned
his head just then and given one look at the house even, she could have
forgiven him much, but she watched him until he turned the angle of the
road and was gone.

Their interview had seemed so brief--in all it seemed scarcely more
than a moment--to have made such a horrible change in her way of
looking at things. If he had protested innocence, fought, if even so
weakly, against her evidence, fought with a man’s strength against
odds the danger of losing the woman he wanted, she could have seen
him go with a calmness born of woman’s inherent right to dismiss. But
this----! Death surely was no worse than for a woman to be spurned by
such a man.

After a while tears came, and they helped her, tears of anger, if you
will, but tears, soft and humid, in which to a woman there is always
a kind of bitter sweetness, too. She threw herself on her bed in her
riding togs, her mannish coat and mannish boots, eloquent of their own
pretensions. In spite of them and the things they typified she was
merely a very tired little girl, weeping her heart out as other little
girls had done before and will again, because her lover had gone away
from her.

Toward luncheon time when the others were expected to return she got
up, bathed her eyes and, summoning Wilson, changed into a dress for the
afternoon. Pride came to her rescue now, and with the help of her maid
and the mysterious process with which maids are familiar she managed
to make herself presentable enough to avoid notice from so keen an
observer as her hostess. Doris found herself smiling, and doing her
share of conversation in a mechanical way which left a question in
her mind as to the depth of her own emotions. But the weight about her
heart, the dull echo of reiterated thoughts pervaded all and she knew
that it was merely that her spirit was dulled, her heart numb, like
a nerve from the shock of a blow. She stole away when she could with
a book to the gun-room, where she could sit alone and try to put her
thoughts in order.




CHAPTER IX

THE VIKING’S TOWER


There in the middle of the afternoon the butler brought her a note. For
a moment before she read the superscription, a wild rush of something
which might have been joy yet could not be, sent a pale flush of color
into her cheek. But she glanced at the envelope carelessly, and when
the man had gone, quickly opened it.

It was from John Rizzio, signed with the familiar initials and begun
without either name or qualification:

    You will think it strange, perhaps, that I should write to
    you after the events of last night, because the modesty of a
    woman is the last thing that forgives. My action is beyond
    apology and I offer none for fear that it may be construed
    into a hope--a selfish hope of an unimaginable forgiveness.
    Hope has passed--that with the others, but something else
    remains, something less selfish than hope and more vital than
    self-interest and that is a whole-hearted wish that your honor
    may be kept free from the taint of the dark and furtive things
    with which it has come into contact.

    I am not a man, as you know, to boast of disinterestedness.
    I have lived a life in which my own affairs were always
    paramount, my own aims always most important. I am telling
    you this to warn you that my generosity to Hammersley is not
    actuated by any love of a man who has spoiled my dearest
    ambition, but by the continued esteem with which I still regard
    yourself. I do not love him; and my own wish, my duty, my
    own honor, my loyalty to England all acclaim that he should
    be delivered at once to those in authority. And yet I have
    refrained--for you, Doris. But I have learned that H---- is in
    communication with G---- and that Crenshaw of Scotland Yard is
    on the alert. I may not be able to save him.

    This is an appeal to the one person who has the most influence
    with him and I ask that you use whatever power over him you
    possess to bring him to a sense of the impossibility of his
    mad plans. If you still have doubt as to the character of the
    work he has undertaken, I ask that you go to Ben-a-Chielt
    tonight and listen secretly to convincing proof of what he is.
    For tonight at one o’clock on the cliffs near the old Viking’s
    Tower, he will meet a personal messenger from G----.

    I appeal to you for England--but more than for England,
    for--yourself.

    Yours,

    J. R.

Doris read the note through again and again, her thoughts blurring
unpleasantly, like a photograph out of focus. It seemed impossible that
she could do what he asked of her. Every instinct, wounded and sore
from her last encounter, revolted at the thought of meeting Cyril again
under the conditions presented. It was impossible that she should go.
Cyril would only laugh at her or, what would be worse, show her the
callousness and brutality that he had done this morning. Rizzio asked
her to do what she could. Why should she save him? What had he done to
merit such a sacrifice of pride on her part. The past? That was dead
and Cyril buried with it. England? She put her head forward into her
hands and pressed her fingers to her temples. England!

As the afternoon faded into night the conviction grew in Doris’s mind
that the situation made personal considerations unimportant. After
dinner she excused herself and, dressing warmly, toward twelve o’clock
went downstairs past the library door and out to the stables. She
found a sleepy groom and, giving him a liberal fee as the price of his
silence, had a side-saddle put on a good horse and made her way in the
direction of Ben-a-Chielt. She knew the road well, for she had traveled
it many times with Cyril and Betty during the previous summer when
all the world was gay and she and Cyril were lovers. She was a little
nervous at being alone on the moor in the darkness, but not frightened.
She gave herself greater hardihood by trying to remember that Cyril
and Rizzio were gentlemen, one of whom she had thought she could have
trusted with her life, the other a friend who wanted to be trusted with
it--and now protested he held her honor dearer than his own. Not her
enemies surely; and the thought of physical harm from either of them,
the only thing that could have deterred her from this midnight venture,
did not occur to her. But as she came to Saltham Rocks, the scene of
Cyril’s last night’s encounter, she pressed forward more rapidly with a
keen eye upon the gray blur of the road. She reached the cross-roads,
her breath coming a little more rapidly, pulled her horse down to a
walk and turned in upon Cyril’s property, going forward more slowly.
Until the present moment she had formulated no plan of action, nor had
counted upon the possibilities of discovery, so she rode cautiously,
making a long detour across the moor to avoid the lights of one of
the keepers’ houses which stood upon the road. She found that she
had to choose her way among the rocks and whins, but her horse was
sure-footed, and at a walk there was little danger of a cropper. She
kept the road in sight and by the fitful light of the stars, between
the rack of mist and clouds that were coming in from the sea, she made
her way in the general direction of the Lodge. On her right she had
glimpses of the sea beyond the cliffs and heard the pounding of the
surf upon the rocks and shingle. The Viking’s Tower was up among the
rocks near Beaufort Head, half a mile beyond the house. She had been
there with Cyril many times, and from the ruined wall had sat with
him and looked out over the North Sea, while he had told her in his
sportive vernacular the story of the tower and of the “Johnnies” who
had built it. It was difficult to identify that Cyril now with the man
of mystery lurking out here somewhere in the dark, his mind set on the
odious business of betraying his country.

The Lodge was set inland from the sea in a valley between two ridges
which narrowed down to a fissure in the rocks that fell away to
Beaufort Cove, a small harbor almost land-locked where Cyril kept his
motor-boats and sloop. As the girl approached the Lodge, she turned
far to the left and made a wide circle among the hills, so that there
could be no chance of inquisitive eyes discovering the bold silhouette
of her horse against the sky. Slowly she climbed the lower ridges of
Ben-a-Chielt until she reached a level spot, high above the house,
garage, stables and hangar, where she stopped for a moment to rest her
winded horse.

Below her a wild panorama of land and wind-blown sky, the ragged
profile of black rocks etched deep into the sullen gray of the sea.
Seen from this height the contours were unfamiliar to her and the
purpose of her grim visit gave the grim vista a dramatic significance
that was almost theatrical. Long lines emerged from the dark blur
of sea and sky and roared in upon the rocks that guarded the harbor
upon which they were shivered into foam. Inside the rim of rocks the
placid cove calmly reflected the sky. She saw the motor-boats near the
landing, made out the specter lines of Cyril’s sloop, the _Windbird_,
and in the shadow of the cliffs saw another vessel, the lines of which
were unfamiliar. This craft was long and slender with a wireless mast
and two large smoke-stacks. No lights showed aboard of her, but there
were signs of activity, for while the girl looked a small boat was
lowered and was pulled for the landing; and suddenly the real meaning
of this dark vessel was borne to her. There was no mistaking the grim
profile of the thing that projected from the forward superstructure
and the curving decks which met the water in such slender lines. It
was a war-vessel, a destroyer, and the man who was putting out for
the shore was the German messenger who was to meet Cyril Hammersley
at Ben-a-Chielt. She trembled and clung to the pommel of her saddle.
The brief joyous moments that had come to her at intervals during the
evening as she thought of the inflections of Cyril’s voice, of the
weary look she had seen in his eyes, and hoped that even tonight he
might be able to justify himself in her own thoughts at least were
engulfed in the damning conviction of what she saw before her. John
Rizzio had told her the truth. How he had learned what was to happen,
she did not know or care, but the accuracy of his information was no
longer a matter to doubt.

She looked around her in the darkness toward the way by which she had
come, really frightened for the first time that evening as at the
palpable presence of sin. For a moment she hesitated in her intention
to go forward. She had seen enough to convince her. There was no need
of more. But the real object of her mission nerved her to her task.
She must go on at once if she wished to reach the Tower in time to
conceal herself. So she pressed her horse along the hill, and when she
had crossed the ridge rode down in a path parallel to the edge of the
cliffs, which brought her after a while into a line with Beaufort Head,
where she could see the dim mass of the ruin rising above the chaos of
rock that surrounded it.

When she reached a spot not too far distant, she dismounted in a
clump of bushes and fastening the bridle of her horse to the gnarled
limb of a stunted tree, crept forward on foot. The excitement of the
venture and its possible consequences now gave her renewed strength and
caution. Moving to the left, toward the northern side of the Tower,
she clambered over the rocks toward the sea. There should be plenty of
time to reach a place of concealment before the occupant of the boat
had time to climb the steep and tortuous path from the landing, and
peering from side to side, pausing from time to time to listen, she
reached the shadow of Table Rock, a huge slab of granite which had been
tossed by some convulsion of Nature upon the very summit of the Head.
The physical contours of the place made her approach an easy one, for
the cliffs were strewn with bowlders and it was easy to slip from one
to another without detection.

Assured that the spot that she had reached was as near the Tower as
she dared approach for the present, she wedged herself into a crevice
between two rocks, into which she might pass and go out by the other
side, and sank down upon her knees and waited. The moments passed
slowly. Where was John Rizzio? Would Cyril never come? She had a moment
of horror in the thought that the German messenger might come and
discover her before Cyril arrived. What would he do to her? Kill her,
of course. And in a panic of sinking nerves she thought of getting to
her feet and fleeing into the friendly darkness from which she had
come. She had even risen and her head was just below the level of the
top of her refuge when she heard footsteps close by and got the odor
of a cigarette. So she sank back, her hand at her heart to quiet its
throbbings.

The footsteps passed her, returned and then went toward the Tower
and she bared her head and peered cautiously out. A tall figure in
a long coat and deer-stalker cap was standing watching the path to
the landing. She could not see his features, but she knew that it
was Cyril. For one moment she thought of running to him and throwing
herself at his feet and pleading with him while there was still time
to go away into the darkness--with her--anywhere before this stranger
should reach him. But her courage failed her and she sank back into
her corner. And when she straightened again her moment had passed, for
she heard other footsteps to her right of a man as he clambered up the
rocks. He passed quite near her, a burly man in a naval cap and coat,
out of breath from his exertions.

Cyril came forward to meet him, and she heard the short words of their
greeting.

“Herr Hammersley?”

“Ja.”

She peered out and saw the burly man straighten, his heels together,
and touch his fingers to the rim of his cap. Cyril bowed and asked a
question and the other replied in a sentence that contained the word
“_Hochheit_,” which was the only word she understood. She crept a
little closer so that she could hear more distinctly, hoping that her
slight knowledge of German might aid her. She watched Cyril to see if
he passed anything to the German officer. Instead of this the German
took a letter from an inside pocket and handed it to Cyril, and she
heard the words “_Hochheit_” again and “_Excellenz_”--a message it
seemed from some prince, or from some general or high official of the
German Government. Cyril appeared to offer apologies and broke the seal
of the envelope, bringing from the pocket of his overcoat an electric
torch, by the aid of which he read the letter. Doris could see his face
quite plainly in the reflected light from the page, and marked the deep
lines at his brows and the stern look at his mouth and chin. He went
over the document twice very carefully, and then as he turned to his
companion she heard his voice saying quite distinctly in German:

“You know the purport of this paper?”

“No, Herr Hammersley,” said the officer. “My orders are merely to
deliver this letter which was to receive your acceptance.”

Cyril paused for a long moment, tapping the document lightly with his
finger and then taking a pencil from his pocket bent over and upon
the nearest rock wrote something. Then he slipped the letter into its
envelope and handed it to the other, who put it into his pocket,
saluted again and with a hurried farewell turned down the path and was
gone.

That was all. The interview had not lasted more than five minutes,
but Doris knew by the look she had seen on Cyril’s face that danger
threatened. The letter had contained a command, a command from a German
officer of high rank to Cyril Hammersley--a spy receiving his orders
from the government he served. If he had gone back to the Lodge at
this moment she would have let him go past her without a word, for the
bitterness came back into her heart and engulfed all purpose. She sat
in her place of concealment, peering out at him, fascinated. He moved
nearer and then stood, his feet braced on the rocks, gazing down the
path by which his midnight visitor had disappeared. How long he stood
there motionless she could not know, but as the moments passed and he
did not move, she rose from her cranny, her trembling nerves seeking an
outlet in motion or speech. Why didn’t he move?

At last her overtaxed nerves could no longer endure and she came out
of the shadow and spoke his name. Still he made no motion, and she
realized that her lips had made no sound. But her foot touched a small
stone, which fell among the rocks, and she saw him wheel around and
face her quickly, something glittering in his hand, while his voice
rang sharply.

“Stand where you are!”

He took a few threatening steps toward her, his look studying her small
bulk.

“It’s I, Cyril,” she said faintly, “Doris.”

“You!” He glanced to right and left, putting the thing in his pocket
and faced her, incredulous. “What are you doing here, Doris?”

“I came to--to see you again----”

His eyes were still searching the darkness around them.

“Who told you to come here?”

“No one,” she lied. “I followed you.”

“Who saw you come? You heard?”

“Yes----” slowly. “O Cyril--I can’t let you go from me like this----”

She put her face to her hands and felt his arms enfold her. She
trembled, but in this weakness a new kind of strength came to her. “I
want you to come with me away--away from all this--for me--for England.
It’s my last appeal--you must not refuse it. I--I want you so, Cyril,
as it used to be.”

She felt his lips gently touch her brow and heard his whisper,

“God bless you!”

She clung to him desperately, to his caress, the one sure symbol of his
purity----

“I love you, Cyril,” she murmured, “I can’t help it. I’ve tried not to.
But you couldn’t kiss me like this, reverently, if you did not love me
well enough to forget everything else. Say you do, dear.”

“I love you,” he whispered again. “But you must not stay here. You
must----”

“Doesn’t it mean something to you that I came,” she went on breathlessly,
“that I could forget--what happened--that the love that was in my heart
for you was greater than my hatred of what you are? I came so that you
could know it by the difficulty, the danger that I ran. I don’t care
what others may think of me. The only thing that matters is to have you
again. You don’t know what it cost me to come. I am not the kind to be
held so lightly, Cyril. I have forgotten my pride, even my sense of what
is fitting for a girl to do, in the hope that you will listen to me.”

“Yes,” he murmured, “but not now, Doris. You must go back.”

“Not yet----” she protested.

“I--I have much to do----” he said.

“That messenger--O Cyril--you mustn’t. Come back with
me--tonight--now----”

“I can’t,” he muttered. “It--it is important for me to stay here----”

She loosened his arms and stood away from him, peering down into the
cove where clouds of black smoke were belching from the funnels of the
black vessel. The water of the cove was churning in its wake and its
prow was turning toward the harbor mouth.

Suddenly she saw Cyril start and peer around him in the darkness.

“Who sent you here?” she heard his voice in a strangled whisper at her
ear.

“No one,” she denied again, “I followed you.”

“That isn’t possible, Doris,” he said quickly. “I have reasons for
knowing. You were here before I came. Rizzio told you---- He knew what
was to happen--he was the only one who could have known.”

“Why?” Her curiosity sent all subterfuge flying. She could see his pale
face in the moonlight.

“Because it was Rizzio who sent this messenger to meet me.”

“Rizzio!” The mystery was deepening. “I can’t understand.”

He hesitated a long moment before replying, as though weighing
something in his mind.

“I’ll tell you this much,” he said at last. “You’ve a right to know.
Rizzio told you that he was an agent of the English Government. It’s
my word against his. You can believe me or not if you like. Rizzio is a
spy of Germany!”

“Impossible! John Rizzio----” she whispered aghast.

He laughed.

“The pot callin’ the kettle black--what? It’s the truth.”

“But Rizzio! What object would he have in betraying England? A man of
his position!”

“That’s the kind of men England’s enemies want,” put in Cyril dryly.

“But he has no need of money. Not money. Impossible!”

“No, not money. There are other things that John Rizzio values more
than money.”

“What?”

He caught her by the arm impressively to make his meaning clear. “You
don’t know the passion of collectors. They would sell their souls for
the things they want. The things that seem impossible are the things
they want the most.”

“But I don’t understand.”

“After the war Rizzio is to be permitted to ‘buy’ Rubens’s ‘Descent
from the Cross’ from the German Government.”

“Oh!” she gasped in horror. A new idea of the terrible possibilities of
duplicity was borne to her. But she couldn’t believe.

“How do you know this?” she asked.

He laughed.

“It’s one of the things I stopped in London to find out.”

“Then you----”

“I am a German spy.”

“I don’t believe you,” she cried proudly. There was a note of joy in
her voice, a momentary note which seemed to trail off into one of
terror. “Cyril!” she whispered. “Rizzio! He wrote me to come here.”

“I knew it.”

“But he said he----” she hesitated. “Why did he want me to come? There
must have been some other reasons besides wanting me to see--he’s here,
Cyril--somewhere----”

Hammersley started and turned, his hand in his pocket, and Doris
followed his look. Three men had risen from among the rocks toward the
Tower.

“Don’t move, Hammersley,” said Rizzio’s voice. “You’re in danger,
Doris.”

But the girl was clinging to Cyril’s arm. “No, no,” she was crying.
Several shots rang out as Cyril threw her aside, dashing forward. One
of the men seemed to stumble among the rocks and fall heavily. The
other came in toward Cyril, his arm raised, but another shot from
behind the rocks made him pause, twist half around, his hand to his
shoulder as Cyril caught him a blow which sent him reeling to the edge
of the cliff, over which he hung for a moment, peering downwards in
horror, and then disappeared from view.

“Well done, Stryker,” she heard Cyril cry. “The other--this way. Don’t
let him get off.”

And Stryker disappeared after Rizzio.




CHAPTER X

THE YELLOW DOVE


In a daze Doris saw Cyril bend over the prostrate figure and then come
toward her.

“Dead?” she whispered in horror.

But he didn’t seem to hear her. He caught her by the arm and forcibly
led her inland.

“Dead!” she whispered again. “It might have been you.”

“Or you,” she heard him say sharply.

“Me?”

“Yes. But it’s my fault. I should have guessed.”

“John Rizzio would kill _me_. Oh, it’s unbelievable!”

“You know too much.” He gave a short laugh. “Far too much for your
own good--or mine.” He caught her suddenly by both arms and made her
look straight into his eyes. “Doris, you’ve seen nothing, you’ve heard
nothing tonight. Do you understand?”

His grasp on her arms hurt her but she bore it without a murmur.

“Yes,” she said.

“You swear it?”

“Yes,” faintly, “I do.”

“I’ve got to go away from Ben-a-Chielt tonight. I can’t tell you why.
You’ve got to go straight to Kilmorack House now. You rode over. Take
the short cut by Horsham Hill. It’s not so well known. I would go with
you but I haven’t a moment to spare. Don’t trust anyone--not even the
maids at the house. Go back to London tomorrow with Jack Sandys and
don’t let him leave you until you’re safe at Ashwater Park. Where’s
your horse?”

She told him and followed blindly.

“Where are you going, Cyril?” she pleaded.

“It doesn’t matter.”

He found the horse and untied the bridle.

“Tell me, Cyril. I’ve earned the right to know.”

“Something has happened,” he said quietly, “which has put all my plans
in danger----”

“And you?”

“Yes. The thing I’ve been trying to do may fail. It hangs or falls by
this issue.”

“But what--what?”

“You can’t know that,” he said quickly. “Don’t ask me anything more. I
can’t answer. But trust in me if you can. Trust in me, Doris, and if
you love me--_silence_!”

He gave her a lift into the saddle and kissed her hand. Then he looked
around him and gave a parting injunction.

“Now cut sharp off to the right in the darkness until you strike the
old sheep trail. You can see it quite plainly in the heather. Follow it
to the head of the ridge, then take the road to Horsham Hill. Good-by
and God bless you.”

A sob rose in her throat and she could only wave a hand in reply. And
so she left him standing there alone gazing after her with bared head
in the darkness. The strain on her nerves had told on her and she sat
her side-saddle listlessly holding on by the pommel, and peering into
the darkness before her, with eyes that saw nothing but pictures of
death. She could not forget the wounded man grasping at space as he
tottered on the rim of the rocks. Cyril had killed a man. War! She had
thought war a more glorious thing. This seemed very like murder. She
blessed God for Stryker who had come so opportunely. Rizzio had tried
to kill Cyril. In horror she had seen him raise his pistol and aim,
but at her cry he had missed his shot and with the disabling of his
confederates he had fled.

Rizzio was a German spy. Then since they were enemies of course Cyril
was loyal--playing a part to deceive the enemy--learning its secrets
that England might profit by them. The message! What was the message
that the German naval officer had brought which had so disturbed Cyril?
What was this mysterious duty of Cyril’s which meant so much to his
cause, the success or failure of which hung by a thread? She tried to
think what Cyril could do in England and after a time the thing began
to come to her. Cyril was acting for England. He had succeeded, in
the guise of a German secret agent, in finding the traitor in the War
Office, and it was Cyril who had caused the arrest of Captain Byfield.
Rizzio, too, was a German spy who for some reason or other had been
sent--O God--that was it. The Germans suspected Cyril and had used John
Rizzio to put him to the test--had set a thief to catch a thief. Cyril
had found that the message was a dangerous one--and had refused to give
it up to Rizzio. That seemed to explain everything--Cyril’s willingness
to have her burn the papers, Rizzio’s anxiety to save them, that he
might send them to his employers. The second packet of papers? A false
message, prepared for a purpose which Cyril was to fulfill. The German
naval officer! His message--what was it? Imagination refused to aid
her. She could not understand. He brought a command--a test of Cyril’s
loyalty to Germany perhaps? Was that it? And if so, what? A test which
meant victory or defeat--that was what Cyril’s last words had meant.
Victory or defeat--life or death. It was a desperate game that he was
playing. And what was he going to do tonight that made it necessary for
him to leave her to ride to Kilmorack House alone?

Bewildered and weary with excitement and much thinking, she gave it up,
and as in a daze set her mind to the task of finding the way to Horsham
Hill. She rode on inland searching for the old sheep trail as Cyril had
described it to her, but as the minutes went by and she did not find it
she began to think that she must have passed it in the darkness. She
had ridden at a walk for hours it seemed, keeping as she thought in a
direction which would surely lead her to a road toward the Hill, but
she realized now that she was lost on the moor and that it might be
morning before she would find her way to Betty Heathcote’s. She stopped
her horse and peered in every direction. Nothing but the undulations of
the moor, hill and dale, a dead tree outlined against the sky, masses
of rock uncouth in form, bushes which whispered in the wind, the babble
of a tarn somewhere behind her, though she had not remembered passing
it. There were no lights in any direction, none even from the heavens,
for the stars had gone out. After a long while she wondered vaguely
what time it was. She had no watch, but it seemed that a paleness like
that which precedes the dawn had spread along the sky--though it hardly
seemed possible it could be so late as that. Three--four o’clock she
thought it might be--perhaps later. The one thing that now seemed to
persist in her mind was the hope that Wilson had obeyed orders and
kept Lady Heathcote in ignorance of her absence.

She was startled by her horse which, without moving, had stretched his
neck and whinnied loudly. He, too, had realized the aimlessness of
their wanderings and wanted the warm stalls at the Kilmorack stables.
Doris tried to think what was best to do. All sense of direction was
gone and she was beyond even the sound of the sea. At last she decided
to try a slight eminence and see if she could make out the bulk of
Ben-a-Chielt, but a mist had fallen, and when she reached the height
she was no wiser than before. Fortunately, it was not cold, and if she
did not fall from the saddle in utter weariness, daylight would show
her a way. She got down from her horse and, fastening him to a bush,
walked to and fro to keep awake, waiting for the day, for at sunrise
she could make her way toward the east until she reached the coast,
after which by following the cliffs to the right she would reach the
Lodge, and from there the way to Kilmorack House.

She had grown accustomed to the silences and now and then paused in
her pacing to stop and listen. She thought she heard a sound different
from the others--behind her it seemed, a subdued murmur, which, as she
listened, grew in intensity until she clearly made it out to be the
quick reverberations of a motor, running with its cut-out open. It was
coming fast, and in a moment a long fan of light shot across the sky
from below the brow of a distant hill and then fell suddenly to earth,
where it picked out the shapes of trees and bushes along what appeared
to be its road. The motor was not traveling toward her, but at an angle
which would make it pass near her, but quickly as she mounted and
rode toward it she was unable even to come within earshot before the
machine had passed and was lost to sight in the distance. It had not
gone by so rapidly that Doris had not been able to make out on a rise
of ground against the sky the profile of a roadster and the shapes of
two men. Cyril and Stryker! There could be no doubt of it, for the
body of Cyril’s car was familiar to her and the chances of any other
machine being abroad in this locality at this hour were remote indeed.
Where were they going? In which direction? Toward Saltham Rocks or
northward? She did not know, but decided to take the chance and follow.
She reached the road without difficulty--a trail it appeared to be with
well-defined wheel tracks and the marks of hoofs. She pressed her horse
onward in the wake of the speeding machine, not to overtake it, but to
reach a destination of some sort which would be better than the utter
loneliness of the desolate moor, the silence and inaction of which made
her a prey to unhappy thoughts. Her horse was willing, and as the going
was good broke into a brisk trot which for a while kept the glow of the
swinging searchlight of the machine in sight. But presently that, too,
disappeared and all was as before. And glancing above she understood.
To her right a pale streak of light was showing along the horizon, and
above her between patches of dark clouds she caught a faint reflection
of violet light. It was the beginning of the dawn.

Dawn on her right--that meant the east. She was riding north, then.
North--and to what destination? She had ridden this road with Cyril,
but never to its end, which as she knew was among the unhospitable
crags of Rudha Mor, a wild spot unfrequented by any except Cyril’s
gamekeepers. What was Cyril’s errand in the night to such a place when
everything that had happened would seem to indicate the necessity for
his immediate return to London? The same kind of curiosity that had
made her open the package of cigarette papers against Cyril’s wishes,
stimulated her to follow this quest to its end. She forgot that she
had had no sleep all night, and little the night before. Of physical
weariness now she seemed to have none, and in the growing light she
urged her tired horse forward into a hard gallop which covered the
miles swiftly. She came to the cliffs and saw the sea, passed inland
again. The going was rougher here, less turf and more rocks and whins,
while to her left the hills were split by crags which protruded in
fantastic shapes, like heads of prisoned monsters of the underworld
which had forced their way up through the crust of the earth to the
light of day. It was curious. The trail was well worn here as it had
been before, and there were signs of much hauling. What was going on
at Rudha Mor? The place could not be far distant, for she saw that the
road wound up the rocks and fell away rapidly into a deep gorge, the
further side of which she could see, dimly colored with the opalescent
tint of the East. This she thought must be nearly the end of her ride.
She did not know what was in store for her and was doubtful as to her
wisdom, but she was eaten with curiosity, and dismounted, led her horse
slowly to the lip of the gorge and peered over. What she saw made her
gasp. She drew quickly back, tethered her horse to a bush and came
forward again. Near by, under a shed built on the brink of the cliff,
was Cyril’s roadster, but of Cyril and Stryker she saw no sign. Beneath
her feet the cliffs fell away rapidly by easy steps, down which she
marked a well-worn footpath. The bottom of the gorge was of rock and
sand shelving gradually toward the sea and fairly in its middle, built
strongly of rough lumber, she saw a shed with wide doors which even
now were open--a large hangar from which as she looked several figures
wheeled forth a huge aëroplane--to a platform of planks which extended
for a long way toward the sea. From a distance it was difficult to
judge its measurements, but by comparison with the heights of the men
Doris knew that she had never seen a machine so large. As the east
grew lighter she could see Cyril plainly. He came out of the hangar
dressed in leather, gave some orders which made the other figures hurry
and a series of deafening explosions from the engine as they “tuned
it up,” gave Doris a sense of immediate departure. For a while she
watched, fascinated, her interest in the size of this huge toy and
its possibilities making a separate mind-picture which superseded all
those that had gone before. But as the light grew stronger and she
made out the color of the wide yellow planes, she started up with a
cry which would have been heard by the men below her had it not been
for the racket that the engine was making. “A huge machine with yellow
wings,” she remembered Jack Sandys’ description, “a thousand horsepower
at least.” The Yellow Dove--this was the Yellow Dove and the man of
mystery, its driver, was--Cyril.

Spellbound and trembling with excitement, she watched Cyril climb up
into one of the seats. Cyril was going to fly to the Germans, she knew
it now, to obey the commands which had been brought last night by the
German officer, commands to come to Germany and explain his failure
to deliver his secret message to Rizzio. They suspected him and
yet he was going to face them. It was desperate, foolhardy, insane.
He would never come back. Not victory, but death--that was what it
meant. She ran out to the very edge of the rocks, shrieking his name,
but the sounds were lost in the fearful din of the motor below. The
explosions echoed and reëchoed in the gorge which seemed to quiver
with the volume of sound. Not a head from below was turned up to look
at her and she had a sense of her own unimportance in the immensity of
Cyril’s viewpoint. She saw the yellow machine start slowly down the
incline, gathering momentum as it ran until it left the runway and rose
magnificently, its engine roaring steadily, clearing the surf and rocks
and heading straight into the growing day.

O God! That she should have suspected him of anything base and
dishonorable--a man who could face death as he was doing, as he had
been doing for months. Cyril--the Yellow Dove. There could be no doubt
of it, for she had seen with her own eyes. She understood now many
things that had been a mystery before; why he could not speak to her;
the reasons for his occasional absences, for his air of indifference,
for his coolness in the face of adverse criticism. She understood
about John Rizzio and the reasons why Cyril had wanted her to take
such precautions in getting safely back to Ashwater Park, precautions
which she had disregarded. But what mattered about her when Cyril every
day, every hour for months had taken chances against death, the most
ignominious death of all!

Her heart was big with pride in him and she followed the Yellow Dove
with her gaze, now rising high and diminishing rapidly in the mist, her
soul in her moist eyes and on her lips which were whispering words
that she hoped could follow him into the distance. Her Cyril, still
hers, and England’s--the Honorable Cyril whom the world had come to
know as the Yellow Dove.

[Illustration: “Her lips ... were whispering words that she hoped could
follow him into the distance.”]

She stood in the shelter of the rocks, for she knew now in which way
her duty to Cyril lay, and waited until the aëroplane was but a speck
against the sky, when she turned with a sigh which was almost a gasp of
weariness and walked slowly toward her horse. The ride before her was
long, but by good riding she might still reach Kilmorack House before
Lady Betty’s guests were up. Otherwise her reputation was gone. She
knew that, for she could make no explanation of any kind. On that she
was----

Quick footsteps behind her--her arms caught from behind--a glimpse of
a strange face and then something white over her head--a pungent odor
and--unconsciousness.




CHAPTER XI

VON STROMBERG


In the Taunus range north of the Schwartzwald, lies the village of
Windenberg, on the slopes of the well-wooded hills that lead by slow
stages to higher elevations of the Grosser Feldberg. In the valleys are
vineyards, orchards, chestnut and almond-groves and in times of peace,
the people are contented, well-to-do and industrious. The schloss of
the Counts von Winden stands upon an eminence and looks down upon a
rolling country of velvety woods extending for miles along the slope of
the range. In this region of firs and beech trees one might walk for
miles off the roads without coming upon a sign of human habitation, or
indeed without passing the boundaries of the von Winden estate.

But three miles from Winden Schloss well hidden among the hills was a
spot of cleared land containing perhaps two hundred acres which had
been once used by the von Winden family as a farm, but had been taken
since the beginning of the war by the State for purposes of its own.
A good road led to Windenberg five miles away through the forest, but
much secrecy attached to Blaufelden, as the place was called. Men of
the Imperial Forest Service kept guard upon all the roads, and no one
but those having official permission were allowed to come within two
miles of the place.

A visit would have soon explained the reasons for this extraordinary
care on the part of the men in uniform, for not far from the house and
stables, unobtrusive buildings of brick and stone, were aviation sheds,
a well-supplied garage and storage houses, which indicated at almost
any hour of the day or night a military activity.

Within the farmhouse of Blaufelden, rather late in a night in March a
tall iron-gray figure, slender, buttoned to the neck in a close-fitting
uniform coat, paced slowly up and down. A plain wooden table stood
in the center of the room. It was lighted by a lamp with a green
shade and covered with papers arranged in orderly piles. There were
chairs, strongly but simply made, and a sad-colored rug, and the walls
were decorated with pictures of hunting scenes, while over the stone
fireplace in which the pine logs intermittently blazed, there was a
colored lithograph of the Emperor of Germany. It was the kind of room,
and the kind of furniture one would expect to find in any of the rural
districts of the great empire, with the one difference that nowhere
was there visible the touch of a woman’s hand. Whatever its original
purpose the room at the present moment contained only the essentials of
the barest comfort. And the figure of the man in uniform, erect, silent
and austere, completed the impression which the barrack-like simplicity
of his surroundings created--order, cleanliness, efficiency expressed
in the simplest terms.

The German officer stopped pacing the room and touched a bell upon
the table. His brows were furrowed and his broad capable hands tapped
impatiently among the documents. His summons was answered almost
immediately by a man in the uniform of the Jägers, the Imperial Forest
Service, who stood silently his heels together awaiting orders.

“There has been no word?” asked the officer in German.

“None, Excellenz.”

“You stationed your men as I directed?”

“Yes, Excellenz----”

The officer paused. And then, “Send Herr Hauptmann von Winden the
moment he arrives.”

The man saluted, wheeled and went out, closing the door noiselessly
behind him. The tall figure regarded the door fixedly for a moment
in deep thought, and then tapped the back of his left hand with the
fingers of his right, a habit he had when things were not going to
his liking. General Graf von Stromberg, Privy Councilor to the German
Emperor and head of the military sections of the Secret Service, was
not a person accustomed to have things go wrong, and delay of any kind
annoyed him exceedingly.

But the door of the room opened and a young officer in uniform appeared
and stood awaiting the will of his superior. He was blond, ruddy and
well set up and bore all the marks of the army training--a member
beyond doubt of the military caste with something in the clearly cut,
if somewhat arrogant, features of his face which suggested good blood
and lineage.

“Ah, Herr Hauptmann!” said the General, frowning. “You have heard?”

“Yes, Excellenz. He should be here by midnight.”

“What was the cause of the delay?”

“He was forced to come down at Ostend, yesterday. It has taken him all
day to make repairs. He is on the way now.”

Von Stromberg grunted and sank into his chair at the table, motioning
the younger officer into one beside him.

“Come, sit down. Let’s forget that we are parts of the intricate
machinery of State. Here is a cigar. Smoke. It will do you good.”

Von Winden, flattered by this mark of condescension, obeyed.

“You are glad?” von Stromberg asked.

“Yes, Excellenz. I am glad. It is not the kind of thing one wants to be
worried about--one’s own flesh and blood. But I knew there must have
been a mistake.”

General von Stromberg puffed his smoke toward the ceiling and stretched
his long legs upon the floor.

“It is very curious. I am not sure that I understand. Herr Rizzio is a
careful man and he has much at stake. Why should your cousin Hammersley
have refused to take cognizance of his credentials?”

“He had doubtless good reasons of his own. But since he will soon be
here he will answer your questions himself. The fact that he comes at
all, Excellenz, should be proof of his loyalty.”

“Yes,” said the General thoughtfully. “That should be true. One doesn’t
thrust one’s head into the lion’s mouth for the mere pleasure of
examining his teeth. Who sent this message?”

“General von Betzdorf.”

“There were no other wireless communications?”

“None, Excellenz. But Stammer should reach Wilhelmshaven tonight.”

The General smoked silently for a moment, and then:

“Herr Hammersley’s mother was a Prussian?”

“Yes, Excellenz, a sister of my mother----”

“Yes, I remember now. Von Eppingen----” the General muttered, his
brows wrinkled. And then, “You saw much of your cousin?”

“For a while he went with me to the gymnasium, then to the University
of Heidelberg. He has come over each year and shot with me here at
Windenberg.”

“You are fond of him?”

Von Winden shrugged.

“He is my relative. We have always got along. I should not have cared
to find that he was a traitor.”

The General smoked silently, his gaze on the fire.

“But his father was an Englishman, Graf von Winden. We can’t forget
that. Tell me. You have known him always. What was his attitude at the
University? Did he show a real affection for German life and customs?
In short was he ever able to forget that half of him was English?”

Udo von Winden pulled at his small blond mustache thoughtfully.

“I can only say that he was quieter than most of us. But he was
popular. He was a member of the Saxe-Borussia and represented the Corps
on the Mensurboden against Suevia and Guestphalia. A Prussian for all
that any of us knew-- Prussian of Prussians.”

“His father died when he was quite young, I believe?”

“Yes, Excellenz. But his father, too, had lived much in Germany. He
was a diplomat and scholar and enjoyed the friendship of the Iron
Chancellor. That was before the ‘Hassgesang,’ Excellenz.”

“Or before the ‘Tag,’” growled the General. “Your loyalty to your
cousin is natural, but loyalty to the Vaterland----”

Udo von Winden rose quickly.

“You would not suggest, Excellenz----?”

“_Quatsch!_ Sit down, Captain. I suggest nothing. There are merely some
phases of the question which puzzle me. Perhaps when he arrives he can
explain them.”

“He will explain. I will stake my honor on it.”

“I trust so. This is hardly a time when my department can afford to
make mistakes in the character of those in its employ.”

“But, Excellenz, you surely have no cause to doubt the exactness of the
information he has furnished you!”

“It depends upon what you mean by exactness. Our information, as
you know, comes from a number of sources. Some of it has proven
valuable--some useless. Herr Hammersley’s has been neither the one nor
the other.”

“But the British fleet at Cuxhaven----”

“Yes, he gave us that, but they came two days earlier than we expected.
It cost us the _Blücher_.”

“But you knew that the orders were changed--and he sent a wireless----”

“The morning the _Blücher_ was sunk,” said von Stromberg dryly.

“But, Excellenz, he gave us a clear sea for the raid on Falmouth!”

General von Stromberg rose and laid his hand on von Winden’s shoulder.

“You are younger than I, Graf von Winden. The Secret Service makes a
maxim to believe everyone guilty until he proves his innocence.”

“But Herr Hammersley?”

“We have reason to believe that the British Government permitted the
raid on Falmouth, as a means of increasing the enlistments.” He slowly
paced the floor and then said reassuringly, “Oh, I merely question--I
merely question----”

His words trailed off and Udo von Winden stood silently until he spoke
again. “Oh, very well. We shall see--we shall see.”

A knock at the door and an orderly entered.

“Well?”

“Dispatches, Excellenz.”

Udo von Winden watched his superior officer as he dismissed the man and
broke the seal of a large envelope and read, the lamplight playing on
his long bony features, giving his sharp nose a peculiarly vulture-like
avidity. The importance of the communication was obvious, for the small
eyes under the heavy thatch of brows flamed in sudden interest. The
General read the paper through quickly and then slipped it between the
buttons of his coat.

“That will be all, Herr Hauptmann----” he said, with a return of his
military abruptness. “You will go at once to the hangar and await the
arrival of Herr Hammersley.” And as the officer moved toward the door:
“Also, you will first tell Herr Hauptmann Wentz that I wish to see him
at once.”

Von Winden clapped his heels together, saluted and went out while the
General paced the floor of the room again tapping the back of his
left hand with his right. “It is curious,” he muttered to himself. “A
coincidence perhaps, but strange. And yet--possible.”

While he was reading the document again Captain Wentz entered. He was
short, thickly set and dark with a blue chin and heavy eyebrows, the
type of a man who rises in the service from sheer ability. He waited at
the door, immovable, in the presence of the great man until ordered to
approach.

“An important message has come from the Wilhelmstrasse, which indicates
a mission of peculiar importance.” The General paused a moment, his
keen eyes searching Captain Wentz with a terrible tensity, but the face
of the younger man remained expressionless. He was merely a piece of
machinery--excellent machinery.

“You may have thought it curious, Herr Hauptmann Wentz, that I should
have come from the Wilhelmstrasse to Blaufelden. Is it not so?”

“It is not my duty to think, Excellenz, unless ordered to do so,” said
the other briefly.

The General smiled. The answer pleased him.

“I wished to see Herr Hammersley, as you know. That is important, and
the Yellow Dove cannot go to Berlin.” He stopped and then went on
quickly: “Herr Hauptmann, you have been attached to the Secret Service
Department three years?”

“Yes, Excellenz.”

“You have performed several important duties and have won promotion. I
am now about to commit to your care, a----”

At a gesture of von Stromberg’s thumb the officer went on tiptoe to the
door and opened it quickly.

“No one, Excellenz.”

“Good. Now sit. First, you speak French without accent.”

“That was a part of my qualification for this service.”

“Yes. It is in my mind to give you an important mission--one which will
require great skill and fortitude.”

Wentz listened attentively, but he made no comment.

“It is unnecessary of course to warn you to hold what I tell you in the
strictest confidence.”

“I do not talk, Excellenz.”

“This is a matter of grave importance to the Empire, a matter which
concerns one of the enemies of the Vaterland. The safe delivery of
certain dispatches which I am to receive may mean a readjustment of the
European situation--perhaps the end of the war with Germany victorious
and England humiliated.”

The eyes of Captain Wentz grew a little rounder and sparkled ever so
slightly, but he said nothing.

“I am telling you this that you may know the importance of the duty
I am giving you. It is an honor which I hope you will appreciate, an
honor that may lead to greater favors than you have hitherto received.”

“I hope I may deserve them, Excellenz.”

General von Stromberg took the paper from his breast and glanced over
it again.

“You will remember,” he continued, “the affair of the Socialist,
Gottschalk?”

“I knew nothing of the details, Excellenz. That matter came in the duty
of Oberleutnant von Weringrade.”

“This much then, only, I need tell you. Herr Gottschalk, who lived at
Schöndorf near here, came into the possession, in a manner which need
not be described, of certain important papers. He kept them for some
time, not aware of their importance, and then realizing their value
and being a good German, though opposed to the war, two weeks ago
communicated with the Government. The result of this correspondence was
a summons from Berlin and the delivery of these papers into the hands
of the Emperor. Do you follow me?”

“Yes, Excellenz.”

“This letter which I have just received by special messenger informs
me that His Majesty has decided to act at once, and gives me three
days in which to make arrangements to have these papers, which will be
forwarded tomorrow, delivered to General Dalmier, commanding at Verdun,
to be handed before a certain date, to the President of the French
Republic. You are to be the bearer of those letters. They must be
delivered personally. You will be provided with the proper passes and
facilities, including an armed escort to the French lines. From there
you must trust to your own resources. The important matter is that no
one, not even Captain von Winden, shall suspect your mission. Perhaps
now you will realize the confidence I am reposing.”

“I am honored, Excellenz. These papers will arrive tomorrow?”

“Tomorrow night by automobile at eleven, by the Schöndorf road.”

“And until then----?”

“You will have time to make your arrangements.”

“I shall prepare, Excellenz.”

Captain Wentz rose, but the General halted him.

“One thing more. Herr Hammersley is returning tonight from England with
dispatches. He is to be carefully watched tonight and tomorrow, though
I shall let him believe that he moves in perfect freedom. You will give
the necessary orders. Also I would like you to keep watch outside the
door when he is brought to this room, which may be at any moment.”

“_Zu befehl, Excellenz._”

“That is all. You may go.”

Left alone, General von Stromberg took a chair facing the fire,
and lighted another cigar. For many years he had been engaged in
deciphering interesting problems and in preparing problems for other
persons to decipher. Therefore it may be truly said that his was the
analytical mind, the mind of the chemist, of the mathematician, and the
philosopher, with so complete a schooling in the trade of deception
that all things and all persons in the cosmic scheme except himself
were objects of suspicion. For him the obvious was the negligible and
by converse the negligible of prime importance. As he had said to von
Winden, every man was guilty until he was proven innocent. He had a
rare nose for scenting unsuspected odors, and a fine hand for finding
the weak links in the armor of those he used as well as of those who
sought to use him. He had a faculty for appearing at places where he
was least expected and a prescience almost miraculous in forestalling
the moves of his adversaries. He ruled by fear and by admiration and
there was not a man in the Empire with a skeleton in his closet, no
matter how high his station, who did not live without a terror of von
Stromberg in his heart.

But the habit of mind of suspecting everybody, while it had placed him
upon the safe side of every equation, had also resulted, through the
elimination of the sentimental, in eliminating the more direct contacts
with human nature. To judge a man by his possibilities for venality
is like judging a rose by the sharpness of its thorn. Something of
the weakness of this cynicism had been apparent to the keen intellect
of von Stromberg and he had been finding of late a rare pleasure in
trifling with his convictions, admitting into the stored cavern of
his mind for experimental purposes, an occasional ray of optimism.
At the present moment he was analyzing the result of his summons to
Herr Hammersley to come to Germany at once and the communication from
Herr Rizzio which impugned Herr Hammersley’s loyalty to Germany. Von
Stromberg had known Herr Rizzio for years and had done him more than
one service in finding ways to cater to his passion for collecting
objects of art. It was German social influence secretly exerted that
had helped to make easy Rizzio’s rise in favor at the court of St.
James. There had been a possibility that some day John Rizzio might
be of service to von Stromberg and to Germany. And von Stromberg had
long been laying the plans which had made his system of espionage the
most perfect in Europe. Von Stromberg had found Rizzio’s weakness
and had traded on it, saving his most tempting bait for his greatest
service, the betrayal of the home of his adoption. He weighed Rizzio
contentedly sure of his own power over him and despising him for having
been so easily bought. Rubens’s “Descent from the Cross”! There were
fortunately other Rubenses in conquered territory--some very good ones
that John Rizzio might like. Von Stromberg had made a list of them.
He had learned that it was as necessary to be provided with bribes as
with threats. Fortunately Rizzio himself had given him material for
the latter. Racially, the great Councilor did not like Latins, and
he was quite sure he cared less for Italians now than he did before
the proclamation of neutrality. They were not to be trusted by good
Germans. If Rizzio had played false to the country of his adoption for
the sake of a paltry picture, it was within the bounds of possibility
that he could be false to Germany if the necessity arose for an even
smaller consideration. Yesterday morning before leaving Berlin for
Windenberg, von Stromberg had received a dispatch from Rizzio which
told of his departure on his yacht from Scotland for Bremen. This
was curious--also interesting. Rizzio was needed in England and was
useless in Germany. Why was he coming? Had something been learned of
him at Scotland Yard? Or had his departure to do with the case of Herr
Hammersley? Whatever the visit meant, it was necessary, very necessary,
to have Rizzio and Hammersley together at once, so he had deemed it
wise to send orders to Bremen to have Rizzio caught on the wireless and
when he reached port sent through at once to Windenberg.

Von Stromberg smiled in self-gratulation. There would be no loose ends
about this affair. Merely as a precaution in so important a matter
he had set one agent to watch another. Byfield had been watched by
Hammersley, who in turn had been watched by Rizzio, who had been
watched by Herr Maxwell, an agent long in von Stromberg’s service.
Rizzio had been given the power and credentials to use his discretion
with Hammersley. Why had not Hammersley relinquished the cigarette
papers to Rizzio? Hammersley should have good reasons for his refusal.
Was there reason for Hammersley to suspect Rizzio? Herr Maxwell, who
had been set to watch Rizzio, was silent. This was puzzling. What had
happened to Herr Maxwell?

General von Stromberg threw his finished cigar into the fire and got
up, rubbing his hands together. Oh, it was very interesting--very. The
situation was rapidly approaching culmination. In a short while all
the threads of this pretty tangle would be within reach of his long
fingers. And all that he, von Stromberg, had to do was to catch them by
the ends and hold. What would Herr Hammersley bring?

General von Stromberg straightened, listening. The sound of voices and
men outside. So. He was here already. There had been no sound from the
machine. Of course, he had planed down. A knock on the door and von
Winden, Wentz and Hammersley entered.




CHAPTER XII

HAMMERSLEY EXPLAINS


At the sight of the tall figure of von Stromberg, Hammersley halted for
the fraction of a second and then came forward into the room. He still
wore his leather jacket and cap, but the wind burn on his cheeks gave
his eyes, which had been protected by goggles, a singular grayness.
He had had no sleep and his face was drawn in haggard lines, but his
greeting showed no signs of uneasiness.

“Had I known you were awaiting me, Excellenz, I should perhaps have
made quicker repairs.”

“It does not matter that you are late,” said von Stromberg quickly.
“The thing of main importance is that you are here.” The General turned
and made a motion to the door of the room. “I wish to be alone with
Herr Hammersley. Herr Hauptmann von Winden, you are relieved from duty
for the night. Herr Hauptmann Wentz, you will remain within call.”

The two officers saluted and retired and the General motioned
Hammersley to approach.

“You have it?” he asked briefly.

“Yes, Excellenz. Here.”

He produced from an inner pocket a small package wrapped in oiled paper
and handed it to von Stromberg.

“Ah!” He went quickly over to the table and tearing off the wrapper
of the bundle opened the packet of Riz-la-Croix and found the hidden
message which he scanned quickly, with muttered ejaculations of
satisfaction and surprise. Hammersley by the fireplace was warming his
hands.

“_Ganz gut!_” said the General, straightening and turning. “You had
difficulties?”

“More than usual, Excellenz. Captain Byfield is in prison.”

“Caught!”

Hammersley nodded.

“They found letters at his rooms.”

“_Schafskopf!_ Were there no fires?”

Hammersley shrugged.

“He is to be tried by court-martial. He will be shot.”

Von Stromberg deliberated a moment.

“And were you suspected?”

“Yes. They followed me to Scotland, but fortunately the Yellow Dove is
still a mystery--at least it was yesterday morning, and I got safely
away.”

Von Stromberg was scrutinizing him keenly.

“H--m. What makes you think that you were followed?”

“I left London by night train but got off at Edinburgh where my motor
met me. But the wire was faster, and they had sent word to stop me.
They stretched a rope across the road, but I saw it and went around.
They fired at me----”

“When was this?”

“Three nights ago.”

“They didn’t hit you----”

“A mere scratch across the arm----”

“Let me see it.”

Hammersley looked into von Stromberg’s face and laughed.

“Really?” he asked.

“Yes.”

Rather stiffly Hammersley took off his leather jacket and sweater and
rolled up the sleeve of his flannel shirt. Von Stromberg examined the
wound with interest.

“So----” he said. “Put on your coat. And after that?”

“I kept away from Ben-a-Chielt and put up for the night at my cousin’s.”

“Who is that?”

“Lady Heathcote----”

“Oh, yes. It was at her house in London that the message passed to you.”

“Yes, Excellenz.”

Von Stromberg paused a moment and then spoke abruptly.

“Why did you not give the papers to Rizzio?”

Hammersley’s gaze met the General’s squarely.

“They were too important. I could not take the risk.”

“But his orders superseded yours.”

“I saw--but I could not take the risk.”

“Why?”

“Because I had reason to believe that Rizzio was acting for the English
Government.”

Von Stromberg’s burning gaze flickered and went out. He took a few
paces across the room, his right hand tapping the back of his left. At
last he came and stood before Hammersley, his hands behind his back.

“What were your reasons for believing that?”

“Maxwell learned it from Byfield.”

“Maxwell! You saw Maxwell--when?”

“The night I left London.”

“Has anything happened to him?” quickly.

“I do not know.”

The General frowned into the fire.

“It is strange,” he muttered. “Very strange. You did not realize then
that I suspected you?”

Hammersley laughed.

“Not at once. I did later. That is your privilege, Excellenz. But I
refused to be caught under the circumstances. I preferred to take the
risk of failure. After all, you see, I succeeded.”

General von Stromberg was not immune from the frankness of Hammersley’s
smile. He turned toward the table and scrutinized the papers with great
care.

“These are the very papers you got from Herr Captain Byfield?”

Hammersley’s reply was startling.

“Unfortunately, no. The original papers were burned----”

“Burned!” cried the General, turning in his chair.

“But not before I had made this copy, which I put in a safe place.”

“Explain.”

“I was followed, leaving Lady Heathcote’s dinner party in an
automobile, by agents of Scotland Yard. I had the slower machine and
they caught me. But not before I had passed the original papers to my
companion----”

“Your companion--a woman?”

“Yes, Excellenz, there was nothing else to do. She escaped while they
were searching me and kept the papers----”

“Who was this woman?”

“My fiancée.”

“Her name?”

“Doris Mather.”

“English?”

“No, American.”

“And what happened then?”

“Excellenz, she read them. She is devoted to the English cause. I could
do nothing. She learned that I was acting for Germany and, rather than
let them fall into my hands, she burned them. It makes no difference to
you or to the Vaterland, since I have brought the message here, except
that my own utility in England is gone.”

“I should be sorry to be obliged to believe you.”

“I am afraid, Excellenz, that there is nothing left for you to do.”

General von Stromberg was again busy examining the cigarette papers.
Suddenly he raised his head, his gaze boring into Hammersley’s face.

“You say this is a copy of the original message?”

“Yes, Excellenz.”

“And where did you make it?”

“In the library upstairs at Lady Heathcote’s in Park Lane.”

“When?”

“After my interview with Herr Rizzio. It is written hurriedly, as you
will observe.”

“It is written with a pen finer than those usually employed by ladies.”

“I took what offered, Excellenz,” said Hammersley.

“What was your thought when you made the copy?”

“That Rizzio or his agents would attempt to get it away from me. It
seems that I was right.”

“Are you sure that he was acting for England and not for me?” asked von
Stromberg quickly.

“For _you_, Excellenz?”

“Did it not occur to you that your failure to accede to his request
might have given Herr Rizzio the idea that you were saving this
document from him in order that you might deliver it to the War Office?”

“How could such an idea occur to me when I already knew what his object
was?”

“Oh! You are convinced that he is for the English cause?”

“Naturally. I can conceive of no reason why Rizzio should be for
Germany.”

Von Stromberg smiled. If this were skill in parry, he rejoiced in
having met his match. If it were merely ingenuousness, he was equally
at a loss. He had often admitted to himself that there were but two
kinds of people in the world that he could not cope with--those who
never lost their tempers and those who told the truth. He had taken
advantage of Hammersley’s physical condition to provoke him into
irritation, but the man was quite unruffled. The piercing eye, the
threatening tone and the dominant air of authority which von Stromberg
had so frequently found effective with others had been of no avail
here. Herr Hammersley stood by the fire, erect and unperturbed, calmly
awaiting his dismissal. If he had told the truth, then Rizzio----

“Herr Rizzio has advised me that you are disloyal to Germany,” said the
General at last. “You inform me that he is loyal to England.”

Hammersley shrugged and laughed.

“If I were disloyal to Germany, surely I had proof enough of your
suspicions in your secret summons, to remain at Ben-a-Chielt. It is
unnecessary for me to say that I should have come without that summons,
because it was dangerous for me to stay.”

“You would, then, have me disregard the message from Herr Rizzio?”

“No. I merely ask that you wait until you hear from Herr Maxwell.”

“And if Herr Maxwell be dead?” asked von Stromberg quietly.

Hammersley’s face became grave.

“In that case, Excellenz, I must rely on your keenness to decide the
issue between us.”

Von Stromberg slipped the packet of papers into an inner pocket
and rose with a laugh. He covered the distance between himself and
Hammersley in three paces with extended hands.

“I was only trying you, Herr Hammersley. It is a habit of mine. It
amuses me. You will forgive me, _nicht wahr_?”

“Willingly, Excellenz, if you will provide me with food and a bed.
Failing those, you may have me shot at once.”

“Food you shall have, and a bed is prepared in your room upstairs. As
for the shooting, perhaps we may as well postpone that until morning.”

He laughed jovially, showing a very fine set of teeth, and, touching a
bell which was answered by Captain Wentz, directed that food and coffee
be prepared at once.

“One word more,” he went on, when Wentz went out, “where did you put
this copy after leaving Lady Heathcote’s in London?”

“I slipped it down the window sash in my automobile. They did not even
search for it. I got away by a ruse.”

“No one saw it?”

“No one. The message is the same.”

“H--m! You have a good memory?”

“Excellent.”

“Are you sure that the War Office knew of your movements?”

“Positive. I know of no one who would try to kill me----”

“Rizzio?”

“Acting for England, yes.”

“And if he were acting for Germany?”

“Then he is a fool.”

Von Stromberg folded his long arms and gazed at the lamp.

“You do not feel that it would be possible to return at once?”

“Not unless I wished to be shot as a spy.”

“What will you do?”

“Take whatever service you will give me. Failing that I will volunteer
for aviation.”

The General, without pursuing the subject further, motioned Hammersley
to the door.

“You will find food ready. After eating you had better get to bed. I
will talk with you further in the morning.”

As the door closed behind his visitor von Stromberg sank into the chair
by the fire and lighted a third cigar, upon which he pulled steadily
for some moments, rehearsing by question and reply almost every word
of Hammersley’s story. By every rule of the game as he knew it Herr
Hammersley should be a liar. And yet his story from first to last held
water. There was not a flaw in its texture from beginning to end. If
Hammersley had not told the truth he was the most skillful liar in
Europe, a man who gave the appearance of truthfulness to the last hair
of his head. And yet it was much more easy to lie if one knew that
there was no man to oppose him. Hammersley did not know that Rizzio was
on the way. Tomorrow they would meet. It would be interesting to watch
that meeting. For, as to this thing, the mind of the General was clear.
One of these men was false to Germany, the other true, but which? Both
had come willingly, or was it by necessity? And Herr Maxwell! It was
strange that Maxwell should have failed in his report at this crucial
moment. And if Maxwell were dead--who had betrayed him? General von
Stromberg’s thoughts were interrupted by a knock on the door and the
entrance of the orderly.

“A telegram, Excellenz, by motorcycle from Windenberg.”

The General opened the paper. It was in code and he translated it
rapidly.

    VON STROMBERG:

    Withhold judgment until my arrival. Will be at Bremen tomorrow
    early with Miss Mather, who possesses valuable information.

    RIZZIO.

General von Stromberg sank deeper into his chair, the paper in his
fingers, a smile broadening upon his features. The woman! It was almost
too good to be true. Miss Doris Mather, the American girl, Hammersley’s
fiancée, coming to Germany with Rizzio. And Hammersley obviously did
not know it. Intrigue, mystery and now romance. Tomorrow----

The man still stood awaiting orders. Von Stromberg rose with a yawn.

“Is my room prepared?”

“Yes, Excellenz.”

“Which one?”

“The same as before--next to that of Herr Hammersley.”

“Well, move it into the wing. And when I go up you will set a watch
upon my door--also one outside my windows.”

“_Zu befehl, Excellenz._”

“In the meanwhile send Herr Hauptmann Wentz to me here.”

The man went out and Captain Wentz entered immediately closing the door
behind him.

“What time does the northern express leave Bremen in the morning?”

“At seven.”

General von Stromberg sat and wrote out a message.

“Have this message sent at once.” And then, “That train reaches
Windenberg at what hour?”

“Twelve.”

“Good. This mountain air is excellent for the nerves. I shall sleep
late tomorrow and do not wish to be called. You will go personally to
Windenberg at eleven o’clock with a closed carriage. You will meet Herr
Rizzio, whom you will recognize by his tall, distinguished appearance
and excellent clothing. He will be accompanied by a young lady. It is
my wish that they be brought to this house and given separate rooms on
the upper story and placed under guard until I summon them. No one must
see them enter this house. To accomplish this purpose, Herr Hammersley
must go to the hangar. The means I leave to you. Captain von Winden
will be of service. Do you understand?”

“Perfectly.”

“For the present that is all. I shall go to my room. Good night.”

“Good night, Excellenz.”

       *       *       *       *       *

Meanwhile, upstairs in his room, Hammersley, after having eaten, was
preparing for bed. For a tired man he went about it in a very leisurely
way, smoking a cigarette, and wandering about the room stretching his
long limbs and yawning between whiles. Then, after a time, he took
off his clothes and bathed. It was perhaps an hour before he blew out
his candle, and even then he did not get immediately into bed. He sat
on the edge of the couch for a while, listening and watching the cold
moonlight outside his dormer window, or the dim line of light that came
from beneath the door into the hall. Then, apparently satisfied that he
was to be quite free from interruption, he straightened and stood up,
waiting again. Still no sound. He reached for the table, where he had
put his watch and the things from his pockets, and picked up a large
pocket-knife, carefully opening the large blade. Then, with quick,
noiseless footsteps, he crossed the room to the fireplace and felt with
the fingers of one hand carefully along the edge of the chimney breast.
His fingers reached a spot where there was an unevenness, and feeling
carefully, thrust the knife-blade its full length beneath the paper,
slowly withdrawing it. Something protruded which was quickly taken
into the palm of his left hand. With great care he smoothed the broken
wallpaper back into its place and noiselessly closing the knife got
softly into bed.

He lay on his back for a while, his eyes wide open, watching the window
and the door and then, pulling the heavy blankets up, slipped lower
and lower under the covers until he disappeared from view. In the
room all was dark, but under the blankets he read by the light of an
electric pocket torch some writing in German upon a thin slip of paper.

    Papers arrive tomorrow night, eleven--from
    Berlin--automobile--by Schöndorf road.




CHAPTER XIII

THE UNWILLING GUEST


After the light of dawn went out upon the cliffs of Rhuda Mor, Doris
Mather hung for a long while upon the brink of an abyss, below her
darkness, above her light. She strove upward, but in the dim moments
of half-consciousness was aware of a force restraining her and a
recurrence of the odor in which the darkness had first come. She had
a sense of motion and of jolting, the feeling of arms about her, a
descent, the sound of water and the rocking of a boat. Brief glimpses
she had of sunlight, which revealed outlines dimly, like the glow
of summer lightning upon familiar objects, making them curiously
unfamiliar. John Rizzio’s face persisted in these visions, a fantastic
Rizzio, much larger than the man she knew, deferential and punctilious
as ever, and strangely grave. A stout man with a swarthy face in a cap
and brass buttons, just above her, darkly outlined against white clouds
which seemed to be whirling rapidly past him. Dully she found herself
wondering where the clouds were going so rapidly and why they didn’t
come back.... Later, darkness and peace, where there were no visions
and the sky no longer whirled ... a steady vibration which soothed her,
and she blissfully slept.

When she awoke the visions were gone, and as her senses returned she
started up, but her head swam and she sank back again. As she had risen
a woman emerged from the shadows of the room and came forward. And
then slowly, as full consciousness returned, the girl realized that she
was on an ocean-going vessel in a cabin or stateroom very beautifully
appointed. She started up in her bed and looked out of the port-hole to
see the amber crests of waves leaping rapidly past. Then she heard the
woman’s voice speaking.

“You are feeling better?”

Doris turned and looked at her, a woman of middle age, with a kindly
face, dressed in white linen.

“What yacht is this?” she asked.

“The _Sylph_, miss--Mr. Rizzio’s,” she replied.

Doris thought for a moment. The last thing her waking consciousness
remembered were the cliffs of Rhuda Mor.

“How did I come here?” she asked again.

The woman shook her head. “I don’t know, miss.”

Her manner was kind and most respectful but her tone was decisive. She
was obeying instructions.

“Is Mr. Rizzio aboard?” Doris asked again.

“Yes, miss. And he asked me to tell you that when you felt sufficiently
recovered he would be glad to wait upon you in the saloon.”

“Oh, I understand.”

When Doris rose and put her feet to the swaying deck, nausea overcame
her. But the woman, who was prepared for this emergency, offered a
glass filled with cloudy liquid.

“Drink this,” she said. “It will make you feel better.”

Doris looked into the woman’s face, and recognizing the aromatic odor,
took the draught.

The nausea passed after a moment and she managed to get up and make her
way to the bathroom. As she bathed her face, memory returned, full
memory of the events of the previous night, the scene upon the cliffs,
with Cyril, the destroyer, Rizzio, Stryker, Rudha Mor, the Yellow
Dove and then unconsciousness. Chloroform! There were vestiges of it
upon her clothing still. They had drugged her. When she took off her
shirtwaist something fell to the floor. A paper. She picked it up and
looked at it. It was Rizzio’s note to her at Kilmorack House asking
her to come to Ben-a-Chielt--so that he might make her prisoner! She
remembered now that she had thrust it into her waist when she went out.
She folded the letter carefully and put it in her stays. After the
other indignity she had suffered, it seemed strange that they had not
searched her, too. She would keep the letter. Perhaps later she would
find use for it.

John Rizzio! It was difficult for her mind to associate him with the
villainy of abduction. And yet, as her brain grew clearer, she became
quite sure that there was no other answer to the problem. Indeed, from
the replies of the stewardess she knew that John Rizzio had chosen that
she should know it was to be a problem no longer. The _Sylph_, that was
his yacht. She had been on the boat before, two years ago, during the
races in the Solent. Abduction! He had dared! She was not frightened
yet. Fury at his temerity blinded her to all sense of danger. A phrase
of Cyril’s came back to her, illuminating the chaos of her thoughts.
“You know too much--too much for your own good--or mine.” Cyril’s
cigarette papers! She was the only one beside Cyril who had read their
contents! Rizzio had carried her off, had brought her to the _Sylph_,
which was out of sight of land, speeding for--Germany! What was he
going to do with her?

Fury passed and weakness followed. She did not know what time of
day it was, but she was aware that it had been long since she had
eaten. In the cabin she found a tray set with food and coffee which
the stewardess insisted upon serving her. She sank into an armchair,
refusing to eat, but the woman persisted and the odor of the coffee
was tempting. It was luncheon, she found, and remembered that she had
had no appetite for dinner at Lady Heathcote’s and that it must be
quite twenty-four hours since she had broken bread. The coffee gave her
courage, and in spite of herself she found that she was eating heartily
with a genuine relish. She was a good sailor and the nausea, which
she now knew was the effect of the drug, had passed. The stewardess
stood beside her and to the other questions Doris put to her answered
politely, but volunteered nothing further than she had already told.
In spite of the woman’s care and attention the girl could not get rid
of the idea that the stewardess had been sent as a guardian as well as
a maid. She was a prisoner of John Rizzio, of Germany, whither he was
bringing her as fast as the yacht could take them.

Finding at last that her attempts to extract information from her
stolid servitress were fruitless, and feeling strengthened by the food
she had taken, she got up and told the woman that she was going on
deck, asking that Mr. Rizzio be informed that she would see him. As
she emerged upon deck the crisp wintry air sent the color slowly into
her pallid cheeks. The yacht was bowling along with the wind and sea
quartering and the foam-crests leaped alongside, sending an occasional
spurt of spray into the air, where the wind caught it and blew it
across the decks in a feathery mist of rainbows. The sunlight glinted
on polished wood and brasswork and at the stern caught in the cross of
St. George where the flag of England flapped in the breeze. The flag
of England sheltering John Rizzio! She scanned the horizon anxiously.
Perhaps an English cruiser or destroyer might come to whom she might be
able to tell the real character of the owner of the vessel. But there
was no vessel in sight. A sailor passed her and touched his cap. The
deference encouraged her. It reminded her that this was the same deck
upon which she had stood when John Rizzio was suing for her hand, an
honorable host when she had been an honored guest. A loud crackling
came to her ears from the wireless room. He was there, already in
communication with his employers in Germany. Even now, with Cyril’s
words still ringing in her ears, she found it difficult to believe
that John Rizzio was England’s enemy; and the price of his treachery
a picture, “The Descent from the Cross”! What a mockery that a man
who would stoop to such dishonor could make its price a picture which
typified the conquest of sublime virtue even over death!

The wind was searching and the maid brought a heavy coat with brass
buttons from below and put it on her with the word that Mr. Rizzio
had sent it and would come to her in a few moments. She sat in a
deckchair in the lee of the deckhouse, her lips firmly compressed,
trying to think what his ulterior purpose might be, planning a defense
which might make her invulnerable, an attack which might search his
intentions and discover the true relation that was to exist between
them.

He came toward her from forward, muffled in a greatcoat, and carrying
a rug. He took off his cap with an air of deference, which answered at
once some of her questions. She rose and faced him, her color high.

“What are you going to do with me?” she asked, trying to keep her lips
from trembling.

He smiled and pulled at his mustache.

“First, I hope you’ll give me a chance to explain.”

“What?” she cried hotly. “What can you explain? Don’t you suppose I
know what you are? A German spy, a traitor to England, and worse than
that--a woman-baiter and a coward, Mr. Rizzio.”

He bent his head.

“I make no defense,” he said, “except necessity.” And then gravely
indicating the chair from which she had risen. “Won’t you sit down? The
voyage may be long.”

But she still stood.

“I am a prisoner, not a guest.”

“Then I command you to sit,” he said with a laugh. “Won’t you?”

A sound of exasperation came from her throat and she obeyed him, her
gaze on the sea, while with some ostentation he covered her with a rug.

“What are you going to do with me in Germany?” she repeated dully.

He sank into the chair beside her. “As I have often told you, you
are a woman of rare intelligence. In reply I can only say that,
unfortunately, I do not know.”

“A coward who is also a--a liar,” she said bitterly.

“A coward is usually a liar, but a liar isn’t always a coward. I am a
liar, Doris, if you will, but a courageous one.”

“My name is Mather,” she said distinctly.

He shrugged and turned his gaze on the sea.

“You hate me, of course. We are enemies. I am sorry. I warned you that
you were entangled in an affair that was leading you into dangerous
paths. I would have saved you, if I could, but you had learned too
much.”

“And so you had me chloroformed. It was a pity that you didn’t complete
your work.”

“I merely did what was required of me. Through a most unfortunate
combination of circumstances you came into possession of a secret known
to but one person in England; and you are the only person with English
sympathies who knows my exact political status----”

“A spy!” contemptuously.

“What you will--a spy if you like--but a strong friend of Germany
who resents an attempt by a nation jealous of her growing commercial
supremacy to wipe her out of existence. I have lived in England long,
and I have known many of the men who have made her what she is, but
never in all those years has England ever given me one token of
the high nobility she preaches. I have passed for many years as an
Englishman. I am not English. I am cosmopolitan and to a cosmopolitan,
residence is but an accident.”

“Pray spare me the details of your treachery.”

He laughed easily.

“I’m afraid you’re at my mercy. I shall try to be lenient. You are an
American, I am an Italian. To call me a traitor to England because I
happen to have a liking for Germany would be much like my calling you a
traitor to Germany because you happen to have a liking for England.”

“I have never eaten the bread and salt of Germany, or wormed my way
into the hearts of its people.”

“I’m sure you flatter me. The people of my set in London are agreeable,
but----”

Doris had straightened in the act of rising.

“I did not come on deck to discuss your ideals or Germany’s. I hope
that you will excuse----”

“You will not listen?”

“No. I care nothing for your political views. I am your prisoner. I
want to know without further words the worst that I am to expect from
you.”

“You have been upon the _Sylph_ before. What was proper for you then is
proper for you now. You are quite safe in my hands. I shall try to make
you comfortable. Does that answer your question?”

“And after----”

“You are to be delivered to the head of the Secret Service Department
of the German Empire.”

The girl paled and sank back into her chair.

“Why?” she asked.

“Because you are in possession of information that he wants.”

“What information? It isn’t true. I know nothing.”

“I am sorry,” he apologized again. “The cigarette papers. You read
them.”

“No--no.”

“You forget that you have already admitted that. You have also read the
second message which was to take the place of the first.”

“You are dreaming. A second message? I know nothing of a second
message.”

“Pardon me, if I remind you of it. You would have burned it in the
drawing-room at Kilmorack House if Mr. Hammersley hadn’t taken it from
your hand.”

She stared at him bewildered at his astounding omniscience, his
devilish ingenuity. It frightened her, his cleverness and his pursuit
of her. It seemed that she had never had a chance to get away from him.
And yet his manner was so carefully studied, his attitude toward her so
coldly impersonal that as a man once a lover she no longer feared him.
If love of her had ever been in his heart, a greater passion had burned
it out. She was grateful for this and prepared to measure her woman’s
wit to his, thinking of Cyril. What would Cyril have her do?

“You mean that you will let them--the Germans--question me?”

“If they wish to do so.”

“But how will it benefit them, if the papers are already in their
possession?”

“You will forgive me if I find it possible to doubt.”

She turned away from him and studied the lines of foam that streamed
across the green troughs of the sea.

“I suppose that conversation between us two is superfluous. You
distrust me and I----”

“I think perhaps,” he said gravely, “that it would be pleasanter for
both of us not to hear your sentiments toward me. Since the night of
Lady Heathcote’s dinner in London you ceased to be Miss Doris Mather
and became merely an official document. It is my duty to preserve it
and deliver it safely.”

“I hope you may succeed. Otherwise the American Ambassador in Berlin
may----”

“Unfortunately,” he went on quietly, “the American Ambassador cannot be
informed.”

She laughed with a greater confidence than she felt.

“You surely can’t believe that my absence from England will pass
unnoticed. Do you think that my father--that Lady Heathcote----”

She paused bewildered.

“They will merely know that you rode late at night to Ben-a-Chielt and
that your horse was found riderless on the moor.”

She buried her face in her hands and a sob broke from her throat. It
was true. They would think her dead. For the first time she really was
able to think of things in their true aspect.

“It’s cruel,” she gasped. “How could you!”

He was too wise to touch her or even by his manner to show too deep a
sympathy.

“I am sorry,” he said coolly, “awfully sorry. As you know, I would
have had things different. You may still doubt me when I say that what
I have done is the hardest task that I ever undertook in my life. But
that is true. You were the only person in England who jeopardized my
existence there. I had to take you away. I regret the necessity of
having to use force. I shall do what I can here upon the _Sylph_ to
counteract the unpleasant impression of my brutality. I am not a bully
and a woman-baiter. I am a spoke in the wheel of destiny which you had
clogged. By all the rules of the game you should have died. Reasons
which I need not mention made your death at my hands an impossibility.
So I merely removed you to a place of safety. No harm shall come to
you, I pledge my honor.”

“Thanks,” she said dully, struggling up, her face away from him. And
then dauntlessly, “Small a thing as it is, I must be content with
that.” She had risen and turned, “And now, if you don’t mind, I will
go below. I would prefer to be alone. If, as you protest, you would do
me kindness, you will not ask to see me.”

He bowed.

“I have given instructions that you shall be allowed to do as you
please. Mrs. Madden will furnish you with all that you require both I
think of linen and toilet articles. I shall not try to see you again
until we land.”

She bowed her head and went down. Rizzio watched her until she
disappeared and then walked over to the rail and peered out over the
sea. It had taken some self-command to go through this interview as
he had planned it, and in conquering himself he had succeeded in
establishing a relation between them which made his presence at least
bearable to her. The impersonal tone which he had used through the
interview was the one most calculated to put her at her ease with him
and the perfect frankness of his confession had made her understand
at once that sentimentally at least she had nothing to fear from him.
John Rizzio was wise in the ways of women and the particular woman
now thrown upon his mercy, even though she was the one woman in the
world he had thought the most desirable, was to be treated with the
delicate consideration due to her unfortunate dependence upon him. A
flash of sentiment, a breath of revelation of his ultimate purposes
toward her, and the woman would be lost to him. Her misfortunes if
anything had made her more desirable than ever, especially since he
had been the cause of them. For one mad moment, he had thought this
morning of turning the _Sylph_ toward the waters of the South Atlantic,
forgetting the quarrels of the nations in which he had become involved,
and of seeking a new world where he could begin again, trusting
to time and opportunity and his own patience and tact to bring a
sentimental victory out of what had already been defeat. A mad moment
but a tempting one. But the time was not yet. He must be patient. With
Hammersley gone----

He straightened and slowly strolled forward to the wireless room.
Toward evening he was given confirmation of the wisdom of his course,
for as he was pacing the deck aft she came up from below and joined
him. She was looking rather white, but she smiled at him brightly and
matched her steps to his.

“I was lonely below,” she said. “You don’t mind?”

He had never thought her lovelier. Her face, if anything, had always
needed just those shadows of pain to make it perfect.

“I hadn’t hoped for such a kindness. You are feeling better?”

“Yes, thanks. And since we must meet I am willing to try to be
friendly.”

“I’m sure you’ll find that I’ll meet you more than halfway,” he said
politely.

They talked far into the evening and at her request they dined together
in the saloon. He was reserved but not cautious, and when the evening
was over remembered hazily that she had succeeded in learning something
from him of General von Stromberg, the head of the German Secret
Service Department, of the aviation field at Windenberg and of the
frequent flights of the Yellow Dove since the beginning of the winter.

The next morning passed quietly. Doris did not appear until noon. But
just before luncheon a smudge of smoke appeared upon the horizon, which
rapidly grew larger, and in a little while she made out the lines of
a war vessel steaming in a direction which would intercept the yacht.
The _Sylph_ did not slow down until a solid shot from a gun in the
forecastle of the destroyer went ricochetting across her bows, when the
engine was stopped and John Rizzio made slowly aft to where she stood.

“Miss Mather,” he said briefly, “I must ask you to go below to your
cabin at once.”

A glance at his face showed that her protests would have been useless
and she went below to her own stateroom, the door of which was locked
upon her. Through the heavy glass of her port-hole she saw the vessel
approach until within hailing distance when a boat dropped from her
side into which a boat’s crew and an officer clambered and rowed
alongside. The vessel bore no flag, but the girl clearly heard the
hail of the boarding officer and realized that the destroyer was an
English vessel. Her hopes rose. Perhaps even now the Englishman would
find something irregular in the yacht’s papers and would take charge,
conveying her back to England. She waited for a long time and then
heard the clatter of oars and saw the boat push off from the side of
the yacht, while the officer, young, slender and windburned, stood up
in the stern sheets of his boat.

“All right,” she heard him say, “sorry to have troubled you. Pleasant
voyage. Good-by.”

Never had English sounded so good to her. But it was with a sigh of
despair that she saw the boat reach the side of the war vessel and felt
the steadily increasing rhythm of the engines of the yacht as she drove
once more upon her way.

When the two vessels were at a distance from each other the key turned
in the lock of the door and in reply to a knock, she found John Rizzio
himself, standing hat in hand in the gangway.

“I seem to be in a continual state of apology. But of course you
realize the necessity for my action.”

“I am in your power,” she said helplessly.

“I hope you will believe that I shall not abuse it.”

She shrugged her shoulders and followed him to luncheon, managing
to preserve at table a cheerfulness which she was far from feeling.
Throughout the morning she had been thinking hard. And the only course
that was open to her if her courage did not fail was the one that she
was following. If she was to be able in any way to help Cyril, she must
try to learn what she could, accept the situation with good grace and
perhaps by some turn of good fortune find a way to disarm John Rizzio
and profit by an inadvertence or mistake. But as the second day wore
on she found her task increasingly difficult. At luncheon Mr. Rizzio
was more reserved and during the afternoon as they approached waters
in which German warships were more likely to be found he spent much
time in the wireless room, where a repetition of the crackling noises
advised her that he was again in communication with the land of her
enemies.

After dinner, at which Rizzio had been very quiet, he requested
politely that she go at once to her cabin, which she did to hear the
sound of the key again turned in the lock of her door. Despair came
over her and at last she cried herself to sleep, awakening during the
night at the glare of a searchlight which pierced her window port.
She got up and looked out to see a dark bulk looming alongside, the
flashing of lanterns, and heard the sound of voices speaking German.
At last all was quiet again, and the steady hammer of the vessel’s
propeller told her that the _Sylph_ was again on her way.

She must have slept again, for the silver of dawn was already modifying
the gloom of her cabin when there was a knock upon her door and she
rose. The stewardess fully dressed was outside.

“Mr. Rizzio asks me to request you to please dress at once, as
breakfast will be served in half an hour.”

She obeyed blindly aware that there was no motion to the deck of her
cabin and that the _Sylph_ was now riding on an even keel. She verified
her guess at the nearness of their destination by a glance through the
port-hole, which showed her that the vessel had reached the quieter
waters of a bay or river in which she slipped smoothly onward. There
were vessels at anchor, large and small, and beyond them she made out
the lines of a shore, upon which at intervals buildings loomed.

Mrs. Madden, the stewardess, would not talk and it was not until she
reached the breakfast table that Doris learned where they were.

“We shall reach Bremen shortly,” said Rizzio. “I do not know how you
feel about the matter, but I would suggest that it would save you much
trouble and anxiety to trust yourself entirely into my hands.”

“I know of nothing else,” she said quietly. “What are you going to do?”

“I shall confer with certain officials when we reach the city, which
will be in a few moments. After that we will take the seven o’clock
train for Windenberg.”




CHAPTER XIV

VON STROMBERG CATECHISES


To the girl the way from Bremen to Windenberg seemed interminable.
She shared with John Rizzio a private compartment in the train. He
was still ceremoniously polite and inclined to conversation, but now,
thoroughly realizing the danger which faced her as well as Cyril, Doris
had decided upon a policy of silence. She would wait until she learned
what they required of her and then perhaps some instinct or inspiration
would direct her. Of one thing she was certain, that nothing could make
her speak if she did not think it wise to do so.

When Rizzio commented upon the beauty of the passing landscape she
assented with a smile and then returned to her own thoughts. Cyril,
she knew, would be at Windenberg, for it was to Windenberg that the
Yellow Dove had made its flights. She had succeeded in eliciting that
much information from her captor the other night at dinner when he
was attempting by frankness and hospitality to minimize the brutality
of his actions. She had many reasons to believe that he had already
regretted that frankness for at every subsequent attempt of hers to
get more information about von Stromberg, John Rizzio had turned the
subject adroitly or had remained obstinately silent.

She tried to put together the scraps of information she possessed in
order to understand just what Cyril’s position at Windenberg might
be. He had answered the summons of the secret messenger willingly
and at once. That much was in his favor. If they had suspected him
before, this immediate obedience must have disarmed them. In the mind
of General von Stromberg there could be no possible reason why Cyril
should put himself at his mercy. General von Stromberg could not know
as she knew that Cyril had another mission to perform. She looked up
quickly to find John Rizzio’s dark eyes gazing at her. He frightened
her at that moment, for it almost seemed from the expression of his
face that he had succeeded in reading her thoughts--and in the light
of his previous omniscience even that psychic feat seemed within the
realm of possibility. But he merely smiled at her and looked out of the
window.

That mission of Cyril’s! What was it? The obtaining of some information
necessary to England? Some military secret such as the machinery
of ordnance or the chemical mixture of explosive shells? Or was it
something more personal, more sinister and dreadful--the death of some
high official--perhaps the Emperor himself? She shuddered and shut
her eyes, her mind painting unimaginable horrors. Not murder--even
for Cyril she could not connive at that. But she must be prepared to
do something for him, to help him, if she could by false testimony
or if necessary, no matter what they did to her, by silence. If they
suspected Cyril, of course he would be kept in ignorance of her
arrival. Of all these things and others she thought with ever-growing
doubt and timidity. And all the while in the back of her head was the
idea of her possible appeal to the American Ambassador at Berlin.

But if she had any hopes that an opportunity would be given her to
use the post, or even to be free from surveillance, their arrival at
Windenberg speedily diminished them. For upon the platform of the
small station a German officer met them and conducted them at once to
a closed carriage which started off through the village immediately.
The officer and Mr. Rizzio exchanged a few commonplaces which politely
included her, but as to the real meaning of her visit and their
possible intentions--nothing. So she sank back in her seat and looked
out through a small window at the forest into which the road almost
immediately passed, reaching their destination in apparent calmness,
the high tension of her nerves resolutely schooled to obedience.

A farmhouse in the midst of meadows surrounded by forests, with a
broad hospitable door in which they entered, seeing no one. The German
officer who directed them showed her the way to a room upstairs and
when she was in the room locked the door. She was in the dark, for the
shutters of the windows were closed. Her first impulse at reaching a
haven of privacy even though a prison was to seek the line of least
resistance and give her nerves the relaxation they needed in tears.
But she fought the weakness down, going to the windows and peering
out through a crack in the shutters. When she tried to open them, she
discovered that they were locked or nailed from the outside. She had
been a prisoner she knew, upon the yacht, but the firmness with which
the hard wood and iron resisted her efforts gave her for the first
time the grim reality of her predicament. A prisoner in the heart of a
German forest with no way to turn for help! Where was Cyril? Perhaps
after all, her surmises had been incorrect. They had sent him away
to Berlin. Or perhaps he had gone back in freedom to England. Grave
fears assailed her as to Rizzio and his intentions. Once a friend, but
after that an unsuccessful lover! What did she know of him or of these
people into whose hands he was committing her? Germans! She was ready
to believe anything of them after Belgium--the worst! Had Rizzio’s
story about bringing her to the head of the Secret Service of Germany
been a mere invention to serve other ends? He had told her at Kilmorack
House that he would never give her up. Was this what he had meant? A
blind terror seized her which seemed for the moment to deaden all her
faculties for analysis. The room, though chill, seemed to stifle her,
its walls and ceiling to be closing in to crush her. She stumbled to
the bed upon which she fell and lay for a long while exhausted and at
last the blessing of tears came to her and then, sleep.

How long Doris slept she did not know, but she realized that it could
not have been long, for strange ugly figures came into her dreams and
strange ugly events followed each other with lightning swiftness. But a
knock upon the door brought her back to the terrors of her predicament
and she answered it, wondering what was to happen. It was a tall man in
the Jäger uniform bearing a tray of food--some toast, eggs and a cup
of chocolate. He entered with a smile and a polite greeting in German,
putting the tray upon the table and then forcing open the shutters a
little so that a narrow bar of sunlight came into the room and lay upon
the bright drugget upon the floor. By its light she examined the man.
He was tall, grizzled at the temples and walked with a slight limp. He
smiled at her again and she could not refrain from answering the smile
in kind.

“I hope the Fräulein will enjoy her lunch,” he said. “The toast
especially, for I have made it myself. I trust that the Fräulein
prefers dry toast.”

“Thanks, anything will do. I am not hungry.”

“I am sorry,” said the Forester, bowing and then continuing in a lower
tone: “The Fräulein will not forget that the toast is excellent and
that I made it myself.”

She examined him curiously, wondering whether he were not perhaps a
little demented. But at the door he bowed and disappeared and she heard
the key turn in the lock. He was apparently not too demented to forget
that she was a prisoner.

She was not hungry but she knew that she must eat something to keep up
her strength for any ordeal that was in store for her, so she drew a
chair to the table and sat, pouring out the chocolate in the cup and
helping herself to the eggs.

All the while she thought of the strange behavior of her servitor.
Why did he lay such stress upon the excellence of the dry toast? And
why because it was dry? She raised a piece of it with her fingers and
examined it, lifted the second piece, when a gasp of surprise escaped
her. Above the third piece of toast, folded neatly, was a thin strip
of paper. She glanced toward the door and window and then getting up
from the table and going to a spot where observation of her actions was
impossible, opened the slip of paper. It was in Cyril’s hand.

    Don’t be frightened [she read]. You are to be questioned.
    Follow these instructions. I made copy of message in Heathcote
    library night of dinner while waiting for you to get wraps.
    I hid it in right sash of motor. Copy and original of message
    the same. You and I are enemies. Therefore ignore me. Rizzio
    acted for Scotland Yard. As to the rest tell truth exactly and
    no harm can come to me. I will find means later to communicate.
    Burn this immediately.

Her heart beating high, she read the paper through twice to familiarize
herself with the instructions which she perfectly understood. Then she
found a matchbox on the candlestick, put the paper in the hearth and
burned it. After that she sat at the table and ate. It was there that
Captain von Winden found her some moments later when he came to request
her presence in the room on the ground floor.

       *       *       *       *       *

During the time that Doris slept, in the living-room downstairs General
von Stromberg sat with John Rizzio. A peaceful winter landscape looked
in at the windows, the sun slanted in a yellow rhomboid upon the floor,
a cheerful fire was burning upon the hearth and General von Stromberg,
his left hand tapping gently upon the back of his right, was gravely
listening to John Rizzio’s story. All of the pieces of the little game
were upon the board. He was now about to move them skillfully from one
square to another until only one piece remained, and that one piece,
the victor in all such games, was--himself.

“And what was his manner,” went on von Stromberg, “when you showed your
credentials?”

“He was surprised--very much surprised--and I think alarmed.”

“And what arguments did you use to make him give the packet up?”

“I threatened him with serious consequences.”

“Which meant _me_,” said von Stromberg grimly.

“Yes, Excellenz. But he refused without other grounds than his own
judgment.”

“And then----”

“Excellenz, Fräulein Mather came in. She heard something from behind
the curtain--but she gave no sign.”

“Oh! She is clever?”

“Exceptionally so. I have brought her here of my own volition and she
will speak if properly approached, but I hope Excellenz will be pleased
to make the interview as easy for her as possible. If any harm should
come to her----”

“It is not the practice of my department to do hurt to women,” said the
General quickly. Then he laughed. “I suspect, Herr Rizzio, that you
have a tenderness in that quarter.”

“It is true. I hope, therefore, that you will be patient with her.”

Von Stromberg waved his hand impatiently.

“And what happened then?”

“Hammersley and Miss Mather went out. I remained in the smoking-room
and then telephoned to Maxwell to send his men at once. They came. I
met them outside the house before Hammersley emerged and gave them my
instructions to follow Hammersley’s machine and get the papers.”

The older man started forward, his long acquisitive nose eagerly
scenting a clue.

“And how long was it after they left the smoking-room for the machine?”

Rizzio pulled at his mustache a moment thoughtfully.

“I could not say exactly,” he said after a time. “A matter of half an
hour perhaps.”

“Did you know what Herr Hammersley was doing in the meanwhile?”

“No. I could not say. I telephoned first and then went out. The guests
were all in the drawing-room.”

“Did you go up to the library?”

Rizzio showed surprise. “No, Excellenz.”

“Are you sure that Herr Hammersley was in the drawing-room with the
others when you went out?”

“Yes, Excellenz. I am sure of it. There was no reason for him to be
anywhere else.”

“There was no chance of his going upstairs to the library for
ten--fifteen minutes--without your seeing him?”

Rizzio straightened and pulled at his mustache. “Excellenz, I think I
understand the object of your questions. It is not possible that Herr
Hammersley could have made a copy of the papers at Lady Heathcote’s
house.”

Von Stromberg paused a moment, then he asked:

“How long after you left the door of the house before he came out with
the lady?”

“Scarcely more than ten minutes.”

The General’s fingers tapped more rapidly.

“Oh,” he growled, “I see.” And then, “Tell me how the matter was
arranged that Captain Byfield should deliver those papers.”

“Maxwell managed it through a cipher. The War Office had grown
suspicious and all the usual channels were closed. Byfield was
frightened and refused to deliver further messages. So Maxwell hit
upon the scheme of the cigarette papers to be delivered to Hammersley.
I could not receive them from Byfield because of your instructions
not to let my interests be known to anyone in England but Maxwell--you
thought the time was not ripe for me to play my _coup_.”

“Yes,” said von Stromberg dryly, “but the time is ripe now and you are
not there to play it.”

“But this affair was of such importance----”

“Yes, yes,” the general broke in quickly, “go on.”

“It was the day of an anniversary always celebrated for me by Lady
Heathcote, whose house, as you know, is one of the most exclusive
in England and above suspicion. I invited the guests and Maxwell
communicated with Hammersley, arranging the manner of the exchange
which was accomplished. My demand upon Hammersley was made in
accordance with your orders. It was a test of his loyalty. He failed.”

“Do you think he had an opportunity to glance at the papers, I mean
between the time he received them and the time of your demand of him?”

“Yes. He studied them for a moment behind the curtains of an alcove in
the drawing-room. I was watching. I saw his shadow as he bent over to
the light of the lamp.”

“By that you mean he had a hope that they might be spurious?”

“Yes, Excellenz. When it was discovered that there was a leak, false
orders were issued to test the different departments of the War Office.”

“H--m. And then, Maxwell’s men followed him, and when he was on the
point of capture he turned the papers over to the lady, who escaped
through the hedge?”

“As I have said before, Excellenz, the lady is clever. She read the
papers, but her loyalty to Hammersley kept her silent, though at that
time she suspected that he was a German agent.”

“I see,” said von Stromberg, manifesting a sudden activity with his
fingers. “The lady is interested in Herr Hammersley?”

“Yes, Excellenz.”

“More interested in him, perhaps, than she is in you?”

Rizzio bowed in silence.

“_Gut_,” said von Stromberg rising. “That perhaps makes matters more
amusing for us--perhaps a little more amusing for Herr Hammersley.”

He paced the floor with long strides while Rizzio watched him until he
stopped before the fire and spoke again.

“Herr Rizzio, you have told me about the events in Scotland when, as
you say, Hammersley, acting as an Englishman, warned the lady against
you as an agent of Germany. What I would like very much to know is why,
when you were sure he was acting for England, you did not have him
killed at once.”

“I tried, Excellenz, but he was too well prepared for me. My men shot
at him on the road and wounded him slightly--but on the cliffs at
Ben-a-Chielt he had a confederate who killed one of my men. The other,
as I have related, fell over the cliffs.”

“But you”--put in the officer harshly--“what were _you_ doing all the
while?”

“I shot at him and missed.”

“That was unfortunate--from our point of view. It is not the custom of
agents of my department to miss--at anything, Herr Rizzio. But since
Hammersley is here, the damage, if damage there is, can be repaired.
What did you do after that?”

“I had reason to suspect that Hammersley was the cause of the arrest
of Captain Byfield. I had also reason to suspect that he had informed,
or would inform, the War Office as to my connection with Germany.
Accordingly I had made arrangements to have my boat within easy
reaching distance of Ben-a-Chielt. With the help of two other men who
had been set to watch the roads in case of surprises I kept watch on
Hammersley. Miss Mather we lost in the darkness of the moor. This
was unfortunate, as I had planned to take her, too. But we followed
Hammersley on horses to Rudha Mor to be sure that he would obey your
summons and fortune aided us, for Doris Mather had followed him, too,
and we managed to take her without difficulty--and brought her aboard
the yacht. Hammersley’s departure for Germany, of course, relieved me
of all responsibility on his behalf.”

Von Stromberg paused before the fireplace, his brows puckering.

“On the whole, Herr Rizzio, you have done well. I shall not complain.
But if your story is true, I should like you to tell me two things. The
first is, why should Herr Hammersley return to Germany to face certain
death at my hands?”

Rizzio shrugged his fine shoulders.

“Excellenz, I do not know. I did not think he would come when I sent
you my request to summon him. The knowledge he possessed was dangerous
to me and I had made every possible plan to kill him at Rudha Mor.
Nothing that could have happened surprised me more than when I saw him
fly out in obedience to your message. It has puzzled me. I do not know
why he came unless it was to learn something in Germany and return to
England.”

Von Stromberg gave a dry chuckle.

“The supposition does not flatter his intelligence or mine. Aside
from the difficulties of his position at present, if he were seeking
information as to the plans of the Empire, he would have about as much
chance of getting away from here alive as you would have, Herr Rizzio,
in the same circumstances.”

The old man towered to his full height and brought his huge fist down
with a crash upon the table which startled Rizzio, who fingered his
mustache, his face a shade paler.

“I am glad, Excellenz,” he said with a laugh, “that I am not in
Hammersley’s shoes.”

Disregarding Rizzio’s comment, the old man paced the floor again,
storming.

“The other question that I would like to ask you is, what has become of
Herr Maxwell?”

Rizzio started up, now in genuine concern.

“Have you not heard from him, Excellenz?”

“No,” roared the other. “Why haven’t I? You should know.”

“I do not know. I saw him the day I left London for Scotland. He was
fully informed of all that had happened. Could it be that----”

Rizzio paused with a deep frown.

“Where is he? Why has he not reported? Could anything have happened to
him? What were you thinking?”

“That Hammersley perhaps--but that could hardly be--since he always
moved under cover----”

“_Du lieber Jesu!_ Speak out! Will you?”

“I thought that Hammersley might have been the cause of his arrest.”

“Oh, you think that? Why?”

“Because it was Hammersley who told the War Office of Byfield----”

“What proof have you of that?”

“No one knew of Byfield’s connection with us but Hammersley, Maxwell
and myself.”

“Those were my orders. How do I know that they were obeyed?”

“One doesn’t disobey orders, Excellenz, with one’s head in a noose.”

“H--m. There are many necks in nooses at Windenberg. And one of the
nooses will be tightened.”

He had stopped before Rizzio and was scowling at him with eyes that
shot malevolence. Rizzio knew something of von Stromberg’s methods
and was sure that he was merely trying to intimidate him, to reduce
him to a consistency which would reveal hidden weaknesses in texture;
yet, knowing this, Rizzio felt most uncomfortable. He twirled his
mustache and looked out of the window, but his glance came back to
von Stromberg’s eyes, which never wavered or changed in intensity, as
though under the influence of some strange hypnotic attraction.

“You know, of course,” the old man’s harsh voice snapped at him, “what
Herr Hammersley accuses you of?”

“I can imagine, Excellenz.”

“He says that you have been acting for the English Government.”

Rizzio started up in alarm.

“You do not for a moment believe----”

“Don’t get excited. I believe nothing--which I do not wish to believe.
But he tells a very pretty story, Herr Rizzio.”

“He would,” said Rizzio easily. “I will do him the credit of saying
that he is skillful. But a lie will discover itself in the end.”

“Exactly. I am glad you agree with me. What I now propose to do is to
set the lie in motion. The easiest way to provoke a liar is to put him
upon the defensive. You and Hammersley shall debate the matter. I shall
be the judge of the debate. We shall see what we shall see.”

He strode to the table and was about to touch the bell when Rizzio
broke in.

“One moment, Excellenz. I should like to know on what he bases his
accusation.”

“Humph! Not weakening, Rizzio?”

“Hardly, Excellenz,” the other smiled. “It will not be difficult for me
to verify my statements if Hammersley will only talk.”

“You need not fear. He will talk.”

“What I wanted to know, Excellenz, was the nature of the information
received in the yellow packet. Would you permit----?”

“Not yet, Herr Rizzio, not yet. The contents of the message will
come in time. For the present there is quite enough to occupy Herr
Hammersley’s mind--and yours.”

Rizzio shrugged. “As you please. I would like to know, however, before
you summon him, whether his accusation is based on my attempt upon his
life.”

Von Stromberg chuckled. “Is not that enough to prejudice a man--if he
were honest?”

“Yes, if he were honest,” said Rizzio. “Did he have any authority for
his belief?”

“Yes, Herr Rizzio,” said the General, fixing Rizzio with his stare. “He
told me that Maxwell had learned it from Byfield.”

“Byfield!” Rizzio started forward quickly. “Hammersley is a fool.
Have I not told Excellenz that Byfield knew nothing whatever of my
connection with the affair?”

Von Stromberg stretched his long arms impatiently.

“Herr Maxwell, unfortunately, is silent. Captain Byfield is in a
position where the only questions that can be put to him will be those
at the Gates of Heaven by his Maker.”

He gave the bell on the table a resounding blow and grinned mischievously
at Rizzio.

“You say that Herr Hammersley is a fool. He asserts that you are one. I
shall now smoke a cigar and decide for myself which of you is correct.”

And, as the soldier entered, “Tell Herr Hammersley that I wish to see
him here at once.”

“I can only say, Excellenz,” said Rizzio, when the man went out, “that
I am willing to abide by your verdict.”

“Even though it should be unfavorable to yourself?” growled von
Stromberg.

“That, Excellenz, is quite impossible.”

“I have known stranger things to happen. The worst aspect of your case
is that Herr Hammersley is here. There was no need for him to come.
You yourself admit that. He had only to stay in England to devote his
talents to a more congenial occupation.” Von Stromberg puffed on his
cigar and leaned across the table. “Can you tell me why Herr Hammersley
came to Germany? Answer me correctly, Rizzio, and I will give you every
masterpiece in Belgium.”

Rizzio frowned into the fire.

“I cannot say,” he replied. “I have admitted that he has puzzled me.
I can only think of one thing. Hammersley is a type of man who under
the guise of inefficiency does all things well. He is a sportsman. He
would do such a thing for the love of adventure, because the danger,
the excitement, appealed to him--because it was the ‘sporting thing.’”

“A reason, Rizzio,” muttered von Stromberg, “but not the real reason.”

Rizzio started and a smile broke at the corners of his lips.

“Oh! You realize, then, that there is something else--something----?”
He paused.

“I realize nothing,” growled the General. “Realization, Rizzio, is the
one banality of existence! Uncertainty is the only thing worth while.
When one is certain of anything it ceases to be interesting. That is
why Herr Hammersley, whom you call a fool in one breath and a genius in
the next, excites my profound attention. Come, I think you will agree
with me that he is worth it.”

“I do not like Hammersley, Excellenz.”

“_Natürlich!_ But that need not prevent your interest in him, even
though your interest is largely in his death.”

The phrase was significant, delivered significantly, and in spite of
himself Rizzio felt the gaze of the General piercing his veneer.

“I could feel no happiness in such a misfortune,” he said gravely,
“notwithstanding my dislike of him.”

A knock at the door interrupted further conversation and, at a command
from the General, Hammersley entered.




CHAPTER XV

THE INQUISITION


If General von Stromberg had counted upon playing a trump card in
producing Rizzio at this interview, Herr Hammersley’s demeanor must
have disappointed him. For he entered the room with cheerful composure,
noted Rizzio, stared at him in sudden seriousness, and then turned to
von Stromberg with the air of a man briskly intent.

“You wanted to see me, Excellenz?” he asked quietly.

He had evinced a mild surprise at Rizzio’s presence, but no discomposure.
If anything, his manner now had a kind of sober eagerness as at the
imminence of an issue in which a necessary if painful duty must be
performed.

General von Stromberg from his armchair regarded him through a cloud of
tobacco smoke.

“Yes, Herr Hammersley,” said von Stromberg. “As you will observe,
Herr Rizzio has just arrived from England. He followed you almost
immediately upon his yacht. It is most fortunate that he is here, for
there are several matters which we can discuss in privacy together.”

“I am at your service, Excellenz,” said Hammersley. “If there are any
facts which I can add to my report I shall be glad.”

His idiom was Hanoverian. Rizzio, quite cool, faced him, upright, with
folded arms.

“To begin with, _meine Herren_, we will sit. To stand is the
attitude of discomposure. One thinks more calmly sitting down. You
have my permission. So--Now we will proceed. I will outline in the
briefest words the situation. Herr Hammersley, an agent of the Secret
Service Department of the Imperial Government, is intrusted with the
receipt and delivery of certain secret messages. He receives them,
but is requested by Herr Rizzio, also an agent of the Secret Service
Department of the Imperial Government, on authority of indubitable
credentials, to relinquish the message to Herr Rizzio. It is not
necessary to state the reasons of the Imperial Secret Service
Department in desiring the transfer of this message. It is sufficient
that Herr Hammersley refused to obey the orders. He has given
explanations which, on their face, seem adequate. Upon the side of Herr
Rizzio it may be said that, failing in his object, he came to a certain
conclusion most unflattering to the loyalty of Herr Hammersley. We will
now proceed in orderly fashion to hear the cause of Herr Hammersley’s
refusal and the subsequent acts of Herr Rizzio which have created so
great a misunderstanding. Herr Hammersley, _bitte_, you will tell us
the facts as you have related them.”

“I learned from Herr Maxwell that Herr Rizzio was playing a double
game. Captain Byfield had furnished him with full proofs of it, one of
which was a letter he had seen from Herr Rizzio to a military officer
high in the councils of the War Office. This was an additional reason,
Excellenz, why Herr Maxwell arranged with Captain Byfield that the
cigarette papers should be delivered to me.”

Rizzio leaned quickly forward, his face dark with passion. “Excellenz,”
he began, “that could not possibly be true. The real reason for the
delivery of the message to Herr Hammersley Excellenz well knows. And
Herr Maxwell would hardly send men to follow Herr Hammersley at my
request if he disbelieved in my loyalty.”

“Quite so. He would not and did not,” said Hammersley. “The men were
not Herr Maxwell’s. They were men of Scotland Yard. It is quite obvious
by the way they bungled matters.”

The General smiled delightedly. It was the sort of joke he liked. “That
is one point in your favor, Hammersley.”

Rizzio shrugged.

“Excellenz well knows,” he said, “why those men were sent. They had
instructions to get the papers for Maxwell.”

“That is strange,” said Hammersley. “If Maxwell had asked me personally
for the papers, I should have given them to him. Maxwell would have
known better than to intrust those papers to a third person. It is not
likely that I should have given them up to any man, even if Maxwell had
sent him.”

“It is unfortunate that Herr Maxwell is not here to----”

“One moment, Herr Rizzio,” broke in the General. Then to Hammersley,
“What was the nature of the letter which you say was sent by Herr
Rizzio to a high official of the War Office?”

“It was a statement in regard to the case of Carl Hüber, who, as you
know, was shot last week in the Tower of London.”

“_Ach!_” Von Stromberg frowned. “We are killing our evidence too fast,
_mein herr_, a little too fast for convenience. _Bitte_, we will kill
no more German agents in the Tower until they have had an opportunity
to testify.”

Hammersley smiled.

“Unfortunately, Excellenz, I have no means of restoring him to life,”
he said. “He was an excellent man, and leaves, I believe, a wife and
six children.”

Von Stromberg tapped his fingers slowly.

“We will go on, if you please, with the discussion of the general
facts. You claim that Herr Maxwell, distrusting Rizzio, arranged that
the papers should be handed from Captain Byfield to you. I have told
you that Maxwell had orders from me to put you to this test?”

“Pardon, Excellenz. I did not know that at the time. I only know
that Herr Maxwell chose to disregard your orders to him and Rizzio,
instructing me not to deliver the papers to Rizzio under any
circumstances.”

“When did Herr Maxwell make the discovery of Herr
Rizzio’s--er--treachery?”

“It was the evening of Lady Heathcote’s dinner. Captain Byfield had
learned the truth that afternoon.”

“One moment!” Rizzio rose, his face pale with anger. “It is easy
to manufacture evidence of this kind, where both of the witnesses
mentioned are beyond reach. I will not even deny the truth of their
charges. They are too absurd. If I was acting for England, will Herr
Hammersley tell me why the agents of Scotland Yard, whom he says I sent
for, did not surround the house at Ashwater Park and boldly demand the
papers from Miss Mather, in the name of the Government and the law?”

“The reasons are obvious,” replied Hammersley. “I will give Herr Rizzio
the credit for that much delicacy. If his men had found the papers at
Ashwater Park, Fräulein Mather, whom Herr Rizzio esteems most highly
and who was quite innocent, would have eventually been imprisoned by
the Government as a spy. At his orders the house was therefore secretly
searched by night, I am happy to say, unsuccessfully. Herr Rizzio will
surely not deny the kindness of his motives upon that occasion?”

“Excellenz will take that reply for what it is worth. Scotland Yard
has never permitted sentimental considerations to interfere with the
performance of its duties.”

Hammersley went on stolidly: “I cannot conceive of any agents of
Germany attempting to kill me. This my pursuers did at Saltham
Rocks and again in the person of Rizzio himself on the cliffs at
Beaufort Head--even, Excellenz”--Hammersley leaned forward, smiling
blandly--“even after he knew that I had met Captain Stammer and
conveyed my acceptance of Excellenz’s invitation to return to Germany.”

“I was not sure that he would go.”

“If not for any other reasons, Excellenz, the pursuit of the agents of
Scotland Yard would have been sufficient. Fortunately, however, I had
intended going as the bearer of the Byfield message. And I carried it.
You can’t deny that.”

“He brought a message, Excellenz,” put in Rizzio quickly. “But what
message? There were two messages. One prepared by Captain Byfield--the
other prepared by Hammersley.”

“I do not deny that. When I discovered that I was likely to have
an interesting evening I made a copy of the papers in a package of
Riz-la-Croix which I had in my----”

Rizzio broke in quickly. “That copy was made not at Lady Heathcote’s
that night, but at the War Office or elsewhere the following day. It
was prepared for the emergency of capture and, escaping that, for
delivery to General von Stromberg.”

“General von Stromberg has been told about those papers. I have told
him where and when I made the copy.”

“And where was that?” asked Rizzio keenly.

“In the library at Lady Heathcote’s while you were telephoning to
Scotland Yard.”

Rizzio struggled for control, and then with dignity to von Stromberg,
“I was telephoning to Herr Maxwell, Excellenz.” He turned to Hammersley
with a confident smile. “Assuming for the moment that what you say
about copying the papers is true, what did you do with the copy?”

“I took it out to the motor, where I slipped it down the window sash,”
Hammersley laughed. “Surely, Rizzio, the tall man from Scotland Yard
must have told you that when I escaped I shouted to him that he had not
searched the motor.”

General von Stromberg broke in suddenly.

“Why did you say that?”

Hammersley shrugged. “I had injured their motor, and I knew that I
should escape. The bravado of triumph, Excellenz. I was rather happy,
for, as a fact, they had given me an uncomfortable evening.”

Rizzio leaned across the table.

“Excellenz, it was to draw attention from the girl, who had the
original message and who had concealed herself in a tree.”

General von Stromberg took a small object from his pocket and weighed
it lightly in the fingers of one hand. It was the package of
Riz-la-Croix. As Hammersley was about to speak, he held up the other
hand in demand for silence.

“We are not getting very far, _meine Herren_,” he said. “Both of you
tell excellent stories of your adventures worthy of the best traditions
of the Secret Service Department. If, as Herr Rizzio alleges, Herr
Hammersley has substituted other papers for the original ones burned by
Miss Doris Mather, Herr Hammersley will be shot. If, as Herr Hammersley
alleges, Herr Rizzio was in communication with Scotland Yard, the
officers of which attempted the life of Herr Hammersley while he bore
dispatches for me, Herr Rizzio will be shot. It is a very delicate
matter, _meine Herren_, one which will require much thought, since the
one man who could settle the question is in an English prison.”

Hammersley started a pace forward. “Oh, then he _is_ taken!”

Rizzio glanced quickly at Hammersley.

“Excellenz, the same person who caused the arrest of Captain Byfield
gave Maxwell to the police.”

Von Stromberg’s gaze followed Rizzio’s to Hammersley.

“And you, Herr Hammersley. What do you suggest?”

“If the report is true, Excellenz, I quite agree with Herr Rizzio,” he
said easily.

Von Stromberg showed his teeth in a wolfish smile.

“And each of you contends that it was the other, _nicht wahr_?”

Hammersley merely nodded, but Rizzio was by this time in a state which
made self-control an impossibility. “Excellenz,” he cried hotly, “is it
conceivable that I should have come to Germany if I had been guilty
of the crime of which this man accuses me? I have served Germany
against----”

“You forget, Herr Rizzio,” said the General blandly, “that Herr
Hammersley has also come to Germany.”

“And while he is here Germany is in danger. He is a spy of England,
Excellenz.”

Hammersley only laughed.

“If I had been a spy of England, Excellenz, I surely had many chances
to serve England’s cause. Why should I have even met Captain Stammer
at Beaufort Cove? It would have been quite easy to have informed the
artillery officer at Innerwick and blown his destroyer out of the water
while she lay at anchor? Herr Rizzio forgets that honesty is always
provided with proof. In reply to this accusation, I would ask Herr
Rizzio how he managed to pass through the cordon of British destroyers
which guard the coast?”

Rizzio hesitated and von Stromberg spoke.

“That is a fair question. Answer.”

“I had English papers as well as German. I came away before the War
Office had time to act upon Herr Hammersley’s information as to my
services to Germany.”

Hammersley shrugged. “I make no reply.”

Von Stromberg frowned at the opposite wall, snapping the papers of the
package in his fingers impatiently.

“An _impasse_! I suspected as much. We will now resort to other means.
The only possible solution of this case, barring the unpleasant
alternative of shooting both of you gentlemen in the garden this
afternoon lies in the nature of the dispatches themselves and in the
production of a material witness.”

He brought his broad palm down on the bell upon the table and said to
Captain von Winden, who answered it:

“You will bring Fräulein Doris Mather down to this room at once.”
As Captain von Winden went out, the eyes of both men were turned to
Hammersley. He started in surprise, and leaned forward toward von
Stromberg, slowly turning with a frown to Rizzio.

“Doris--Miss Mather--here!” he muttered. “She came--with--with Herr
Rizzio?”

Von Stromberg nodded.

“Herr Rizzio persuaded her to come with him.”

“Persuaded! It is impossible.” He rose and took a pace toward Rizzio.
“What could have been his object? I do not understand. It will be very
cruel for her to--to see me--since she knows that I am an enemy of
England, Excellenz. She it was who read the papers and burned them.
If Herr Rizzio supposes that Fräulein Mather’s evidence will----” He
paused, his brow knitting in thought.

“Her evidence is important,” said von Stromberg. “Under the circumstances
you should be glad to have such an enemy to testify against you. Sit
down, Herr Hammersley. I regret that the necessities of the case require
this witness.”

Hammersley sat and, frowning at the wall opposite, folded his arms. “I
am at your orders, Excellenz. I need not remind you that she will tell
the truth.”

“That,” said von Stromberg, with a wide wave of the hand, “is precisely
what we are here for.”

There was a silence, grim and amusing on von Stromberg’s part,
self-restrained on Rizzio’s. Hammersley still sat staring at the wall,
thoughtful and apparently in no great enjoyment of the prospect.

When the door opened and Doris Mather entered the three men rose. Her
face was pale and lines of care were at her eyes and lips, but there
was no denying the proud poise of her head, the firmness of her mouth
and the steady look from her eyes as her glance passed Rizzio and
Hammersley and sought the figure of the man in uniform. She measured
him with a look that neglected nothing, her gaze finally meeting the
dark shadow under the gray thatch of brows where his small eyes gleamed
at her. The General bowed, clicked his heels together and brought
forward a chair, which he indicated with a polite gesture.

“I offer apologies, Fräulein, for the unfortunate situation in which
Destiny has placed you,” he said in excellent English. “Will you be
seated?”

The girl sat and faced him, her gaze still fixed upon his face. It
was as though she meant to ignore the presence of the other two men.
General von Stromberg stared at her for a moment in silence, and then,
finding that his frown was only met by a look of calm inquiry, smiled
at her instead.

“You know, of course, Fräulein, the situation with which you are
confronted. Herr Rizzio has brought you to Germany to shed what light
you can upon the mystery of these cigarette papers. Herr Hammersley
says that Herr Rizzio has been acting as an agent of the English
Government while professedly in the service of Germany. Herr Rizzio
says that Herr Hammersley is an English spy. Your position is a
difficult one, but circumstances have woven you into a piece of
international politics. Your testimony is of the utmost importance--to
one--perhaps both of these gentlemen.”

“I--I will do what I can to enlighten you,” she said haltingly. “What
do you wish to know?”

General von Stromberg beamed on her.

“_Ach_, I am glad you take the sensible view of things.” He waved the
package of cigarette papers in his fingers. “You have seen this object
before?”

“Yes, I think so. Will you let me look at it?”

The General moved his chair closer and put the papers in her fingers.
She opened the papers and finding the message, scanned it closely,
reading the writing with deliberateness and then looking up into von
Stromberg’s face.

“You have seen this before?”

“Yes.”

“Where?”

“At Lady Heathcote’s house in Scotland.”

“How did it come into your hands?”

“I found it on the floor of Mr. Hammersley’s room.”

“The night Herr Rizzio entered it, thinking it was yours?”

“Yes. That was the time.”

“You are quite sure?”

“Quite.”

“How did you identify it?”

“By certain peculiar characteristics of the handwriting, with which I
am familiar.”

“Mr. Hammersley’s, is it not?”

“Yes.”

“And how did this package of papers go out of your possession?”

“Mr.--Mr. Hammersley took them from me.”

“By force?”

She raised her chin proudly and looked at her questioner and then
lowered her eyes, replying quietly:

“Yes.”

“There was another package of cigarette papers of the same make as
these?”

“There was.”

“You read them?”

“I did.”

“Was this before or after you found the second package--these which I
now have in my hand?”

“Before.”

“How long before?”

“It was the night of Lady Heathcote’s dinner in London--the night Mr.
Hammersley took me home in the machine.”

“The night you were followed by men in another machine?”

“Yes.”

“You escaped to Ashwater Park with the package of papers which Herr
Hammersley had given you and, after hiding in a tree, in the privacy of
your room read these papers?”

“I did.”

“Were the contents of the papers you read at Ashwater Park the same as
those you hold in your hand?”

“As nearly as I can remember, they were, exactly.”

“Word for word?”

“I cannot say that. There were certain names and certain figures that
I remember very clearly as being exactly the same. I--I----” she
hesitated. “There were reasons why, in the state of mind that I was in,
what I saw remained impressed upon my memory.”

Hammersley throughout had sat immovable. But Rizzio, who had shown
signs of anxiety, now interrupted.

“Excellenz, I beg----”

Von Stromberg silenced him with a gesture.

“If you will be pleased to continue, Fräulein. Do you remember the
numerals?”

“Some of them.”

“And the towns and dates?”

“Some of them.”

“And are they, the ones that you remember, identical in both packets?”

“As far as I can remember.”

Von Stromberg took the packet from her hands and turned it over in his
fingers.

“There is nothing about this packet, no distinguishing mark that would
make it different from the other, the one that was burned?”

“None, except the handwriting.”

“H-m.” General von Stromberg put the packet into an inside pocket and
buttoned his coat carefully.

“So far--so good. You are an intelligent witness, Fräulein.”

“Thank you.” If the words of her questioner contained an ulterior
suggestion, the girl gave every indication of being oblivious to it,
listening with a grave calmness to his next question.

“When you escaped into the tree, were you in a position to hear what
went on in the road?”

“I was.”

“The men in the road searched Herr Hammersley?”

“They did.”

“And at last he escaped?”

“Yes.”

“Do you remember hearing him shout anything as his motor moved away?”

“Yes.”

“What was it?”

“That they hadn’t searched the machine or words to that effect.”

Von Stromberg glanced at Rizzio, who was leaning forward in his chair,
eager to speak.

“Well, Herr Rizzio?” he asked.

“That was a diversion--intended to give Miss Mather more time in which
to escape. The second package was not in the motor. At that time there
was no second package.”

Doris Mather’s voice was raised just a trifle, but for the moment it
dominated.

“There was. Mr. Hammersley put it into the window sash, when he was in
danger of capture.”

“Then why didn’t he put them both there?”

“I suppose because he wanted to be sure that one of them would reach
its destination.”

Von Stromberg grunted. “I see. But why did you help Mr. Hammersley to
save those papers when you knew that they were dangerous to England?”

“I didn’t know what they were. I did what he asked me to do
because--because----”

She faltered.

Von Stromberg waved his hand.

“Oh, very well. It does not matter. Who did you think was pursuing Mr.
Hammersley?”

“Agents of Mr. Rizzio.”

“Why did you think that?”

“Because I heard part of what happened between Mr. Rizzio and Mr.
Hammersley in the smoking-room at Lady Heathcote’s and I knew that Mr.
Rizzio had threatened Mr. Hammersley.”

“Did you think the men who followed you in the other machine were
German agents?”

Doris answered quickly.

“Oh, no. I was sure that they were men of Scotland Yard.”

“Are you sure now?”

“Oh, yes. Subsequent events have proved it to me conclusively.”

“Oh! What events?”

“The things that Mr. Rizzio did and what he wrote.”

“He wrote--to you?”

“Yes.”

Rizzio was swallowing uneasily, his face pale, his hands trembling.

“Excellenz, I can explain at another time.”

Von Stromberg regarded him coolly.

“I will hear you at another time. For the present, Fräulein Mather will
speak. What did Mr. Rizzio write to you that led you to think that Mr.
Rizzio was in communication with Scotland Yard?”

“This letter, Excellenz.” She put her fingers into her waist and handed
a crumpled paper to the General. Rizzio had risen again and would have
interposed but von Stromberg waved him aside.

“You will all keep silence until questioned,” he said abruptly, and
then smoothing the letter upon his knee, read it with great care and
deliberateness. Rizzio made an effort at composure but only succeeded
in bringing out a handkerchief and wiping his brows. Hammersley watched
von Stromberg intently. He was not aware of the contents of this letter
but the attitude of the girl was distinctly reassuring. Von Stromberg’s
brow puckered disagreeably and his long nose neared the paper while his
eyes peered at the sheet as though his fiery gaze would burn into it.

He read the paper through twice and then brought his hand down upon the
table with a crash while his voice thundered at Rizzio, toward whom he
extended the note.

“It is signed with your initials. Did you write this?”

Rizzio bent and examined the letter.

“Excellenz, I did, but it was with the object of bringing Miss Mather
to----”

“Silence! Perhaps you do not recall its terms. I will refresh your
memory.”

“Excellenz, if I had not written that letter Miss Mather would not
have----”

“Be quiet. Sit down. Please listen. ‘I am telling you this,’” he read,
“‘to warn you that my generosity to Hammersley is not actuated by any
love of a man who has spoiled my dearest ambition, but by the continued
esteem with which I still regard yourself. I do not love him; and my
own wish, my duty, my own honor, my loyalty to England all acclaim
that he should be delivered at once to those in authority. And yet I
have refrained--for you, Doris. But I have learned that H---- is in
communication with G---- and that Crenshaw of Scotland Yard is on the
alert. I may not be able to save him.’”

Von Stromberg paused and laid the letter upon the table. “I could read
more,” he said, “but that is enough. When did you receive this letter,
Fräulein?”

“The day after Mr. Hammersley was shot----”

“And, acting upon it, you went to Ben-a-Chielt to try to persuade him
from the cause of Germany.”

“Yes,” she said clearly.

“You failed?”

“I did.”

“H--m.” The General paused and turned to Rizzio.

“What have you to say?”

“Merely, Excellenz, that I thought Miss Mather knew too much for
Germany’s good and I chose this means of getting her to Ben-a-Chielt.”

“Where she could witness a secret meeting between two officers of my
department? Bah! Herr Rizzio, your story leaks like a sieve. It is full
of holes.” He touched the bell at his elbow and von Winden appeared.
“You will convey Herr Rizzio to the room on the third floor. Put a
guard over him.”

Rizzio started to his feet, his face ghastly, while beads of moisture
stood out upon his forehead.

“You will not give me a chance to explain?” he protested huskily.

“You will be given a hearing tomorrow.”

“But, Excellenz----”

“Take him away!”

As the door closed behind the two men, General von Stromberg came
forward and took Hammersley by the hand.

“I am glad, _mein Herr_, that there is no longer any suspicion upon
you. I have always liked you, Herr Hammersley, and you have done the
Vaterland excellent service. I am sorry that this investigation was
necessary, but in times like these I am not in a position to take
chances.”

“I understand, Excellenz. But it hasn’t discommoded me in the least.”

Von Stromberg laughed.

“I can readily believe it. You are always as cool as a morning in May.
As for Fräulein Mather,” and he turned ceremoniously to Doris and bowed
deeply, “it has all been a mistake. If the efforts of a councilor of
the Empire in undoing the wrong done you, by sending you with every
comfort and dispatch to England, are any sign of regret, you shall be
safely on the way tomorrow. But I am sure that in your heart you are
glad to have had the opportunity to clear Herr Hammersley of an unjust
suspicion.”

“Yes,” she murmured, turning away toward the window.

“But you still wish that the part of Herr Hammersley which is English
had been the greater part of him instead of the lesser, _nicht wahr_?”

She bowed her head but did not reply.

“Perhaps it would be better if I left you two alone together. There is
doubtless much that you would say which would be only interesting to
yourselves.”

And then he went out, closing the door behind him.




CHAPTER XVI

THE GENERAL PLAYS TO WIN


When General von Stromberg went out of the room Doris turned toward
Cyril, her happiness in her eyes where he could read it if he wished.
But instead of coming to her he made a warning gesture and then walked
slowly around the room, peering out of the windows and listening at
the doors until satisfied that they were unobserved. Then he beckoned
her to a spot out of the line of vision of the door into the adjoining
room. She obeyed it wonderingly while he caught her in his arms and
kissed her passionately.

“Thank God,” he whispered, “you understood.”

“Oh, Cyril,” she gasped, “if anything had happened to you----”

“We must be careful,” he went on, whispering hastily. “My success hangs
by a hair. Tonight--the thing that I came for will be within my reach.
I must have it.”

“There will be danger?”

“I hope not. But you must not trust his promises to send you away. You
must get away from here tonight before eleven. I will help you. Before
then I must see you alone. It is not safe to talk here.”

He pressed her hand hurriedly and moved slowly across the room close to
the wall and door, which he examined as he passed.

“But, Cyril----”

A warning finger stopped her.

“There is no use in your trying to persuade me, old girl,” he said, his
voice raised to a tone which seemed louder than necessary. “I am only
doing my duty as I see it. But whatever happens I can at least remember
that you told the truth.”

What did he mean? She couldn’t understand. She followed him with her
gaze. The fingers of one hand were tracing the flowers of the wallpaper
upon one side of the room, and as she looked he glanced out of the
window and then got quickly upon a chair and peered into an aperture in
the cornice.

“I am not sorry for Rizzio,” he said again, dusting off the chair and
replacing it. “He only gets what he deserved. What did he do to you?
How did he find you?”

A glance at his face showed her that he expected her to reply.

“I was lost on the moor,” she faltered. “I followed you to Rudha Mor
and saw you leave in the Yellow Dove. When I turned to go back, a cloth
was thrown over my head. They chloroformed me----”

He muttered an imprecation. “And on the yacht----”

“I--I had nothing to complain of. He did everything he could for my
comfort.”

She watched him again moving around the room. At the chimney he paused
and, reaching swiftly upward, lifted the clock and then put it into its
place again, the expression in his face still strained and anxious.

“I am not sorry for him,” he said again. Suddenly he came to her saying
in such a low whisper that she could hardly hear him,

“I’m not satisfied. There’s something dangerous in von Stromberg’s
sudden kindness. _Act_, Doris. We are overheard.” And then in louder
tones, “If anything had happened to you----”

She glanced around her timidly, her initiative suddenly at a loss.

“N-nothing happened to me,” she repeated bewildered.

“I would have made another death for him--a man’s death at least.”

“It is terrible,” she managed to say, “and I will have been the cause
of it.”

He came closer and took her by the hand, speaking distinctly.

“And do you regret that it is Rizzio instead of me?”

“No, no,” she stammered. Her accents of horror were genuine, but it
seemed more horrible that she should be making a farce of her genuine
emotions. Yet Cyril’s eyes impelled her. “It is terrible. I can’t
believe----”

“General von Stromberg is not a man to make idle threats. I am glad
that I am not in Rizzio’s shoes.”

She saw him pause, his mouth open, gazing upward at the lithograph of
Emperor William. To Doris the picture merely typified power, ambition,
intolerance of any ideals but those of military glory. But it was not
at the portrait that Cyril was looking. He was examining the frame,
which was swung a little to one side, revealing a patch of unfaded
wallpaper. He looked down into the fireplace thoughtfully and while the
girl wondered what he was going to do next, he whirled suddenly and
moved quickly toward the door into the hall, which he opened swiftly
straight into the face of Captain Wentz, who managed to step back only
in time to avoid it.

But the officer was equal to the occasion.

“I was seeking General von Stromberg,” he said coolly.

“He isn’t here,” Doris heard Cyril say quietly. And then, “I wanted a
glass of water. Fräulein Mather is feeling ill.”

“Ah! I will have it brought at once.” As he disappeared in the passage
to the kitchen, Cyril closed the door and came in three strides to the
fireplace, reached up and raised the picture from the wall, peering
under it, and touched the surface of the wallpaper with the tips of his
fingers. Then with great care he put the picture back in its place and
bent over Doris close to her ear, whispering: “They suspect. Everything
we have said has been overheard. A microphone! I knew it was here
somewhere.”

The pallor of her face when the man from the kitchen brought the water
was almost convincing proof of the truth of Hammersley’s statement.
She did look ill, for terror of the situation that confronted them had
driven the blood back to her heart. A moment ago the room had seemed so
friendly, and now every object in it was a menace. And above the mantel
the Emperor of Germany with his upturned mustaches glared down at her
austerely, eloquent of the relentless forces that held them in their
thrall. Behind her she heard Cyril whispering with the man who had
brought the water and realized that it was the tall soldier with the
lame leg who had brought her toast and eggs upstairs.

“_Danke sehr_, Lindberg,” Cyril said aloud. “She is tired from the
journey.”

“Perhaps, Herr Hammersley, a little fresh air will help. A stroll in
the kitchen garden.”

Doris got up in sudden relief as she understood.

“Yes,” she said. “Perhaps I will feel better in the air.”

Cyril led the way to the door and together they went out. They heard
sounds of heavy footsteps in the hallway above but did not pause,
making their way along the path which led around the house. Cyril did
not turn toward her, but she heard him speaking.

“They will call us back. Do not be frightened. If von Stromberg
questions again, answer to the best of your ability. I will find a
means of reaching your room tonight. In the meanwhile keep up your
courage.”

She did not reply for she heard steps behind her, and turning, found
Captain Wentz, who bowed, taking off his cap.

“General von Stromberg requests me to ask,” he said in very good
English, “if Miss Mather will not give him the pleasure of joining him
in a cup of chocolate.”

“He is very kind,” she said slowly with a glance at Cyril. “Of
course--I shall be very glad.”

The officer replaced his cap and, turning to Hammersley, spoke in
German.

“His Excellenz also requests that Herr Hammersley will remain within
call.”

Hammersley bowed.

“Tell his Excellenz with my compliments that with his permission I will
smoke my pipe here in the kitchen garden.”

Doris followed the officer into the room they had just left and von
Stromberg joined her almost immediately.

“_Ach, gnädiges Fräulein_,” he said with his blandest manner, “you
will forgive me for calling you back from your contemplation of the
beauties of this lovely afternoon, but there are certain questions,
merely trifling ones, which have to do with the fate of Herr Rizzio
which I neglected to ask you. You will not begrudge an old man the
privilege of a few words over a cup of chocolate?”

She smiled at him bravely, as a woman can do, even in a last extremity,
and told him that she was flattered by this mark of his condescension.

A wave of the hand and Wentz disappeared, while Lindberg, the lame man,
entered with the chocolate. The General had the tray put upon the table
before her and asked her to serve it, standing erect and watching her
with open admiration. Doris was frightened, for she had already seen
the power that this old man possessed. But with an effort she found her
composure and made up her mind that if she was alarmed von Stromberg at
least should not be aware of it. The safest defense against such a man
was audacity.

“You were feeling ill,” he said, suavely sympathetic. “The long morning
in the train and the strain of your ordeal. It is but natural. A little
cup of chocolate and a biscuit should revive you wonderfully. _Nicht
wahr?_” His English, though excellent, had a slight German accent and
his tone the quality of a lullaby,

“It is very good,” said Doris. “I have often heard it said that nowhere
in the world is chocolate so excellent as in Germany.”

“I trust that you may find it so. There are many things beside
chocolate that are excellent in Germany, Fräulein Mather.”

“I am sure that must be true,” she said politely, touching the cup to
her lips.

“Then why do you dislike us so much?” he asked with a smile.

“It is not your people that I dislike so much, General von Stromberg.
Many of the most charming people I have ever known have been Germans.
It is not what you are, but what you want to be, that I dislike; not
your habits or your tastes, but your intolerance of any civilization
which happens to differ from yours.”

She paused, a little frightened at her temerity, but von Stromberg
still smiled.

“Go on,” he chuckled, “you speak very prettily.”

“I am an American, General von Stromberg, from the United States, where
people are accustomed to speak what they feel, without fear of _lèse
majesté_. If the President of the United States did something that I
didn’t like I would write him a letter.”

“And would he answer it?” he purred.

“If he had time, yes. If anyone wrote such a letter to your Emperor, he
would be boiled in oil.”

Von Stromberg roared with delight. “Boiled in oil!” he repeated.

“Yes--or perhaps some more exquisite cruelty that your ingenious
people have devised,” she said coolly. “To prosaic minds like mine,
Excellenz, you Germans are the wonders of the age. You are both godlike
and Saturnian; a nation of military fanatics, a nation of silly
sentimentalists; a nation trained to scientific brutality, which shares
the sorrows of the dying rose. Which is it that you want us to think
you, the god or the satyr?”

“We know that we are the god,” he said, showing his teeth, “but we want
you to think us the satyr.”

“You have succeeded, Excellenz,” she replied calmly. “It is very
pleasant to be sitting here drinking chocolate with a _Geheimrath_--a
councilor of the Empire--but you’ll pardon me if I say that the
peculiarly social pleasure of the occasion is somewhat marred by the
fact that if the whim happened to strike you you could have me strung
up by the thumbs.”

“You think that I am cruel? _Ach_, no, Fräulein. You are mistaken,” in
his blandest tones. “I have a daughter in East Prussia of just your
age. For that reason I would like to have you think of me a little as
the sentimentalist rather than as the--the brute--as you have been
pleased to suggest. I am not cruel and I shall prove it to you.”

“In America, Excellenz, we do not make war upon women.”

“Nor do I make war upon you,” he put in quickly. “I did not bring you
to Germany, Fräulein. Herr Rizzio acted upon his own responsibility.
Even yet, if he is an English agent, I cannot understand his purpose in
bringing such an incriminating document.”

He smiled as he spoke, but she felt the question and its threat. For a
moment the directness of his attack bewildered her and so she sipped
her chocolate to gain a moment of time.

“General von Stromberg,” she said at last, as the idea came to her, “I
am told that you have one of the keenest intellects in the Empire of
Germany. I feel much like a child before you, who should see matters
much more clearly than I. There were two reasons why he brought me, one
of which bears upon our personal relations, the other upon his relation
to England. I knew that he possessed your confidence, otherwise he
would not have been in possession of a document which empowered Mr.
Hammersley to give up the secret message of Captain Byfield. I knew
too much. If I had told my friends in England what I knew, his utility
to England would have been gone.”

“Why? It seems to me that having my confidence would have made his
utility to England the greater.”

“He would have been suspected of double dealing, would he not?”

“As a friend of England you would have let him be suspected?” he asked
quietly. “Given evidence against a man whom you knew to be acting in
England’s interests?”

“There were other--other--interests,” she faltered, “more important to
me than England’s--Mr. Hammersley’s. You have a daughter, Excellenz.
Perhaps you would try to think of me as you would think of her in a
similar situation. When I read those papers at Ashwater Park I knew
that the man to whom I was promised and of whom I had always thought
as an Englishman was acting as a secret agent--a spy of Germany.
He was pursued by agents of the English War Office. I knew that if
his connection with Germany were discovered he would be shot. I was
frightened. I did not know what to do. John Rizzio followed me to
Scotland and tried to get the papers. I refused to give them to him.
And then when--when Mr. Hammersley came I burned them. There was
nothing left for me to do--for England--for him. If there were no
papers there could be no evidence against him.”

She paused to get her breath, aware that her companion was listening
intently, and fearfully afraid that she was saying too much.

“And then--?” he asked.

“And then,” she went on more slowly, “I found the other papers. When
I wouldn’t give them to him, Mr. Hammersley took them away from me. We
quarreled, Excellenz, and I gave him up.”

“And after that--”

“After that came Mr. Rizzio’s note asking me to go to Ben-a-Chielt and
see the meeting between Cyr--between Mr. Hammersley and your messenger
in the last hope that I could make Mr. Hammersley give up his plans to
deliver the message to you. As you know I failed. It was there--after
that--that Mr. Rizzio, who had overheard our conversation, tried to
kill Mr. Hammersley, knowing that he had resolved to deliver the
message.” She got up and paced the floor. “Oh, it is so clear, what
Rizzio was, that I wonder that it should be necessary for me to tell it
to you.”

“Yes, I see. And the other--the personal reasons you mentioned.”

She hesitated. “It is difficult to speak of them--but I will tell you.
Mr. Rizzio has forfeited all right to my loyalty. He offered to marry
me. I refused him. He told me he would never give me up. In Scotland he
threatened Cyril--Mr. Hammersley’s life. I know now what he meant.”

“Yes, but in his letter to you he does not threaten. He urges that he
is doing what he can to save Hammersley!”

“I did not believe him. I was right. Events have proved it. He would
have been glad to see Mr. Hammersley out of the way.” She covered her
face with her hands and sank into her chair again. “Oh,” she whispered,
“it is horrible--horrible. And it is I who must be the instrument of
justice.”

Von Stromberg waited for a moment, tapping one finger of his left hand
very slowly upon the back of his right.

“Try to compose yourself, _liebes Fräulein_,” he urged calmly, and, as
she looked up at him: “You say he wanted to be rid of Herr Hammersley.
Can you tell me then, why his men did not shoot him when they had him
prisoner at Ashwater Park gates?”

“I do not know. Perhaps they would have done so if he hadn’t escaped.”

Von Stromberg paused again, and then, gently:

“You love Herr Hammersley a great deal, Fräulein?”

She bent her gaze upon him appealingly.

“Would I now be here, Excellenz?” she asked.

Von Stromberg bent his head and then got up and slowly paced the length
of the room. When he returned there was another note in his voice. It
was still quiet but the legato note had gone, and it was ice-cold.

“You do well to tell your story through the medium of sentiment which
you well understand, rather than through the medium of logic, which you
do not understand, which no woman understands.”

At his change of tone she glanced up. He was leering at her
unpleasantly.

“I do not know what you mean,” she murmured.

“You are very clever, Fräulein, but your story has a great many holes
in it--little holes which might grow into big ones, if one were
disposed to enlarge them. There are several things which are not at
all clear to me. Of course it must be as apparent to you as it is to
me that if Herr Rizzio was an English agent, by remaining in England
he had nothing to fear from you or anyone else. His object, too, in
bringing you to Germany is clear. As you say, you knew too much, not
about his connection with the English War Office, which, of course,
would not matter in the least, but about Herr Rizzio’s connection with
_me_, which would have mattered a great deal.”

He tapped his long forefinger upon his breast significantly and leaned
forward ominously across the table. He dominated, hypnotized her. She
closed her eyes, trembling violently.

“Do you mean that you do not believe? His letter, Excellenz--surely you
believe that to be genuine?”

“Bait, Fräulein--that is all. Excellent bait. You swallowed it. Herr
Hammersley very cleverly prepared himself against surprise. Only the
fortunate accident of your losing yourself upon the moor saved Herr
Rizzio from failure.”

“Oh, you are all wrong. You are willfully making me suffer. I have told
the truth.”

Von Stromberg straightened and drew from his pocket a military
telegraph form which he smoothed out gently with his long, bony fingers.

“Unfortunately for Herr Hammersley I have just received a message from
another agent in London--in whom I have implicit faith. You read German
a little. Would you care to see it?”

He laid it upon the table before her eyes and she looked, her eyes
distended with terror of she knew now what.

    Hammersley caused arrest of Byfield. Has informed on Rizzio
    and myself. Am in hiding in Kent. Will reach Germany by usual
    methods.

    MAXWELL.

Doris sat immovable, petrified with horror. Von Stromberg’s voice
crackled harshly at her ear.

“Well? And what have you to say?”

“It is a lie!” she managed to stammer. “He lies--lies, I tell you!”

“_Ach!_ If I could believe you! Why should he lie? Unlike the case of
Rizzio, Herr Hammersley has not robbed Herr Maxwell of a bride.”

“There is a mistake----”

“I fear not.”

“But why should Mr. Hammersley have come? He would have been safe in
England----”

“He himself says to the contrary----”

She was breaking fast and he sought further to involve her.

“He did not have to come. Why should he have come?” she asked wildly,
rising to her feet and laying her hands upon his arm. “Answer me that,
Excellenz.”

For reply he turned away from her abruptly and walked the length of the
room to an end window, where he stood for a moment looking out.

“Come, Fräulein, and I will show you something.”

She approached him blindly and followed his gaze around the corner
of the building. Upon a tree stump in the kitchen garden, looking
out across the fields toward the wooded hills sat Hammersley, calmly
smoking.

“Half of his blood is English, half Prussian, Fräulein, but it is the
English in him that dominates. Is there anything that is Prussian about
him? Tell me. From the crown of his head to the sole of his foot--his
pipe, his bent shoulders, his careless air--he is English, all English.
He knows that at this moment I am weighing his fate in the balance and
yet he smokes his short wooden pipe. If he has Prussian blood it is a
pity, for Germany needs all the Prussian blood that flows red in the
veins of men.” He paused and then abruptly, “But the Prussian blood
must be sacrificed with the English----”

She fell back from him, deathly white, groping for a chair to support
her.

“You mean----” she whispered.

“That I can take no chances. He will be shot tomorrow.”

“O God! He is loyal to Germany. I swear it.” Her utterance was choked.
Her breath came with difficulty. The room darkened suddenly and she
seemed about to swoon. She dropped to her knees beside the armchair,
clinging to it, trying to speak, but no words would come. She was aware
of his hawk-like face bending over her as though in the act of striking
its prey and she heard his voice at her ear.

“There is one chance to save him.”

She reached his hand and clung to it.

“A chance--what--”

“Tell me the truth,” he said sternly.

“I--I have told you the truth. He is innocent.”

He loosened her fingers and stood away.

“_Quatsch!_” he muttered, leaning forward. “The truth, girl!”

“I--I----”

She fell against the chair and clung to it for support.

“The truth, and he becomes an honorable prisoner of war. Silence, and
he is shot tomorrow. Speak.”

[Illustration: “The truth, and he becomes an honorable prisoner of war.
Silence, and he is shot tomorrow. Speak.”]

“He is----” The words choked her. “He is----”

“Bah!” he growled, moving toward the table. “You have already convicted
him!”

She struggled to her feet and followed him. He was about to touch the
bell when she caught his arm.

“Wait!” she whispered. “What guarantee have I that he will not be
injured?”

He shrugged and laughed. “I need give no guarantee now, Fräulein. This
is not a court of law! I am the judge of what constitutes proof. You
have testified.”

He shook her off and sounded the bell, which was immediately answered
by Udo von Winden.

“You will conduct Fräulein Mather to her room upstairs. Lock the door
and bring me the key. Then tell Herr Hammersley that I am waiting to
see him.”




CHAPTER XVII

LINDBERG


When Hammersley entered the house with von Winden he was immediately
aware that a crisis had come in his affairs, for in the hall leading
to the living-room stood Captain Wentz and two soldiers, and when he
was shown into von Stromberg’s presence, the Councilor stood with his
back to the hearth, his long legs wide apart, his hands behind his back
and the expression of his long, bony face was not pleasant to see. He
smiled and frowned at the same time--a smile which possessed so few
of the ingredients of humor that the tangled brows even seemed less
ominous. Doris was nowhere to be seen. Hammersley made no sign of his
prescience of trouble. He put his pipe in the pocket of his leather
jacket, strolled forward into the room and stood at attention. “Search
him!” snapped von Stromberg. And when von Winden had finished, “Leave
us,” he said to the officer, “and keep within call, I shall need you
presently.” He waited until the door was closed and then turned to
Hammersley somberly.

“Your jig is danced, Herr Hammersley, Fräulein Mather has confessed.”

“Confessed what, Excellenz?” questioned Hammersley calmly.

“She has told the truth.”

“Of course, that was to be expected of her.”

“Bah!” roared the General. “There’s no need of more of that. She told
me that you were an English spy.”

Hammersley started forward, the only expression on his face one of
complete incredulity. “Fräulein Mather told you that? Impossible!”

“Do you mean to say that you don’t believe me?”

Hammersley managed a smile.

“It would hardly be good ethics for me to say that. I simply repeat
that it is impossible.”

“Why?” Von Stromberg sneered.

“Because it is morally impossible for her to tell an untruth.”

“_Ach_, so. But it is _physically_ impossible for her to keep from
_not_ doing so.” He leaned forward, grinning craftily. “In the small
games of life, in the things which amount to nothing, women lie with a
careless skill that is amazing, but in a game of life and death, their
little tricks are negligible. Pouf! Herr Hammersley, did you expect to
match mere falsehood and such a tissue of flimsy evidence against a
man of my experience? It was a desperate game from the beginning--one
which could have had only one end. You have been clever--very, very
clever. In time, perhaps, under proper guidance and with the necessary
political opinions, you could have succeeded in becoming a very useful
helper of the Universe, through the medium of the Secret Service
Department of the German Empire. But such cleverness is superficial and
quickly burns out in the hotter fire of genius. I would like you to
know--”

“One moment, Excellenz,” put in Hammersley coolly. “Am I to understand
from your attitude that you believe I am false to the Vaterland?”

Von Stromberg laughed.

“You still insist on acting out the part?”

Hammersley did not answer the question. Instead he asked, “Will you be
good enough to tell me upon what new evidence you base your present
position?”

The Councilor strode to the table and thrust the telegraphic message he
had shown to the girl under Hammersley’s nose.

“This,” he growled. “I will read it to you. ‘Hammersley caused arrest
of Byfield. Has informed on Rizzio and myself----’ It’s signed
‘Maxwell.’ What do you think of my evidence?” He grinned, “Convincing,
_nicht wahr_?”

Hammersley looked up into von Stromberg’s face with a smile.

“Not even in code, Excellenz? It is a pity you did not write it in
English. But under the circumstances you can’t expect me to take any
interest in such a trick.”

“Not you, Herr Hammersley,” he chuckled. “It is not necessary that
you should believe in it. In fact there are reasons why you shouldn’t
believe in it, the most important reason being that Herr Maxwell is
dead.”

“Dead!”

“Obviously. You condemned him and he was put in prison. If he is not
dead it is through no fault of yours.”

Hammersley smiled. “You cannot get me to acquiesce in such strange
statements.”

“I do not ask you to acquiesce. I could not expect to catch Herr
Hammersley by a trick. But Miss Mather was less difficult.”

Hammersley’s jaws set. “I understand. But do you mean to say that I
can be incriminated by a confession made under the stress of a terror
artificially produced?”

“That is a clever turn of phrase, Herr Hammersley, worthy of the high
regard with which I hold your abilities. In reply I can only say
that in time of war my deductions in all matters connected with my
department are final. You are an English spy, Herr Hammersley, and you
are quite aware of the penalty.”

Hammersley raised his head and folded his arms. “Quite,” he replied,
“if you choose to take that action. I can only say that the time will
come when you will regret it.”

“I must take that chance, for there will be no trial.”

Hammersley shrugged his shoulders and turned aside. His face was white
and the muscles at his jaws worked for a moment, but otherwise he gave
no sign of emotion. General von Stromberg had gone back to his favorite
pose by the mantel and Hammersley again heard his voice.

“It seems a pity, Herr Hammersley, that after all it should be you
instead of Herr Rizzio who is the culprit. You are a type of young
man very much to my liking, and the position of the young lady is
unpleasant in the extreme. She has served her purpose here and I shall,
of course, take immediate steps to have her returned to her own people.”

“Thanks,” said Hammersley dryly.

“But the thing that has interested me in your case from the first,”
he continued with a return of his mastodonic playfulness, “and indeed
still continues to interest me, is why you should choose to return to
Germany when you knew that you were under suspicion. Surely you did not
come here to pick cowslips in March? Come now, I could have you shot
this afternoon if I chose. Tell me the truth and I will promise to
postpone the affair until tomorrow.”

Hammersley studied the pattern in the rug thoughtfully for a moment,
and at last he straightened and shrugged again.

“I don’t suppose there is any use playing the game further. Since I am
to go, it doesn’t matter if I tell you. I have planned for some time to
be able to get plans of the recent additions to the fortifications of
Strassburg.”

“_Ach, so._ Strassburg! And what, may I ask, were to be your means of
procuring them?”

“That, of course, since my utility has ceased, cannot possibly be of
interest to you.”

Von Stromberg studied him narrowly for a long moment and then wagged
his head sagely. It was an unnecessary suspicion that he had cherished.
This had been a case with interesting aspects, but after all it was
not much out of the usual way. An English spy betrayed by the simplest
of tricks upon the credulity and affection of a woman. He thought that
Hammersley had been after bigger game. Plans, fortifications--the same
objects, the same methods. Von Stromberg had tried to puzzle out in
the mazes of his wonderful brain the possible chance that this man
could have had of learning of the whereabouts of Herr Gottschalk’s
memoranda and of the momentous decision which had been reached in the
Wilhelmstrasse with regard to them. He studied Hammersley closely,
with something approaching regret that the contest between them
could not have been waged at greater length and for higher stakes.
He felt a genuine human sorrow at this moment over the impending
fate of this handsome young man who was only doing his duty for the
fatuous English. It was too bad. But there was much else to do.
Tomorrow his mission in this part of the Empire would be ended and the
Wilhelmstrasse was calling. He touched the bell upon the table and
Captain Wentz entered.

“Herr Hammersley is to be taken to the room on the third floor. Tonight
you will see that he is securely bound and a guard set over him, within
the room. You will place another guard outside below his window. If he
tries to escape, shoot him.”

Wentz spoke to the man in the hall and Hammersley, between them, was
led to the foot of the steps, and followed his captors to the upper
story. He knew, in view of the instructions that he had overheard, that
any effort to escape would be fruitless. He sat on the edge of the
bed submitting calmly while his feet and hands were bound under the
direction of Captain Wentz; after which the officers went out, leaving
a man to guard him, and locked the door. Hammersley rolled over on the
bed and lay for a long while staring at the wall. The day was fading
into dusk. Five o’clock, it might be, Hammersley guessed. Six hours or
less remained to him in which to act. Six hours in which he must lie
helpless while the one chance of intercepting the messenger from Berlin
came and passed. He lay perfectly still as he had fallen, but his
spirit writhed in agony.

Doris was in a room near him, likewise a prisoner, aware of the fate in
store for him and able to do nothing but wait as he would wait until
the shots were fired below there in the garden, which would be the end
of all things for him. He found that he was thinking little of himself.
It was Doris and what she must be suffering that occupied the moments
of his thoughts which were not given to the remote chances of escape.

His bonds were tightly drawn--a rope tied with German thoroughness.
He moved his hands behind him and tried to gain a little room for his
present ease. If he was to be shot tomorrow morning it would have
seemed indeed a small charity to have permitted him to pass his last
night in some degree of comfort. Could it be that, after all, von
Stromberg suspected the real object of his return? That hardly seemed
possible; for his informant in Berlin, a woman close to those in high
authority, had made every move with the utmost discretion and his own
relations to Lindberg could not possibly be suspected.

Lindberg! Hammersley turned and looked at his guard who was standing
motionless by the window, gazing out at the fading landscape. Lindberg
was his one, his last desperate hope. Udo von Winden, his cousin-- It
was too much to hope that Udo would be of service to him. He had caught
a glimpse of Udo’s face in the hallway downstairs when von Stromberg’s
orders were given. He had gone pale and stared at him in pity and
horror as Hammersley had gone up the stairs, but Hammersley knew that
the ties of kinship, the memories of their boyhood together, were
nothing beside the iron will and indomitable authority of the great man
who had condemned him. Udo would suffer when Hammersley died, for there
had been a time when the two had been much to each other, but he would
do his duty, however painful, as a small unit of the relentless machine
which Hammersley had had the temerity to oppose. What else could be
expected?

A word, a sign, the slightest aid to such a prisoner, and he would be
as guilty as his cousin. Hammersley knew that he did Udo no injustice
in supposing that any help from such a source was out of the question.
If Udo had been caught in England as Hammersley was caught in Germany,
Hammersley knew that he could do nothing to save him.

But Lindberg! Here the case was different. It was Lindberg whose life
Hammersley had saved three years ago in this very forest, when the
Forester had stumbled and fallen in the path of an angry boar who would
have gored him to death, if Hammersley had not shot the beast. Lindberg
the Forester it was, who, in his hours off duty, had been Hammersley’s
chosen companion in many a hunt up through the rocky gorges of these
very mountains, every stick and stone of which he knew as he knew his
own rugged face in the mirror. It was Lindberg who had been so useful
in keeping him informed of the exact state of affairs at Blaufelden. It
was Lindberg who had learned of the microphone that von Stromberg had
installed and it was Lindberg who had listened at the receiver upstairs
in von Stromberg’s room to the conversation when the Councilor had told
Captain Wentz the nature of the documents from Berlin and the hour of
their arrival.

Already Lindberg had repaid a hundredfold the debt of Hammersley’s
service and it was quite possible, now that Hammersley’s actual mission
had been discovered, that he would take to cover, his mind clear in the
thought that he had done all that could be expected of him. But there
was a warm affection between the two, born of many a long day in the
open and many a night by the campfire where the old man had taught him
the Foresters’ secrets of the trees, the birds in their branches and
of the many four-legged things that scurried beneath them. They had
often talked, too, of many other things, and Hammersley had learned
that Lindberg’s politics were those that one learns under the open
sky--the eternal peace of Nature, before which war and men, its armed
instruments, were a blasphemy.

Perhaps Lindberg would find a way. But what way? How? Udo von Winden,
too, was aware of the woodcraft fellowship, for often he had made their
duet a trio. Hammersley knew that Udo von Winden as yet suspected
nothing of the services Lindberg had rendered him and he wondered
whether in this pass the ties of kinship would be strong enough to keep
him silent as to the possible capabilities of the old Forester for
mischief in Hammersley’s behalf.

Hammersley hoped. He clung to the thought of Lindberg’s fidelity and
affection as a dying man clings to the hope of Heaven. He tried to
analyze the old man’s capacities for sympathy and courage. To help a
man in his position seemed to require larger stores of both of these
qualities than human clay was molded for. Lindberg did not fear death,
he knew, but the death he courted was the kind of death Hammersley had
saved him from, a good death in a fair game with a noble enemy, not
the kind of death that awaited Hammersley, a cold, machine-made death
against a kitchen wall. And he must know as Hammersley knew that this
was what would follow.

The dusk faded into dark and the soldier lit a candle. Hammersley
turned his head and examined him attentively. His face was unfamiliar
at Blaufelden, one of the men probably sent down at von Stromberg’s
orders from the upper district to be useful in just this emergency.
Von Stromberg would make no mistakes, of course. He never did make
mistakes. He had enough men about him to cope with the situation
safely. He would leave no opportunity for his plans to miscarry. Any
opportunity, should there be one, must be created. Hammersley managed
to wriggle into a sitting posture on the bed and spoke to his captor in
German.

“You wouldn’t mind my having a smoke, would you?” he asked.

The man looked at him, debating the matter.

“Just get into the side pocket of my jacket and fish out my pipe and
tobacco, _mein junger_. I need a smoke badly. And so would you if you
were going to be shot in the morning.”

“_Ach, wohl._ I see no harm in that, _mein Herr_. You cannot smoke
yourself away.”

He came over, brought out Hammersley’s short pipe, filled it from
the pouch and stuck it between his lips. Then he got out a match and
lighted it while Hammersley puffed.

“Ah!” said Hammersley contentedly. “You are a good fellow. Tomorrow
morning I will give you my blessing.”

The man paced stolidly up and down beside the bed.

“I am sorry for you, _mein Herr_. But it is life. It is all decided for
us beforehand. We are here a moment and then we are gone.”

Hammersley smiled.

“A fatalist! Then perhaps you can tell me if there is any chance of my
escape.”

He was stopped abruptly.

“I can tell you that there is not,” he said severely.

“I would have said as much. But it was a pardonable curiosity, _nicht
wahr_?”

“Pardonable, _ja wohl_,” the man replied, “but most unseemly under the
circumstances.”

“You have a deep sense of your responsibilities.”

“_Ja._ I obey my orders, that is all. I do not care what others do.”

“Therefore you will shoot me tomorrow.”

“Perhaps,” he shrugged. “I am but an instrument of Providence.” He
waved his hand. “But I talk too much, and so do you. It is not seemly
in a soldier and a prisoner.”

Hammersley laughed. “You have a fine sense of the fitness of things.”

“_Ja._ It was so written.”

He relapsed into silence and in spite of efforts on Hammersley’s part
refused to speak further. It was only after Hammersley badgered him for
his unsociability that he spoke with some asperity.

“I will trouble you to be quiet. When I am relieved, my successor may
let you speak and laugh as much as you please. But it is unnatural in a
man at the point of death. It would be better if you were saying your
prayers.”

“I am sure that you are right. But I still have a few hours. Perhaps
you wouldn’t mind telling me the hour at which you are to be
relieved--the hour when we are both of us to be relieved?”

The man gazed at him uncomprehendingly.

“After supper.” He finished indifferently, “Eight o’clock, perhaps.”

Hammersley was silent. Two hours or more to wait before a change of
guards, and then only a chance that Lindberg would be able to do
something. Even then if he managed to get loose, there was left little
more than an hour in which to reach the road by which the machine would
come from Berlin, and even then what should he do without Doris? His
case was desperate. Only a miracle it seemed could make a success of
what had been a pitiful failure; only an act of Providence could save
him from the discreditable end that awaited him.

He drew up his knees and studied the knots at his ankles. His guardian
was the one who had tied them.

“You tie a good square knot, my friend. You were once a sailor?”

But nothing would induce the soldier to talk.

As the supper hour approached, Hammersley could hear the rattle of pans
and dishes downstairs and noticed the odor of coffee. They would not
starve him, of course. In a little while someone would come with food.
After a while, which seemed interminable, the noise of the rattling
dishes ceased and there was a sound at the door into the hall as the
key turned in the lock and Captain Wentz entered. His sturdy back had
never seemed so ugly nor so welcome, for the silence and the inaction
were getting on Hammersley’s nerves. The officer came over to the bed
and gravely examined the knots of the rope that bound the prisoner.
Then, satisfied with the results of his inspection, he straightened and
glanced around the room.

“_Gut_,” he muttered. And then to the soldier: “You will go down and
tell Lindberg to bring Herr Hammersley’s supper. I will stay here
in the meanwhile. You will then relieve the man at the door of his
Excellenz.”

The man saluted and departed. They still trusted Lindberg. Then Udo
had suspected nothing, or if he had suspected, had kept his thoughts
to himself. Hammersley lay back on the pillow preparing a stolid
indifference for Lindberg’s entrance. And when the meal was brought,
Wentz untied his hands and stood over him with an automatic while he
ate.

“Your weapon makes a poor relish, Herr Hauptmann,” said Hammersley with
a laugh.

“I greatly regret its necessity,” replied Wentz with his machine-made
politeness.

Hammersley ventured nothing further, eating silently, and with a
surprising appetite, for good Lindberg’s face in the background had
given him new courage. When the meal was done, he asked for his pipe
again and Wentz ordered the Forester to fill it. Hammersley inhaled the
smoke and exhaled a sigh.

“So far as I am concerned, Herr Hauptmann,” he said with a smile, “when
this pipe is finished you may kill me at once.”

He extended his wrists behind him in silence while Captain Wentz took
half a dozen turns of the rope and made it fast. Hammersley sat up in
bed puffing at his pipe and wondering whether some miracle might not
be induced that would kill Wentz. But he was quickly disillusioned,
for when Lindberg took the dishes and moved toward the door, he heard
Wentz’s crisp orders:

“You will send Max Senf to take the first night watch upon the
prisoner. He is awaiting my orders in the guard room. _Schnell._”

Without even a glance at the prisoner Lindberg saluted and went out
and Hammersley’s spirits fell. Help from Lindberg was impossible.
Von Stromberg was taking every precaution. There was no way out of
it. Hammersley was doomed. But while Wentz was in the room he kept a
cheerful countenance, though for the first time in his life that he
could remember his pipe was acrid. He saw the new guard enter and heard
the last orders of the officer.

“You will watch until one o’clock when your relief will be sent. The
prisoner is to be allowed no privileges. Under no circumstances are his
hands to be untied. If he wants water, you will give it to him with
your own hands. _Verstehen sie?_”

The man stood erect and saluted. “_Zu befehl, Herr Hauptmann_,” he said.

Hammersley saw the door close and heard the key turn in the lock while
Senf came forward into the room and stood by the foot of the bed.
Hammersley studied him closely: a tall, loosely jointed man in his
early thirties with the heavy brows and high cheekbones of the East
Prussian, the face of a Slav, almost, with something of the thoughtful
intensity of the South German mystic. His eyes were large, his nose
thin and his face was bearded, but the lines of his mouth had a
sensitive curve, belied by the big bony hands and broad shoulders. A
sentimentalist, perhaps!

Hammersley determined to try him, for a plan had been forming in his
mind. He had noticed with a glance which had included everything in the
room when he entered, a Bible upon the mantelshelf, and in a tone which
had in it a solemn sense of the doom which awaited him in the morning,
he addressed his guardian quietly:

“Senf, you have a kind face. There is a small favor that you may do me.”

“If it does not conflict with my orders.”

“Not at all. Tomorrow morning I am to be shot. All I ask is that you
will allow me to read for a while the Bible upon the chimneypiece.”

“_Ach!_ I see no harm in that.”

He went over and got the book, opening the pages and looking through
them.

“It is little enough for a dying man to ask,” he said.

“_Danke_,” said Hammersley quietly, his face solemn but his mind
working rapidly. “It is but right to make one’s peace with the world at
a time like this.”

“I am sorry, _mein Herr_,” said the man mournfully. “It is not good for
a man to die in the first flush of youth.”

“If it could only have been in the open, Senf, a soldier’s death, but
this--_Ach, wohl_--we can only go once. It doesn’t matter.” He gave a
deep sigh and asked his guardian to light his pipe again and open the
Book at the Psalms of David.

“I cannot turn the pages, my friend. It is a pity. But propped upon one
elbow I can see quite well if you will but put the candle here upon the
bed.”

The man did as requested and Hammersley thanked him.

“You are a kind fellow. It is bread upon the waters. You will find it
after many days.”

“It is nothing. I would expect as much from another.”

“Now, if you will permit, I would prefer the solitude of my thoughts.”

The soldier turned slowly away and Hammersley bent his gaze upon the
open page, but he did not read. He was thinking, planning, watching
the movements of Max Senf. Eight o’clock was long past. It must be
nearly nine. But two hours remained before the arrival of the messenger
from Berlin. His guardian paced slowly up and down the room between
the door and window, and Hammersley felt, if he did not see, his deep
bovine gaze fixed upon him from time to time. Eight or ten times the
man took the length of the room and then with a deep sigh he sank into
the chair at the foot of the bed. Hammersley did not move his head,
which remained bent forward over the book, but from the tail of his eye
he noted that the tall footboard of the old-fashioned bed partially
concealed him. Propped up as he was he could see the man’s head as far
down as the tip of his nose, but all of his head was in shadow. Arguing
from this, everything upon the bed below the line of the flame of the
candle was invisible to him. But a quick glance showed Hammersley that
the man was not looking at him. His dark eyes were peering straight
before him at the opposite wall and his mind was wrapped in some gloomy
vision.

The plan he had in mind required subtlety. He marked the shadows upon
the ceiling and moved up in the bed so that his own shadow would be
thrown behind the line of sight of his guardian. Then he paused again,
his eyes fixed on the pages, waiting for Senf to look at him again.
He heard the man move in his chair, which creaked as he settled more
comfortably into it. And when Hammersley looked again, only his eyes
were visible, their gaze fixed darkly ahead of him.

Hammersley now puffed a volume of smoke from his pipe and slowly
wriggled his left arm forward under him, so that he could see the knot
that tied his wrists. It was a large knot, but vulnerable. He puffed
more smoke, meanwhile watching the top of the head of Senf. As it did
not move, he lay over half upon his back, and, taking care not to
disturb the book, slowly advanced his arms behind him toward the blaze
of the candle. The knot of the rope caught and blazed, but the candle
sputtered, and he quickly withdrew his hands, sending a volume of smoke
from his pipe to neutralize the odor. Senf sniffed the air curiously.

“Something is burning,” Hammersley heard him mutter.

“My pipe,” he explained carefully. “It is a vile tobacco. But it will
go out of the crack at the window.”

“Will you not try mine, Herr Hammersley? Perhaps it is better.”

“No, thanks. Nothing much matters to a dead man.”

His guardian settled back in his chair, and Hammersley repeated his
maneuver more daringly, his own pipe seething like a furnace.

“You are a furious smoker, Herr Hammersley,” said Senf again.

“It is the way one smokes, _mein Junger_, when one smokes for the last
time,” he replied.

But the fellow got up, sniffing and walking around the room.

“It is a most curious tobacco,” he muttered.

Hammersley’s wrists pained him where his bonds had cut, but he kept
his gaze upon the page of the book, and Senf sat in his chair again.
A strong pull of his arms and Hammersley felt the tension relax. His
bonds came looser and after a few more efforts his wrists were free.
His heart was jumping and he feared a stray glance of the watcher might
see the throbbing of the blood at his temples, but he clasped his hands
behind him and waited, slipping the sundered rope beneath a fold of the
blanket.

Two--three minutes passed and Senf did not move. The untying of his
feet might prove a difficult matter, but he made the venture, working
slowly and patiently, his gaze on Senf’s head. Then, as the knot
yielded a little to his prying fingers, his gaze quickly concentrated
on it. In his efforts he must have made a sound or a suspicious
movement of the shoulders, for when he looked up he saw the head of
Max Senf projecting above the tailboard of the bed, his large eyes
protruding with amazement. They gazed at each other for a tense
fraction of a second and then sprang upright. Hammersley threw his feet
out upon the floor and leaped for the man, catching him around the
waist so that he could not draw a weapon. His legs were useless and the
only chance he had, a desperate one at best, was to drag the man to the
floor by sheer weight and there perhaps throttle him. Senf beat with
his heavy fists on Hammersley’s head and shoulders, and finally forced
him backwards upon the floor, falling with him, but Hammersley still
clung with frantic grip which the man could not shake off. But at last
he managed to get his fingers around Hammersley’s throat and tried to
force his head back.

Hammersley gasped for breath, but still struggled gamely, though he
realized that he had played his last card. Things got dark, and dimly
he saw the door of the room open and someone enter. Wentz, of course.
His game was up.

Senf was panting heavily. “He burnt the rope,” Hammersley heard him
say. “Come and help me. He has a grip of iron.”

The figure from the door moved quickly around the squirming figures,
and Hammersley saw the reflection of the candle on something bright.
A knife. He heard a blow, and the mass of struggling flesh above him
suddenly collapsed and smothered him with its weight. With an effort
he struggled free and rolled aside, looking up into the grim face of
Lindberg.

“Sh--” the man whispered. “I had to do it. There was no other way. I’ve
been waiting outside.”

Hammersley tried to speak, but his throat closed, and while he
struggled for his breath, he saw Lindberg go to the door and stand, his
ear to the keyhole, listening. In a moment he came back.

“_Ganz gut!_ They have heard nothing.”

“Are you sure?” Hammersley managed to gasp, as Lindberg cut the rope
that bound his ankles.

“Yes. He was so sure of himself that he did not shout.”

He helped the prisoner to his feet and they clasped hands.

“Good Lindberg! My friend! I had given up.”

“I have waited until the beer was served. It is well. And now----” He
looked around the room quickly. “You shall go.”

Hammersley had a sudden thought.

“Captain von Winden sent you?”

“No. He knows nothing. But he has not spoken. It is now after nine
o’clock. By half past nine you must go.”

“_Ja doch!_ But you----!”

“I shall remain.”

“No, no; I will not consent to that.”

“Yes, I have thought out a plan.”

“But they will suspect. They will shoot you.”

“No, they will not. Have I not told you that I have thought out a plan?”

“I will listen to it.”

Lindberg meanwhile had been unstrapping his pistol holster and put it
on a chair.

Hammersley glanced over his shoulder at the door. “But they may come
again,” he whispered.

“I think not. There is little time to lose. We will have to take the
chance.”

“But if they return and find me free it will only cause your death and
do me no good.”

“Herr Hammersley, you should know by this time that I do not waste
words. Have I not told you that I have made a plan? Listen. This is my
story for Herr Hauptmann Wentz. I happen to be in the hallway without,
carrying a pitcher of water to the room of Miss Mather--the pitcher is
outside on the table--when I hear the sounds of a commotion in this
room. Fearing that the prisoner has by some miracle gotten free, I
unlock the door with my pass-key and enter. You have burned your bonds
and killed Senf. You spring on me and make me a prisoner----” He paused.

“And you----” Hammersley broke in. “You will be left here? No, I won’t
leave you--not to that fate. I will not go unless you go with me. We
will contrive a way to get out of the country.”

“_Ach, nein!_ Will you not listen? Have I not told you that I have
thought of everything? I have communicated with the lady. She is ready
to go with you. Her room has a dormer window around the corner of the
building, and there is a ledge along the roof. You will go to her. The
distance to the roof of the kitchen is thirty feet. It will require
four sheets, yours and hers. They are new ones and if well twisted will
hold. If you get away safely you can reach the cave in the Thorwald. No
one will ever find you there----”

“Yes, Lindberg--but you--what will you say to them?”

“It is no time to waste words. Even now the lady is waiting for you.
Come, you must get ready at once.”

He walked to the bed and quickly stripped off the blankets, twisting
the sheets and tying them together. Then he took his pistol belt and
fastened it around Hammersley’s waist, slipping a handful of loose
cartridges into the side pocket of his leather jacket.

Hammersley, bewildered by the devotion of his old friend and tossed
between alternatives of duty, stood helplessly. At the moment when he
needed resolution most he was supine. But the minutes were passing. The
thought of his mission suddenly brought him to life, and his face grew
hard, his eyes brilliant with purpose.

“Come, Lindberg. You must go with me.”

“No,” the man insisted. “My plan is the best.”

“No. You must come with me.”

“I have made other plans, Herr Hammersley,” he whispered gently. “You
will go alone. I will give you a reason.” And before Hammersley could
know what he meant to do, he drew his hunting-knife from its sheath in
Hammersley’s belt and plunged it into his own shoulder.

Hammersley could scarcely restrain a cry, but Lindberg smiled at him
and plucking the weapon out, put it in Hammersley’s outstretched hand.

“It is nothing,” he said. “It will bleed a little. The more it bleeds
the better my case with Excellenz. They will be here in three hours, if
not before. Now bind and gag me--quick. There is no time to lose.”

He lay flat upon the floor and as in a dream Hammersley obeyed him,
tying his arms and legs. When he had finished, Hammersley bent over the
man and touched his hand gently.

“Good-by, old friend. Whatever happens I will not forget. God bless
you.”

There was a bright, keen look in the small gray eyes upturned to his.

That was all Hammersley could see of the swathed head, but it gave him
a new idea of self-sacrifice.




CHAPTER XVIII

SUCCESS


Hammersley’s first act was to take off his shoes and slip one into each
pocket of his jacket. They were soled with rubber, but even that he
feared would make a sound. Then he put the box of matches in his pocket
and blew out the candle, overturning it on the floor. The shutters of
the window were closed, and if they were opened carefully the man in
the garden below might not notice any change in the appearance of the
window. Hammersley buttoned his jacket and, carefully pushing back
the shutter, peered out. Fortunately the night had fallen darkly, and
overhead black clouds were lowering, and while he hesitated, searching
the paths below for the figure of the guard, there was a patter of rain
upon the roof. The gods were propitious.

At last he made out a dark bulk moving to and fro along the garden path
toward the toolhouse. Hammersley watched, waiting until the man’s back
was turned, when he opened the shutter wider and threw the rope of
sheets out upon the ledge. Closing the shutter again, he came toward
the house. So far so good, for the whiteness of the sheets would have
been plainly visible had the guard been looking. The next stage of his
escape was more difficult, and he let the fellow go and come twice
along his path as he timed his new move. He tried the shutter carefully
to see that it did not creak and measured with his eye the distance
to the living-room chimney, which he must reach, during the twenty
paces the soldier would take toward the toolhouse. A wind was blowing
in the treetops and somewhere below him a young oak was rustling its
last year’s leaves. The shutter fortunately opened in the direction
in which he must go, so he sat upon the window-sill, doubled up, and
when the time came, without looking again at the guard, moved quickly,
slipping out noiselessly, closing the shutter behind him and, gathering
up the sheet as he went, crept like a cat on a wall along the narrow
ledge. It creaked with his weight, and some small object that his foot
had touched grated along the roof and fell to the ground below. A tiny
sound at best, but magnified in Hammersley’s ears a hundred times. He
had reached the wide chimney and waited above it, listening for the
footsteps of the man below.

There was no sound. The man had stopped walking. Hammersley did not
dare look out from his hiding-place, but he knew that in that moment
his fate was hanging in a balance. Just then a heavier gust of wind
than usual dislodged a broken branch from a tree nearby, which fell to
the ground. Still the man below did not move and Hammersley blessed
his wisdom in closing the shutter, for he knew that the guard must
be peering upward, searching for a sign of anything unusual in its
appearance.

Hammersley held his breath, straining his ears for the sound that would
tell him that he had not failed. In a while, which seemed interminable,
it began again, the slow crunch of gravel under a heavy foot--ceased,
and began again, as though uncertainly, so he waited until the sounds
were regular as before, then advancing his head cautiously, he waited
for the proper time, and keeping the chimney between himself and the
garden, ran straight up the roof to the gable and crouched quickly upon
the other side. He was more fortunate this time for the roof gave forth
no sound.

Once beyond the protection of the gables he could for the moment
disregard the danger of the guard, for his orders had been to watch
but one window, and Hammersley knew enough of the German character to
be sure that the soldier below would not leave that side of the house.
As he slid carefully down the roof upon the other side, he saw that
there were two dormers, and for a moment could not think which of them
let into the room in which Doris was imprisoned. He reached the ledge
and paused. The shutters of both windows were closed. Lindberg had
told him this, but he swore mildly to himself because he hadn’t paid
closer attention to the Forester’s instructions, for while one of the
rooms was Doris’s, the other he knew was to be occupied by John Rizzio.
It was while he hesitated that he heard a whisper at his left, and
crawling along the ledge, in a moment had reached the window.

“Is it you, Cyril?” he heard.

“Yes,” he whispered. “Let me in.”

Lindberg had opened the shutter in the afternoon, but it was still
stubborn, and when Cyril put his strength to Doris’s, it creaked
abominably. It was not really a loud noise, but to the sensitive ears
of the fugitives it seemed as if discovery must be inevitable. At last
they managed to open it wide enough to admit Cyril’s long legs and
his body speedily followed. Inside the room they stood, their hands
clasped, fearful of discovery, listening for sounds without or within
which would tell them of the approach of the dreaded Wentz. Nothing but
the sighing of the wind in the treetops and the patter of the rain. As
hope returned, Hammersley questioned quickly:

“You are ready to go?”

“Yes,” she replied eagerly.

“The sheets?”

“Here. I have prepared.”

It was dark and he could not see, but he followed the sheet to its end
with his hand and found that it was fastened to the bedpost. How she
had managed to move the heavy bed across the room he did not know, and
it was unnecessary to question, for there it was. He reassured himself
as to the knot that she had made and then fastened his own sheets to
the other end.

“Do you think you can manage it alone? It will not hold us both.”

“Try me,” she whispered bravely.

“The rope will reach almost to the kitchen roof.”

“Yes, it is just below. I could see the edge of it through the shutter
this afternoon.”

He caught her in his arms and their lips met.

“I will go first. Then when the tension relaxes, you follow.”

She pressed his hand as he slid his feet out of the window and paused
crouching on the ledge listening. Then he waved his hand and slowly
went down. He knew that the angle of the building quite hid him from
the garden path, and he slid down the improvised rope as quickly as he
could until his feet dangled in space. He looked below him, but in the
darkness the distance was uncertain. Had Lindberg miscalculated? Or had
Doris used too much of the sheet at the upper end? He let himself down
until his hands groped the end of the sheet while he felt for a landing
with his toes. He touched nothing, and still swayed and spun in the
air like an apple on a string at All Hallowe’en, a fine mark for an
automatic from any of the windows that stared blankly at him from the
second story. There was nothing for it but to drop, stretching his toes
down to meet the impact. Fortunately it was not far, but he lost his
balance and toppled sideways, catching himself upon an arm and knee.
Here again the wind saved him from discovery, but he drew his weapon
and kept a look on the corner of the garden, meanwhile watching for
Doris.

She came at once, slowly but fearlessly, and in a moment he had her
safely in his arms, drawing her back near the bulk of the building
to crouch and wait and listen again. They did not dare to speak, but
Hammersley’s blood was surging madly with hope. If they had not been
discovered now, the chances were that some time would elapse, enough at
least to enable the fugitives to get a good start of their pursuers.
But the dangling sheet warned Hammersley that they must move quickly.
He peered over the edge of the roof. A light was burning in the
kitchen, but whether the room was occupied or not, he could not tell.
He did not dare risk a sprained ankle by jumping, but found that by
lowering himself he could easily reach the fuel box that stood near the
kitchen door. In a moment they were on the ground and moving along in
the shelter of the hedge toward the hangar.

Hammersley exulted. It was something to have brought Doris away, but
it was something more to have circumvented von Stromberg. The bundled
figure of Lindberg, lying up there bleeding in the dark, shot a pain
through his heart, but in action, moving toward the goal of his hopes,
even Lindberg was put behind him. He had no fear for the wound in
Lindberg’s shoulder. The old man was as tough as a pine knot and would
survive the loss of blood. It was Lindberg’s ordeal with von Stromberg
that bothered him.

When they reached the shelter of the woods the tension relaxed.

“We’re going to get off, Doris,” he said joyously. “I know every stick
of these woods, and they can never find us. But I’m afraid the strain
has been too much for you. How are you feeling?”

“Never better,” she said bravely. “Which way now?”

Hammersley had paused a moment to slip on his shoes, and as he got to
his feet,

“Follow me,” he said. “If I go too fast for you, let me know.”

He cut into the woods and presently struck a path which led to the
left, and for a while they followed this rapidly. Thanks to a fine
physique and a vigorous life out-of-doors, the girl was in good
condition, and though breathing hard upon the slopes, made no murmur.
Hammersley knew that he had little time to spare, and Doris followed
blindly, asking no questions. She was aware from what Cyril had said in
the afternoon that his objective in coming to Germany was now within
reach, and she could only judge of its importance to England by the
desperate chances he had taken. When it was time that she should know
he would tell her. She judged that Cyril knew that she had been tricked
into betraying him, and she made up her mind that, whatever happened
now, she would stay with him until the end. She owed him that.

After a while, when they had been moving for perhaps twenty minutes,
they reached an opening in the trees where she could see gray patches
of sky through the branches overhead, and her feet emerging from the
dry leaves and moss felt a firmer contact.

“The Schöndorf road,” he said. “We can follow it side by side. Are you
tired?”

“No.”

They went on more rapidly, while Hammersley explained:

“The documents I came to Germany for are to be brought along this road
tonight in an automobile. The hour they are due to reach Blaufelden
is eleven, and if I know anything of the infallibility of the German
secret messenger, they will be here on time. It is now after ten. I
have an hour or less to make my preparations.”

“What are you going to do?” she asked.

“Get them. First, I’m going to take you to a spot where you will be as
safe as if you were at home in Ashwater Park.”

“No,” she said firmly, “I’m going with you.”

“But that’s impossible. I don’t know what may happen. My plans are of
the vaguest----”

“I will share them. No, you sha’n’t refuse me. I will follow you. I can
help. I must. I would die in those roads alone. Don’t you understand?”

“But if I fail and they take you, you will be as guilty as I. It’s an
act of war, Doris.”

“Then all the more reason why I should be committed to it. They made
war on me.”

“But there will be danger. I can’t let you take the risk.”

“I don’t know how you are going to stop me,” she said defiantly.

He paused, then stopped and caught her by the elbows, peering down into
her eyes. Then he laughed.

“Mated!” he cried. “This is the greatest moment of my life.”

“And mine,” her voice answered him.

Her lips met his in a quick caress, like those the wives of the
Spartans gave when they sent their men to battle.

He caught her hand in his and they moved forward more quickly. Along
this path Death was riding toward them, but they strode eagerly to meet
it, to defy it, to defeat it. Cyril planned rapidly, casting anxious
glances along the road behind them. Every foot they traveled took them
further from pursuers, if pursuers there were. Every foot they traveled
took them nearer the advancing messenger. So that the farther they
went the longer would be the while before they were overtaken, but the
shorter the time for preparation to stop the automobile. Murder was
not in Hammersley’s line. They passed many places, difficult spots in
the road where the machine must almost stop and go into low gear to
climb declivities, places where projecting rocks jutted rough faces up
to the very ruts of the road. It would not be difficult to kill with
an automatic at a distance of two paces, but Hammersley could not play
the game that way. He was a spy, if the laws of war called him so, but
he would not, even in this extremity, use the spy’s weapons. If the
other man fought, it would be different. The desperate nature of the
undertaking was beginning to come to him. Two men, perhaps three or
even four! And yet he must win. He must. Slowly but surely a plan was
forming and he made up his mind to put it into practice.

“Not tired yet?” he asked.

“No. I could go on forever.”

“Then listen. We are nearing the Thorwald. It is just beyond here, less
than half a mile away.”

“The Thorwald?”

“It’s a favorite place of mine, known only to Lindberg and Udo, a cave
high up in the rocks, safe as a church, unless Udo happens to hunt for
us there.”

“And will he?”

“I hope not. At the foot of the crags this road runs. We must get there
first. Can you run?”

“I’ll try.”

He gave her his hand again, and they settled into a jog trot. She was
breathing fast in a moment, but she was game and did not falter, though
her lungs seemed to be bursting. But as they neared the spot, Cyril
slowed down to a walk again.

“At the foot of the glen there’s a dry bed of a stream full of rocks.
There used to be a bridge here, but it was washed away. It’s an awkward
spot, even for a good motor. I’m going to make it worse.”

He left her, dashing on ahead, while she followed, and when she reached
the stream she saw him dragging one of the bridge timbers across the
road. She wanted to help, but he told her to watch, until he got
another and then another timber into place. And in another moment it
was evident that the barricade was formidable enough to deter any
machine from crossing. And there was no way to go around, for upon one
side rose the crags and upon the other the gully fell away into a dark
pit filled with rocks and tangled branches.

There was nothing for it now but to wait. And yet it seemed a desperate
thing to do. Weary and blown as Doris was, it would have seemed better
to have gone on and on--anything to put distance between Cyril and the
death that surely awaited them back there. It seemed impossible that
so long a time as this could have elapsed before the tell-tale rope of
sheets should have been discovered. Already she was sure that Wentz and
his men must be on the way in a machine or on horses, perhaps which
would cover the distance they had traveled in less than a quarter of
the time. She thought that she heard the sound of a machine in the
distance and the voices of men. She pleaded with him to go on, but he
only smiled at her.

“You must do what I say, Doris,” he said, and then paused, listening.
“They’re coming,” he whispered.

She _had_ heard the sound of a machine. “From which direction?” she
gasped.

“There,” and he pointed across the gully.

“They’ll be here in a moment. Listen to me! Walk quickly to your right,
across the road to that large stone. Stop!” She obeyed wonderingly.
“Now cross the road again, using those rocks as stepping stones.” She
did it, bewildered, pausing on a ledge of rocks that formed a part of
the crag. “Now follow the line of the rocks into the bushes. Fifty feet
from the road, hidden among the shrubbery, you’ll find a cleft in the
rocks. Climb it and you’ll come out here,” and he pointed upward just
above the road. “Wait for me there. I’ll come in a moment.”

And as she hesitated, he caught her by the elbows and shoved her along
the ledge backwards. “Go! Do you hear? I’ll have no refusal.”

There was no denying the accent of command in his voice or the quick
flash of his eye. Never until von Stromberg had badgered her today
had a man spoken to her in this tone before. But she loved him for it,
rejoiced in his strength--the primitive instinct of woman to obey.

When she had gone, Hammersley quickly crossed the stream and took
a position behind a thick bush, listening to the exhaust of the
approaching machine, but listening and looking, too, in the opposite
direction for sounds of his pursuers. A searchlight made fantastic
shapes among the leaves and long shadows suddenly shot out along the
road.

Hammersley had drawn his automatic from his pocket and was fingering
it coolly. He put his fingers over his eyes, so that the light would
not mar his familiarity with the darkness. He did not know how many
men opposed him and did not seem to care. The main thing now was to
keep his eye undimmed and his hand steady. The machine came, slowed
down and stopped while a guttural exclamation came from the driver. The
searchlight focused downward into the rocks of the gully. Screening his
eyes from its light with a hand, Hammersley peered out at the occupants
of the car. There were two men--better than three, but not so good as
one. The man at the wheel rose and got down just beside him, moving
forward to remove the obstacles.

Hammersley wasted no time. He leveled his automatic at the broad back
of the driver and his voice rang sharply in German:

“I have come here for the dispatches intended for Herr General von
Stromberg. You will give them to me at once.”

The man who was just bending over toward the timber straightened
quickly and turned, reaching for his holster, but the man in the seat
of the car, who wore a military cap, was quicker, for there was a
report, and a bullet sang close to Hammersley’s ear.

A stream of fire came from Hammersley’s automatic; three shots in quick
succession, and the man in the car pitched forward in his seat and
slid to the floor. And by the time the other man had drawn his pistol,
Hammersley had leaped behind a tree and came out of some bushes beyond.
The chauffeur fired, but not in Hammersley’s direction. The continuous
glare of the light in their eyes had made their vision in the darkness
uncertain.

“Do you surrender?” shouted Hammersley.

The German’s reply was to fire at him again and miss. He still stood
in the reflection of the headlight, a bulky silhouette, which made
too fair a mark, while Hammersley stood in the shadows of the bushes.
Hammersley pitied him.

“Surrender!” he repeated.

The man was not a coward and rushed blindly toward the voice, shooting
again, too close for comfort.

“Well, then----” Hammersley said, and fired again.

The man stumbled to his knees and then fell prone, his fingers
clutching among the leaves. The whole incident had taken less than
a minute, and a deathly silence seemed to fall, following the
reverberations of the shots. Hammersley stood tensely, listening and
peering along the road toward Blaufelden. There was a glow of light
at a distance and he could now hear the sound of another machine. Von
Stromberg had learned of his escape and with a perfect intuition was
coming here directly and fast. The sound of the shots had been heard.
There was no time to lose. Hammersley bent over the man on the ground
and searched his pockets rapidly. Gloves, matches, a spark plug,
tobacco, but no papers. The chauffeur, of course. By main strength he
lifted the dead weight of the man in the car and carried him down into
the glare of the searchlight. It was a dangerous thing to do, for the
lights of the machine from Blaufelden were already swinging through
the treetrunks. But he worked quickly and skillfully, tearing open
the officer’s gray overcoat and searching his pockets. In the inside
pocket of his uniform he found them, a bulky package, and other papers.
He read the superscription quickly, “_Sein Excellenz General Graf von
Stromberg_.” Then sprang aside out of the glare of the lights at the
very moment when the other machine came swinging rapidly around the
turn in the road.

“The papers are safe?” roared a voice which Hammersley recognized.

“_Ja_,” Hammersley replied in a rough tone. “A man tried to stop me and
I shot him.”

“_Ganz gut!_”

“He is here,” shouted Hammersley again.

All the while he had been moving out of the glare of the searchlights,
and as the men from the other car tumbled out and came forward, he
turned into the darkness, and abandoning all caution, took to his heels
and ran at top speed in the opposite direction.

Behind him he heard shouts as his trick was discovered, but he knew
that in the matter of speed he had nothing to fear afoot from any
German at Windenberg. The thing that bothered him now was a way to
hide the marks of his footsteps, for in places the mud was soft and
he knew that in the morning light they would follow him; so he picked
his way carefully, running at top speed for a mile at least, to lead
the pursuit away from the Thorwald and then at the banks of a small
stream paused a moment and listened. He had eluded them. Then without
hesitation, though puffing fearfully from his exertions, he stepped
down into the cold waters of the stream and waded up it, avoiding the
ledges and making sure that he left no mark behind him. As he climbed
higher up the mountain, he could see in the distance the glow of the
lights of the machines and when he reached a mossy bank which would not
betray him, he clambered out of the water and turned, doubling like a
fox, upon his trail, turning back in the general direction from which
he had come.

Doris worried him. He could imagine her crouching there two hundred
feet in the air just above the two machines, half dead with fear
of capture and terror for him. Had she seen what had happened and
understood it? Would she have the kind of silent endurance to crouch
there and wait? He hurried on into the maze of rocks and deep woods,
finding at last a deer trail that he knew. There were but two means
of ingress to the cave of the Thorwald, one by the secret path in the
bushes up the rocks which Doris had taken, the other from the upper
side which he was now rapidly approaching.

He ran along the deer trail, reloading his automatic as he went, his
eyes peering ahead for familiar landmarks, cutting in at last to the
left at a great rock around which the deer trail led. He now proceeded
with great caution. Far below him he could see the reflections of the
lights of the two cars and heard the voices of men. He went down a
way toward the wall of rocks, clambering over huge bowlders, hauling
himself here and there by the aid of tree limbs, reaching at last the
dry bed of the old stream which down in the road had been of such
assistance to him.

Now the wall of rock rose sheer before him. He stole cautiously along
its face, feeling with his hands and peering upward. In a moment he
found what he was looking for, a small projecting ledge which he
mounted, and followed to his right for a way, then mounting again by
easy stages to a fissure wider than his body which he entered and
followed quickly. It led downward it seemed into the bowels of the
crag, but came out suddenly into an open space, a kind of amphitheater,
with a ridge of rock upon one side, and upon the other what appeared to
be a solid wall. He crossed this space quickly and peered over.

Below him the crag jutted out over the road and upon it somewhere
was Doris. He strained his gaze downward but could not see her. What
if they had found her footsteps and followed? No, that was hardly
possible, for the ridge of rock began immediately at the road, and
thanks to his precautions, she would leave no footprints.

Slowly he descended, choosing his footing with quick deliberation, for
the slightest sound, the dislodging of a twig or a sliver of crumbled
stone and the crag of the Thorwald would become in a moment a hornet’s
nest. Fortunately the back of the rock screened him from the road, and
unless von Stromberg had sent men into the woods to left and right,
there was no chance of discovery. At last he reached the level and a
dark shadow rose at his very feet and silently clasped his hand. He
took her in his arms for a moment in devout thankfulness. If the true
moment of their mating had been back there in the road while danger
threatened them before and behind, this place of security was the
beginning of its consummation. He did not speak and only motioned her
to sit while he crouched beside her, waiting.

Below in the road he heard the rasping voice of His Excellenz, speaking
in no gentle tones to the wounded chauffeur of the messenger’s machine,
asking question after question which were answered feebly enough. After
a while the men who had followed Hammersley returned and made their
reports--the dull boom of the voice of Wentz and the harsh crackle of
von Stromberg’s in rage and mortification.

“He got away, Excellenz,” said Wentz. “For a moment only I saw him, and
followed fast as I could, but my legs are too short.”

“Bah! You are an imbecile, Herr Hauptmann. And the other men, are not
their legs longer?”

“Yes, but Herr Hammersley has the legs of a deer. They are following,
but it is like hunting for a grain of barley in a coal scuttle. He may
have taken to the woods anywhere.”

“_Ja_--but the Fräulein. She could not have run as fast as he!”

“It is my opinion,” said Wentz with some temerity, “that they had a
_rendezvous_ somewhere beyond. He has known these mountains since his
boyhood.”

“_Esel!_ But she hasn’t, and how should she find it in the dark?”

“Perhaps, the matter being so important, he would have deserted her.”

“_Quatsch!_ Find me the girl and I will find you Hammersley.”

Hammersley felt Doris’s clasp tighten on his own.

“She cannot have gotten far away. Search for her, _schafskopf_. Search
the woods and rocks until morning. Take the other machine and follow
his footsteps until you see them no more. Then follow his trail in the
woods. Take the two _Försters_ with you. I will go back to Blaufelden
to send for more men and question the guards who permitted his escape.
Go!”

The fugitives sat silently listening to the sounds below them, heard
the orders to put the wounded man and the dead messenger into the
machine and presently the commotion of departure as the machines were
backed away from the gully, turned, in available spots, and then
departed in opposite directions, General von Stromberg’s at full speed,
the other slowly, while Captain Wentz walked on before, his shoulders
bent, trying to follow the signs of Hammersley’s rubber soles in the
road. But it had begun to rain steadily again and Hammersley was
thankful, for it would not be long before all marks of his footsteps
would be erased.




CHAPTER XIX

THE CAVE ON THE THORWALD


“Safe?” he heard her whisper.

“Yes, for the present.”

“You have what you came for?”

“I think so.”

“And what shall we do now?”

“Sleep. You’re dead beat. Come.”

He rose and helped her to her feet, then after another pause, turned
toward the wall of rocks behind them.

“Do you think you can make it? It’s a difficult climb.”

“Yes. I’ve that much left in me. You lead the way and I’ll follow.” Her
teeth were chattering.

As he touched her sleeve he found it soaked with moisture.

“Poor child. You’re nearly frozen.” He had not been conscious of the
occasional spatter of rain, for his leather jacket had kept him dry.
“But I’ll have you warm and snug before you can say knife.”

And when she questioned, “A fire----” he replied, “Isn’t that what one
uses to get warm with?”

“But here--tonight----?”

“Oh, don’t bother. You’ll see.”

They were climbing up the face of the slippery rocks, Hammersley
pausing from time to time to let her rest, pulling her from above when
he reached the ledges, and at last they came out into the amphitheater
of bowlders from which he had descended.

She was almost too weary for comment and followed blindly as he led her
to the wall of the rock where he seemed to disappear in its very face.
She followed him inside a dark opening and when they were well within
he relinquished her hand and struck a match. A brief glimpse she had of
a small chamber in the cliff not twenty feet square when the match went
out. He struck another and shading it with his hand went forward. She
saw him find what he was looking for and in a moment a candle, after
faintly sputtering for a moment, sent forth a steady glow of light.

“Sit here on this stool. I’ll have you right in a jiffy.”

She obeyed him and looked around her. At one side was a bed of pine
needles, at another a small table and in the middle of the rocky floor
the gray embers of what had been a fire.

“A bit roughish, but not so bad?”

She nodded while he busied himself in building the fire. There were
dry leaves, twigs and logs in the corner, and soon a blaze was leaping
cheerfully upward. And while she wondered at the signs of occupancy he
answered her thought.

“It’s Lindberg’s. He comes here often. It was here that he and I always
slept when we went on hunting trips. You see there’s a natural chimney
overhead in the rocks where the bally smoke goes out. They might
observe the smoke by day, but at night we’re quite safe. I’ve been all
around the place when the fire was goin’ and there isn’t a sign of it
outside.”

He helped her put her coat off and made her comfortable close to the
fire, after which he quickly took the package of papers out of his
pocket and examined them. The single papers were military orders of no
importance to one Lieutenant Orstmann, obviously the dead messenger.
Hammersley put them aside, breaking the seal of the heavy envelope and
examining its contents carefully. First a letter of instructions to His
Excellency von Stromberg, signed in the bold hand of the Emperor of
Germany himself. He showed her the signature and explained its contents
and all thought of weariness went from her mind.

“It is--it’s what you came for?”

“Yes,” he replied, smiling grimly. “I’ve got it.”

“Is it--it isn’t so important that you can’t tell me?” she asked
timidly.

He laughed, put his arm around her and held her for a moment tenderly.
She had endured where a man might have flinched, and yet at this moment
she was all woman--timid, weary unto death, but still curious. It was
the master impulse.

“No,” he smiled. “You’ve jolly well earned the right to know. I’ll tell
you.”

He was so big, so strong, so certain of himself that she wondered how,
for a moment even, she could have thought him other than he was. With a
sudden impulse of pride and tenderness, she rose, put her arms around
his neck and bending his head down to hers kissed him upon the lips. He
caught her to him and held her in his arms.

“O Cyril,” she murmured, “that I could ever have failed in my belief in
you, that I could ever have thought that you were false! Why didn’t you
tell me the truth? I would have kept your secret.”

“It was impossible, dear. It was too big a thing and I was sworn to
silence. But since you found out----”

“Did you think me curious--” she asked naïvely, “because I read the
cigarette papers?”

“Curious!” he laughed. “Well rather! The mistake I made was in tellin’
you _not_ to read them. If I----”

“Don’t laugh at me,” she whispered. “I can’t stand that. The only
retribution for what I did this afternoon is a blow. If you struck me,
Cyril, I should not care.”

“But I won’t, you know, old girl. But I’m going to kiss you again if
you don’t mind.”

And he did, while a shadow darkened her eyes. “It seems terrible to be
happy, even in our moment of security, with the shadow of death hanging
so closely over us. I know you had to kill him, Cyril, but----” She
paused.

“It was either that or he would have killed _me_. As it was, it was
too jolly close a thing for comfort. I gave the other man his chance,
but he wouldn’t take it. Lucky he didn’t, for I might have missed the
papers.”

She clung to him more closely.

“And if you had been killed?” she whispered. “I saw it all. At first I
thought you had fallen. O Cyril, the agony of it! And then you came out
from behind the tree and I knew that you were unharmed. I had seen a
man die, as I had, there upon the rocks at Ben-a-Chielt, but when the
other one came at you I wanted you to kill him. I _wanted_ it. I prayed
that you would. It was murder--in my heart. I can’t understand how I
have changed. And I’ve always thought death such a fearsome thing!”

She hid her face in his shoulder and clung to him, trembling. She had
passed through danger valiantly, carelessly even, but now that for the
moment danger had passed, woman-like, she yielded to the reaction. He
kissed her gently.

“Sh--child. Don’t let it work on you. No bally use. We’re safe now.”

“Yes--safe for the present. That ought to be enough for me. But if
anything had happened to you--!” She shuddered.

“But it didn’t----”

“Oh, I’m thankful,” she whispered. “Thankful for that--and for you--the
trouble I’ve passed through--the pain of my thoughts of you--I’m
thankful for those too, because without them I never should have known
you--the real _you_, Cyril. I sometimes think that life deals too
easily with most of us to bring out the best that’s in us. I never
would have known you in England, Cyril, doing the things you always
did.”

He smiled at her.

“I’m the same chap, though. Can’t tell what a fellow will do when he
has to.”

“But you didn’t have to. You might have gone to France and sat in a
trench. Instead of that you did what was harder--let them distrust
you--hold you in contempt--keeping silent and cheerful, while you were
doing such splendid things for England.” She paused while she caressed
him and said in a proud whisper, “The Honorable Cyril!”

“Honorable!” he smiled. “You’d hardly get von Stromberg to think that.”

“That terrible old man!” she went on clinging to him. “I can see his
vulture face now. He would have shot you--tomorrow!”

“But we fooled him--what? Poor Lindberg!”

She questioned him and he told her of the devotion of his old friend.

“And what will von Stromberg do to Lindberg?” she asked anxiously.

“I don’t know,” he said slowly. “Nothin’ perhaps, unless Udo tells.”
He paused and looked into the fire. “Wish I knew about Udo,” he said
thoughtfully. “We were very good pals last year.”

“But he wouldn’t see you shot!”

“He couldn’t do anythin’. I am betrayin’ his country.”

“But not _your_ country, Cyril,” she said.

“No, thank God. Not mine. I love Germany--the Germany of my mother--and
the men like Lindberg. But the Germany of von Stromberg--that’s not
Germany to me.”

“Do you think we will get away?”

“Yes,” he said quickly.

She read the anxiety in his voice and knew that he was thinking of her,
and in that moment a new idea of her duty came to her.

“You mean,” she said quickly, “that you could get away if it wasn’t
for me. O Cyril, I know. Don’t try to deceive me. You could disguise
yourself and get away to the Swiss border. It would not be difficult
for you. I am a weight around your neck which may destroy you.”

“Hush, child.”

“No. I am not too stupid to see that. You ought to be going now.”
She clung to his arms and looked up into his face as her duty came
more clearly to her, while her voice trembled with earnestness. “I
want you to go, Cyril. Your life is valuable to England. They are on
a false scent down there. You could get away in the darkness and
by morning you can be miles away. I’m not afraid. Tomorrow I can go
and give myself up. I am only a girl--an American. They will not
dare to harm me. Don’t smile. I am in deadly earnest. You must go,
Cyril--now--now----”

But he only patted her gently.

“You think that I am a child,” she went on, “that I cannot be trusted
to get along alone. Haven’t I proved it to you that I am not afraid?
Look at me, Cyril. I am only a little tired now but tomorrow I will go
to von Stromberg and say, ‘Here I am--now what can you do to me?’ He
may threaten and bluster and rage, but that will not frighten me--when
you are safe. What can he reply? What _could_ he do? My nation is not
at war with his. He would not _dare_! O Cyril, say that you’ll go--say
that you’ll go----”

She looked up into his face and saw that its expression had not
changed. He was still smiling at her softly while she felt the touch of
his fingers gently petting her.

“Oh--you won’t go--you won’t!” she cried, and then without further
warning burst into a passion of tears.

“Don’t, Doris, for God’s sake,” he whispered. “Don’t break now. I need
all your courage and your strength. You’ve been so brave--so strong.
Keep up your spirits, there’s a dear. We’ll pull through, don’t you
worry.”

“They’ll take you--if you stay here.”

“No. They won’t find us. I’m not afraid of that, and there are water
and biscuits here. We’ll take things easy for a while and then slip
off. Do you think I could go and leave you in the lurch? Pretty sort
of a Johnny I’d be to do a thing like that! Not for twenty Englands,
Doris,” he whispered, kissing her tenderly. “Not for twenty Englands,
I wouldn’t.” His touch soothed her and she grew more quiet.

“Of--of course you w-wouldn’t,” she murmured. “But I w-wish you would.”

Her hands met around his neck and he raised her chin and kissed her on
the mouth. It was a kiss of plighted troth, of tenderness, faith and
the exalted passion that comes with tears.

“Mated?” he whispered.

“Yes--yes,” she murmured faintly.

They did not move for a long moment when Doris slowly disengaged her
arms from around his neck and moved slightly away. Her hair had fallen
and hung in golden disorder about her shoulders. She put up her arm,
trying to catch the escaping pins, and then she smiled at him, dimpling
adorably.

“Come,” he said gently. “You must get to bed. Your coat is nearly dry,
but I’ll cover you with my jacket. You must sleep, too. No shammin’,
you know. Can’t tell what may happen tomorrow.”

“I’ll try,” she murmured obediently, while he led her to the couch of
boughs and made her lie on it. But as he knelt beside her, covering
her with his jacket, she caught his hands and would not relinquish
them. He raised hers to his lips and kissed them again and again:
small, muscular hands they were, but now very brown and dirty. “Are you
comfortable? Sorry I haven’t a tub.”

She was silent a moment and then straightened and asked him:

“You promised to tell me about the papers. Won’t you?”

He laughed.

“Not now. It must be nearly morning.”

“Yes, now. I’m not tired now. I will sleep afterwards. I like to hear
your voice, Cyril. Perhaps it will soothe me to sleep.”

“Are you sure?” he asked doubtfully--and she nodded.

He saw that she was still nervous and wakeful and sank beside her
couch, taking her hand in his.

“It is really quite interestin’,” he began slowly. “Three years ago,
at the invitation of the Emperor of Germany, when Europe was at peace
and there was no cloud upon the horizon bigger than a chap’s hand,
there met in a shootin’ lodge near Schöndorf, not ten miles from
here, six men. It was a secret conference, arranged by the Emperor of
Germany through His Excellency Graf von Stromberg. The six men were
His Highness Prince von Waldheim, at one time Germany’s ambassador
to France; Admiral von Frankenhausen, head and front of the Imperial
German Navy; General von Sandersdorf, the brains of the German General
Staff; His Excellency Moritz von Komarom, minister of war of the
Austrian Empire; Viscount Melborne, English Secretary of State for
Foreign Affairs; and Harlow-Gorden, of the British Admiralty.”

She was listening avidly, wide-eyed, the array of well-known names
telling her as nothing else could have done the importance of the
conference.

“This meetin’ was a secret,” he went on. “These men all traveled
incognito, without servants, and were met by an agent of General von
Stromberg at Schöndorf and conducted in automobiles to the huntin’
lodge I have spoken of. These men remained there for two days and two
nights and then went home. But while they were there they were makin’
new history for Europe.” He paused to fill his pipe but her curiosity
could not be restrained.

“And what were they doing there, Cyril? I can’t understand.”

Hammersley got up and held his pipe to the candle, for matches were
scarce, and then, with maddening calmness, sat beside her again.

“That secret meetin’ of these chaps had to do with nothin’ less than
the ruin of France----”

“France!” she cried. “England had nothing against France and now she is
her ally.”

“Three years ago the political conditions were different,” he answered.
“Those representatives of England came and sat with representatives of
Germany and Austria while they plotted the destruction of France.”

“But how do you know this, Cyril? I can’t understand.”

“No more do I, but it’s a fact. Let me go on. At the table in the lodge
where this conference was held, Viscount Melborne made notes of what
was goin’ on, includin’ the combinations of land and naval forces that
could be made against France and Russia, and the plans to break the
Russian Federation in the Balkans. When the meetin’ was over all the
scraps of paper these chaps had scribbled on were destroyed by fire
before the eyes of the men who had made ’em, except those of Viscount
Melborne, who put ’em in his pocket, and with them a pencil copy of
this secret treaty in his own handwriting. The original copy of the
treaty was entrusted to Harlow-Gorden, who put it in his dispatch-box.
It was not until the next day when the Englishmen, in the train on the
way to Paris, discovered that Viscount Melborne’s private papers were
missin’. Jolly fine mess--what? They got off at the next stop, went
back to Schöndorf and looked for the papers, but neither there nor at
the lodge was there hair or hide of ’em. So they went back to England
hopin’ that by some fortunate accident the papers had been destroyed.”

“And these--” asked the girl, “are they?”

He nodded. “To make the story short, I found out where they had
gone. My flights to Germany have been made for this purpose. Don’t
you see? The papers came into the hands of the Emperor of Germany
and he was plannin’ to have ’em sent to the President of the French
Republic--England’s ally. It wouldn’t do, you know, to have such papers
at such a time fall into the hands of France. Hardly a credit to
English diplomacy. What? Might even result in a new _entente_.”

“But where were the papers in the meanwhile?” she asked.

“That is what took me so bally long to find out. After many hunts away
from Windenberg at night, I traced ’em to a Socialist by the name of
Gottschalk at Schöndorf, who had received ’em from a pensioner of the
Imperial Forest Service, one of the attendants at the huntin’ lodge
where the conference was held. Whether he found ’em or stole ’em I
don’t know, but I frightened him and he confessed. I was on the very
point of stealing ’em from Gottschalk when I found out that he had been
writin’ to the Wilhelmstrasse, and when I tried to get ’em they were
gone. If I’d got ’em then, you would not be here, Doris, and I----”

“But how did you learn what the Wilhelmstrasse proposed to do with
them?”

“Oh, that was quite clear. The English Foreign Office has been badly
frightened and has used every effort with its secret agents in Berlin
to get that information. It reached London the other day. And just
before I left Scotland I knew the job was to be given to General von
Stromberg. The rest was Kismet--the fortune of war--a jolly good piece
of luck! Lindberg overheard through the microphone von Stromberg givin’
instructions to Wentz--so that His Excellency’s own weapons were turned
against him. I was goin’ to waylay Wentz on the way to France, but
circumstances prevented----”

“It was I, Cyril,” she broke in pleadingly. “I didn’t know. I betrayed
you.”

“A trick,” he laughed, “invented in the Rameses family--but still
useful.”

“He frightened me,” she stammered. “I believed the message signed
‘Maxwell’ genuine.”

“Not Maxwell,” he said gravely, “for Maxwell--a sore spot since the war
began in the side of the War Office--Maxwell is dead.”

“You----?” she exclaimed fearfully.

“Yes,” he replied. “I told and they caught him. I couldn’t do so
before. It’s war, Doris. It is a fair game. I ask no favors--nor do I
give any.”

She was silent a moment looking into the fire.

“Yes, I understand--a terrible game with odds against----” And then,
after a pause, “You say that we will get away. Won’t you tell me your
plan?”

He rose with a confident laugh.

“Yes, I have a plan, but I’m not going to tell it now. You are going to
sleep.”

She laughed wearily and sat up.

“And you? Where will you sleep?”

“By the fire. I’ve got some thinkin’ to do. I’m not sleepy. I had
eight hours last night. I’m going to watch.”

He bent over her and gently made her lie down. “I will talk to you no
more. You must go to sleep.”

She sighed and stretched herself out while he covered her with his
coat. Then he put a fresh log on the fire and sat beside her again. In
a moment he heard her voice.

“I hope you don’t mind my telling you, Cyril, that I love you a great
deal.”

“Not in the least,” he whispered. “I wouldn’t mind listenin’ while you
said it all night. But----”

“There. You’re going to insist on my sleeping again!”

“Won’t you?”

“I don’t seem to feel as if I could ever sleep again. You’re so cool,
so calm, Cyril. How _can_ you be?”

“No bally use gettin’ excited. Here we are snug as two bugs in a rug.
We’ll slip through them some way.”

“But where will we go?”

He smiled.

“I have a notion of goin’ to England.” His kind of quiet humor always
put her on her mettle.

“To England--?” She started up.

“There won’t be much chance of your doin’ anythin’ tomorrow if you
don’t get your sleep,” he insisted gently. “Do what I ask, Doris. Sleep
you must.”

“I’ll try. Good night, Cyril.”

“Good night.” He kissed her on the forehead and drew his jacket over
her again, then sat beside her, her hand in his, watching. Gradually
her nerves grew quiet and weariness mastered her. He waited until her
breathing indicated sleep, when he carefully relinquished her hand
and moved to the fire, where he carefully studied the papers by the
light of his candle, after which he slipped them into the pocket of
his trousers and moved softly across the cave into a corner, where
he opened the lid of a tin box and examined its contents, taking out
a fresh candle to replace the other one, which was on the point of
expiring.

Then he filled his pipe with great deliberateness and, returning to the
stool by the fire, crossed his knees and bent forward, gazing into the
blaze, his brows tangled in deep thought. He had succeeded in getting
what he came for. So far, the secret of the meeting in the shooting
lodge was safe. But for how long? By this time a description of the two
of them had, of course, been telegraphed to every village and military
station in Germany. That wouldn’t do at all. Alone it might be managed,
with a German officer’s uniform and Herr Lieutenant Orstmann’s military
orders, but with Doris--it wasn’t to be thought of.

The other alternative appealed to him more strongly. He had matched
his wits against von Stromberg’s so far and had won, and success made
him hopeful. Where carefulness failed, audacity sometimes succeeded.
The more he thought of his plan, the deeper became his conviction
that it was the only one possible under the circumstances. There was
continued danger for the papers and he deliberated for a long while
upon the wisdom of destroying them at once, finally rejecting that
idea except as a last alternative. His word that he had destroyed them
would perhaps be sufficient to ease the minds of the gentlemen at the
Foreign Office, but there were certain memoranda about the promises of
Germany to England signed with the initials of Prince von Waldheim
which should at all costs be saved. But aside from this consideration,
Hammersley, having carried his affairs thus far successfully, had a
pride in finishing it as he had planned. It could be done--he would do
it.

He got up and put another log on the fire and then stretched himself
out at full length upon the rocks, gazing into the flame. In the corner
where the bed was he heard the steady breathing of the girl. What a
trump she was-- What a tr----

He nodded and then dozed. Troubled visions flitted across his mind.
Once he thought he heard the sound of a footstep on the rocks and
started up. It was broad daylight. He listened for a while and then
slowly sank back and slept again. How long he did not know, for
something awakened him and he sat up, reaching instinctively for the
holster lying at his side, to look straight into the muzzle of an
automatic, behind which was the handsome blond head of Udo von Winden.




CHAPTER XX

THE FIGHT IN THE CAVERN


Udo loomed against the light and the uniform he wore seemed to give the
projecting weapon a new significance. He was not Udo, the kinsman and
companion who had so often shared this refuge with Hammersley in the
hunting days. He was Germany. Hammersley could never remember the time
when the muzzle of a weapon had seemed so large. It was much better to
sit without moving, and Udo’s quick instructions were not wasted.

“Don’t move, Cyril,” he said coolly in German. “Up with your hands! So.
Now get up, leaving your belt where it is, and sit on the stool yonder.
Quickly! I will shoot--to kill.”

Hammersley read in his expression a determination to put the threat
into practice and, watching narrowly, silently obeyed. Von Winden,
still covering him carefully, picked up the belt and transferred
Lindberg’s pistol to his own holster. He was a dead shot with any
firearm, as Hammersley knew, and his own chances at three paces even in
a rush were small. It was decidedly a case for discretion.

“I suppose there’s nothing to be said,” Hammersley muttered. “You
outguessed me, Udo.” And then, to gain a moment of time, “I thought
that your memory might be quite good enough to forget the Thorwald.”
Von Winden frowned down the barrel of the automatic.

“It is too much to expect even from me,” he said crisply. “I am your
kinsman but I am first of all--a German. And not even for you will I be
a traitor.”

“_Natürlich!_” smiled Cyril.

Udo von Winden’s look was grave, his voice sober, and the muzzle of his
automatic did not waver.

“I have already had a bad memory, my cousin. This afternoon I forgot
that Lindberg, who served your meals, was a good friend of yours
and mine and that he might be counted on to help you out of your
difficulties. I also forgot that there was such a place as the Cave
of the Thorwald until I learned from Excellenz last night, the price
Germany was to pay for my indifference. If you had failed to capture
the documents of His Majesty, I might have remained silent. As you took
them, there remained nothing but to act. I came here, for I knew it
would be the one place where I should find you.” Hammersley bent his
head. “I understand.” And then quickly, “Would you mind telling me if
you have spoken--if you have told what Lindberg--?”

“No,” von Winden broke in, “I have told nothing. Lindberg is safe. I
have come here alone----”

Hammersley gave a gasp of relief and leaned forward, peering into the
fire.

“I came for one purpose, Cyril,” Udo went on quietly. “I have no
personal desire for your death, but I would kill you as you sit rather
than see Germany suffer the loss of the documents in your possession. I
came for them and I intend that you shall give them to me.”

Hammersley looked up into his cousin’s face and their eyes met. Von
Winden’s tone was cool and his manner as calm as on the days last year
when they were hunting together, but Hammersley knew that when Udo von
Winden was most calm he was also most dangerous. So he slowly reached
into the pocket of his trousers and handed his cousin the papers he had
taken from the German messenger.

“_Danke_,” said Udo, backing to the light of the entrance of the cave
to examine them. “You are sure they are all here?”

“My word on it, Udo,” said Hammersley frankly. He watched his
cousin examine the documents and heard him give an exclamation of
satisfaction, but Hammersley saw that his eyes neglected no detail of
the cavern and was aware that the muzzle of the weapon in Udo’s hand
still bore directly upon him. In the shadows Hammersley saw the face of
Doris, who was sitting up, pallid and dark-eyed as though awakened from
one nightmare into another. As Udo saw her the muzzle of his weapon
wavered and went out of alignment, but Hammersley did not move or even
appear to notice the girl.

There was a note of embarrassment in the German’s officer’s voice as he
spoke again.

“I am sorry, my cousin, that your father’s blood called you to be false
to Germany. You had been suspected by Excellenz, but I would have sworn
that he was mistaken. You owe me nothing, of course, but----”

“It’s war, Udo,” said Hammersley quietly. “You will remember that I did
not seek duty in the Imperial Secret Service. It was the Herr General
who thought it valuable to use our kinship for his own purposes.”

Udo shrugged. “Yes, I know,” he said quietly. “You have done your
duty--but you must now be aware of the fact that you can ask no favors
of me.”

“I don’t. I am in your power. Shoot me if you like.”

Udo smiled.

“I can hardly be expected to do that. I do not love you now, my
cousin. I cannot love anyone who is false to my country, but I cannot
forget that once, not a year ago, we were brothers. No, I cannot shoot
you, Cyril, though perhaps that would be a better death than that
other--yonder.”

Hammersley shrugged. “It is the fortune of war. From your point of
view I deserve it. I can only thank you again, for myself and for Miss
Mather, for your generosity.”

A sound from the girl and Udo acknowledged her presence by a bow.

“Under other circumstances,” he said with stiff politeness, “I should
be glad to extend the hospitalities of Winden Schloss. But, of course,
as Miss Mather can see, my mother and sisters are away and I----”

“Of course, Graf von Winden, it is understood,” she said haltingly in
German.

“I can do nothing, Fräulein. I am powerless--at the orders of General
von Stromberg, who arranges the coming and the going of all at
Windenberg.”

“The coming, Udo,” said Hammersley dryly. “Not the going.”

“I am sorry, I have done what I could. You have done well to give
me the papers. I shall now go back to Blaufelden and return them to
Excellenz.”

Hammersley started up.

“You mean that you will leave us here?”

“_Natürlich._ I do not wish to see you killed against the kitchen wall.
It is not the death for the blood of von Eppingen. Even if you are shot
while escaping it would be better.” He shrugged. “My position is this.
You can do Germany no further harm. I shall tell a likely story. I have
the papers--they are what I came for. If you had not given them to me I
would have killed you, but now I shall go away alone as I came.”

“Good old Udo!” said Hammersley impulsively, taking a pace toward him,
his hand outstretched.

But von Winden’s automatic came quickly into line and Hammersley halted.

“One moment, my cousin,” said von Winden coolly. “I am quite willing
to accept your expressions of gratitude from a distance. I may not
wish to see you killed by others, and I would regret the necessity of
killing you myself. I shall consider you my prisoner until I go. After
that”--and he shrugged expressively--“you can go where you like.”

Hammersley folded his arms and frowned.

“Where I like!” he muttered. “With every village in Hesse-Nassau on the
lookout for me.” There was a pause, after which von Winden spoke with
quiet earnestness. “Unfortunately I may not help you further. Since
there is food, to wait here is safer. Alone, traveling by night, a man
might reach Basel safely. As for the Fräulein, if she will return to
Blaufelden and give herself up, imprisonment for a time is perhaps the
worst that she need fear.”

Doris had risen, the white light from the door of the cavern searching
her face pitilessly.

“It is what I would do,” she said haltingly. “What I have pleaded with
him to let me do. Cyril,” she implored in English, “you must let me.”

“I will think about it,” he muttered. “You are sure that no harm will
come to her?” The muzzle of the automatic had wavered out of line
again and Hammersley was carefully measuring with his eye the distance
that separated him from his cousin.

“The bark of Excellenz is much worse than his bite. He will bluster and
storm. But eventually he will return Miss Mather to her own people.”

Hammersley was shaking his head in indecision.

“I am not so sure that I agree with you about the bite of Excellenz.
I shall think of what I will do. I’m sure of one thing, Udo,” he said
with sincerity, “that I am deeply grateful for what you have done. The
war has made us enemies, and you have now prevented the success of
my great venture. But I bear you no illwill. The debt is still mine
on account of your silence, back there--a debt made deeper by the
presence of Fräulein Mather.” He paused to give his words effect. “I
had not told you, Udo, for at Windenberg one has no time to think of
the gentler things of life. But just before the war broke out Fräulein
Mather had promised me to become my wife.”

Hammersley watched von Winden as he turned toward Doris with a smile,
bowing deeply, his sense of the situation lost for a second in the
obligations of civility, as he murmured a phrase of congratulations. “I
am much honored by your confidences,” he said formally, “and I deeply
regret----”

He got no further, for Hammersley had sprung in suddenly toward him,
risking Udo’s shot, which was fired quickly, without aim.

A furious struggle followed. Hammersley caught at von Winden’s wrist
and his weight bore him back against the rock, while both of them
fought for the possession of the weapon. The German officer was smaller
than his cousin but his wrists were good and he was quicker than
Hammersley. They bore only friendship for each other but the incentive
of each was greater even than hatred could have been. They struggled
in silence, the thought of the possession of the papers uppermost
in the minds of both. The struggle was not that of kinsman against
kinsman, but of England against Germany. Realizing the desperateness
of Hammersley’s attack and the purpose of it, von Winden knew that
a victory for Hammersley meant the loss of the papers and so he was
bent on killing his cousin if he could, Hammersley on preventing him
from doing so. They swayed from side to side, breathing hard, while
Doris crouched against the side of the cavern, dumb with terror. Twice
she saw the weapon in the German officer’s hand point downward toward
Cyril’s back and then, before it could be used, saw Cyril’s arm quickly
push it upward. She knew that she was in danger, but she did not know
what to do. At one moment von Winden seemed to have the advantage and
in another Cyril. Udo’s back was against the wall and one of Cyril’s
arms was around him, while their legs were intertwined as each tried
to get the other off his balance. Suddenly with an effort Hammersley
managed to wrench the pistol from von Winden’s hand and he tossed it
into the corner of the cavern.

Von Winden had every ethical right to kill Hammersley if he could,
but after what his cousin had done for him, Hammersley could not
kill Udo. That was impossible. He must succeed without that. This
generosity nearly proved fatal to him for the German managed to reach
Hammersley’s automatic in his own holster and had almost disengaged it
when Hammersley caught his hand again, and the struggle was renewed.
But Doris, whose senses and initiative had slowly returned to her, now
crept around the walls of the cave and when von Winden’s outstretched
hand came within her reach she seized his forearm in both of her hands
and clung to it desperately, keeping the muzzle pointed away from
Cyril. She was swayed to and fro with the struggling men, who finally
toppled sideways and fell to the floor, dragging her with them, but von
Winden’s grasp of the weapon, never quite secure, was loosened and, as
they dropped, it went flying under the table.

The fight was soon out of the German, for Hammersley’s weight had
fallen on him heavily, and in a moment the officer was flat on his back
and Hammersley was sitting on him. Doris, who had meanwhile picked up
the pistol, now heard Hammersley gasping jerkily.

“Quick, Doris--something to tie with--your stay-strings!”

She understood and disappeared outside the cavern, returning presently
with the bonds, helping Cyril while he made the wrists and ankles of
von Winden fast.

“I might have killed you--but I didn’t,” Hammersley was gasping. “You
saw that, Udo, didn’t you?”

“You needn’t make apologies. I would have killed you. I tried to. It’s
too bad--too bad,” he panted.

“I’m sorry,” Hammersley repeated. “Those papers--they’re England’s,
Udo. They’re my property. I’ve got to take them.”

And without further words he put his hand inside the breast of the
officer’s coat and took the papers out.

“I wish it were anybody but you,” he said.

“I don’t think you can get away with them.”

“I’m going to try.”

“I’ll prevent you if I can.”

“How?”

“I’ll show you.” And with the remnants of his breath he shouted
lustily for help. Hammersley threw him back, none too gently, and
clapped a handkerchief in his mouth, while he directed Doris to tear
her under-skirt and make bandages for a gag. They worked quickly and
in a moment the German officer was silent and helpless. Then for a
long moment Hammersley sat by the prostrate man, slowly recovering his
breath. Doris, ash-gray with fear, crouched beside him, obedient to his
look and action. At last with a laugh he got up.

“Close thing, that!” he said. “My word! He nearly got me.” And then
with a look at the prostrate man, “Poor old Udo!”

In a moment, with a word to Doris, he went outside the cave and
listened intently. He peered cautiously over the ridge of rocks.
The road was deserted. The sound of the shot, while it had seemed
deafening, would have been muffled at the entrance of the cavern
and could not have been heard from a distance. And when Hammersley
returned, he reassured Doris as to the immediate danger of discovery.

“There is no hurry, Doris. I must think,” he said, filling his pipe.
He stood upright for a while, puffing rapidly, peering down at the
captive, his expression struggling between a frown and a smile. Herr
Graf Udo von Winden looked so very much like a mummy! The eyes of his
cousin, the only visible part of his face, followed Hammersley intently.

“I could have done for you, Udo,” Hammersley repeated. “I want to be
sure that you understand that.”

Von Winden’s head moved ever so slightly. Doris had sunk upon the
stool, her face buried in her hands.

“Oh, it’s cruel!” she murmured. “Let him go, Cyril.”

“Hardly,” said Hammersley coolly. “He’d raise a rumpus. Wouldn’t you,
Udo?”

The officer’s head did not move.

“You see?” said Hammersley. “But I’m going to make him as comfortable
as possible.” And taking him by the armpits he dragged his cousin
over to the corner and laid him gently on the bed of balsam, and then
stood beside the bed looking down at him thoughtfully, addressing him
impersonally in English, as though thinking aloud.

“What’s to become of you, when we go, old chap--that’s what’s bothering
me now.”

The German’s shoulders moved slightly.

“Oh, that’s all very well, but I can’t leave you up here to rot, my
cousin. No one knows the way to the Crag of the Thorwald. You might be
here a thousand years if Lindberg shouldn’t come.”

Von Winden made no sign. It was obvious that he had no further
intention of helping in the solution of the difficulty.

“Let me stay here with him, Cyril,” Doris was pleading again. “It can
do me no harm, and when you are well on your way, I will release him
and go back to Blaufelden.”

“I can’t take that chance. You’re going with me.”

“Where?”

“To England.”

“But how?”

“Leave that to me. At present we must have breakfast. Do you know it’s
almost ten o’clock?”

Bewildered, she watched him go to the large tin box in the corner
of the cavern, from which he brought forth some dry salt biscuit and
several pieces of chocolate.

“It isn’t much, but it’s the best I can do. There’s tea, too, but I
don’t dare light the fire.”

She ate, slowly at first, for the food seemed to choke her, but she
recalled the fact that except for two pieces of toast and the chocolate
of von Stromberg she had eaten nothing since yesterday morning. Cyril,
who never seemed at a loss for anything, produced a metal pitcher and
going outside the cave for a moment returned with it full of water.

“Lindberg’s,” he said in reply to her question. “His food, too. Good
old Lindberg.”

He frowned and then went over to the prisoner.

“You needn’t tell me if you don’t care to, Udo, but I’d like to know
how Lindberg is. Will you answer me?”

Von Winden nodded.

“He is able to be about?”

He nodded again.

“Did His Excellency suspect?”

He shook his head.

“Thank God. Then Lindberg is at liberty?”

Udo replied in the affirmative.

Hammersley gave a gasp of relief.

“That is well. I need not worry. He will come and release you.”

Von Winden only frowned.

“Listen, Udo,” went on Hammersley quickly, “Fräulein Mather and I are
going down from here, leaving you alone. It can’t be helped. You’ve
stumbled up here and you’ve got to take your chance. In time you may
wear the strings through against a rock. If you don’t return to
Blaufelden by tomorrow, Lindberg will find you.”

“But suppose anything happened to Lindberg,” Doris was whispering. “Ah,
Cyril, it would be terrible to leave him here. I should dream of it
every night of my life.”

Udo’s eyes smiled at her.

“There is little danger. Graf von Winden is not a man to be so easily
beaten. He will get away by tonight. But in the meanwhile we will have
gone far enough to be out of his reach.”

“Where are we going?”

“To England, child--in the Yellow Dove,” he laughed.

Doris started away from him, her eyes suddenly brilliant with
excitement, and the prisoner, who had lain without movement, showed
sudden signs of activity, his eyes frowning and his head wagging in
anxiety.

“He wants to speak,” said Doris.

Hammersley bent over his cousin.

“Will you promise not to shout?”

Von Winden nodded quickly. So Hammersley untied the bandages that held
the handkerchief in the prisoner’s mouth and helped him to a sitting
posture.

“You must not go,” he stammered quickly in German. “It is impossible.
You will fail. I warn you.”

“Why do you think so?”

“The machines are guarded, and the spark-plugs of your Taube have been
removed and hidden.”

“H’m,” said Hammersley thoughtfully. “Excellenz neglects nothing.”

“You would go to your death.”

“Perhaps. Thanks for the warning,” said Hammersley bluntly. “I’m going
just the same.”

Von Winden looked at him in amazement. “You do not believe me?” he
asked. “It is the truth, I tell you.”

“I shall find a way.”

“But there is no way. You think that I am trying to persuade you to
escape by the mountains so that you may be captured with the papers?”

“Yes. I could not escape that way now. You know it.”

“Perhaps not, but what you plan is insane.”

“Fortune favors the fool. I’ve made up my mind.”

“Then you deserve to be shot,” said Udo. “In the forest at least you
would have a chance--_Ach_--!” He gave a guttural exclamation and then:
“Bind me and leave me then--quickly. It’s good-by.”

“Good-by, Udo,” said Hammersley with a smile. “We’ll meet again, when
Hesse-Nassau is an English province.”

“Bah, Cyril,” said von Winden. “I have always said that you were a
fool.”

Hammersley replaced the gag and bound it into place with great care,
smiling the while. Then he removed the belt which contained his
cousin’s supply of cartridges and fastened it around his own body above
Lindberg’s, loading the two weapons with care and placing them in their
holsters.

Doris watched these preparations anxiously, but Hammersley made her
eat her fill of chocolate and biscuits and when they had finished, he
went to the corner of the cavern and brought forth a large and heavy
parcel which he put on the table and opened. Doris saw that Captain von
Winden was straightening on the couch trying to see what it contained.
Hammersley did not even glance in his direction. He seemed to know by
instinct that Udo’s curiosity had gotten the better of his dignity. He
opened the package deliberately and spread the contents out upon the
table.

“Spare parts of the Taube, Udo. I’ve had them here for weeks. I’ll
let you have a peep at ’em if you like. A socket-wrench, spark-plugs,
bolts, nuts and wire--by Jove--we might have used that on Udo.”

“You are afraid that what he says is true,” whispered Doris anxiously.
“Von Stromberg is prepared for you.”

“I wonder,” he said.




CHAPTER XXI

HARE AND HOUNDS


For two hours or more, Hammersley and the girl, taking turn and turn,
watched the road and forest from the amphitheater of rocks. The road
in times of peace was a short route from Windenberg to Schöndorf and
popular with the market-folk. But the restrictions put upon visits to
Blaufelden had resulted in the diversion of traffic from the south
slope of the mountains to the longer road in the valley upon the other
side. The few who appeared were men in uniform. From his lofty perch
Hammersley espied Captain Wentz as he hurried by with several men in an
automobile. Just beyond the crag the automobile was stopped and the men
dismounted and went on afoot. Clearly they meant to continue the search
abroad. Hammersley chuckled.

“Hare and hounds!” he muttered to himself. “The more men to the
eastward, the fewer to the west. By Jove!”

The expletive was not unusual with Hammersley but the manner of its
utterance gave it importance. He crossed the level quickly and peered
again at the vanishing figures of the men. A new idea had been born.
Hare and hounds! A game he had played at Eton--a game as old as sport,
as old as hunting! And for such a prize!

He hurried into the cave, glancing hurriedly at his watch. It was noon.
Doris sat upon the stool near Udo von Winden. Hammersley went over to
their captive and examined his bonds and then gave the girl a few hasty
instructions.

“I am going down below to be gone two--perhaps three hours.”

A quick intake of the breath escaped her but she caught her under lip
in her teeth and said nothing.

“Don’t worry,” he went on cheerfully, “I’m coming back. I’ll promise
you that. I’ve got a plan,” he whispered, “a new plan, a noble plan,
a plan that will make our game an easy one. It will be harder for you
than for me, Doris, because you’ve only got to sit and wait and try to
be patient.”

While he was talking he had taken off the belts that contained the
two pistols, fastening one around Doris. Then he took off his leather
jacket and put it on the table, fastening the other belt containing
Udo’s cartridges and automatic over his gray sweater. She watched him
timidly.

“But suppose Graf von Winden should get his arms free,” she protested.
“I cannot shoot him, Cyril--I cannot--not that----”

“He won’t trouble you. I’ll arrange that.” He took from his coat pocket
the documents captured from the Emperor’s messenger and held them up so
that Udo von Winden could see them.

“I must leave you for a while, Udo. Awfully sorry, but it’s most
urgent.” He laughed. “You won’t mind, will you? Or try to make things
difficult?”

He turned quickly and while both the girl and the prisoner wondered
what he was about to do, he went to the tin box in the corner, brought
out a new candle, lighted it and held the papers so that the prisoner
could see them.

“Do you observe what I am doing, Udo? Miss Mather will sit here upon
the opposite side of the cave. If you attempt to get up from your bed,
she will burn the papers. Simple, isn’t it? Also quite effective. She
doesn’t want to shoot you, Udo--nor do I. And of course if the papers
were burned, it wouldn’t hurt England a great deal. As long as the
papers are in Germany, my capture may throw them into German hands,
_nicht wahr_?”

Udo von Winden’s head moved slightly from left to right.

With an _auf wiedersehen_ thrown over his shoulder at Udo, Hammersley
went outside the cave, where Doris followed him. She was on the point
of tears, but she succeeded in a smile.

“Don’t worry, Doris, old girl. Just going down for a stroll about.”

“But why, Cyril?”

“Goin’ to throw ’em off the scent,” he whispered.

“But they’re already off the scent.”

For answer he kissed her gently and bade her keep up her courage. Then
he gave her the papers, saw her inside the cave again and in a moment
was gone.

The more Hammersley thought of his plan the better it seemed to him.
The day was still young. In three hours he could do much. He crossed
the amphitheater of rocks and followed the rocky gorge by which he had
entered last night and when he emerged upon the farther side, paused
and watched for a while to be sure that Wentz and his men were not in
sight and then descended the face of the rocks skillfully and in a
moment was creeping on all fours through the underbrush up the side of
the mountain. It was steep here and rugged, but in a while he reached
the old deer trail over which he had passed when he had doubled on his
pursuers last night. But instead of following it, he halted a moment to
listen and then crossed into the undergrowth which at this point was so
thick that at twenty paces even he was not visible. He slipped among
the treetrunks and evergreens, moving rapidly, making a wide circle up
the mountainside almost to its top, descending then by easy stages,
until he had covered four miles at least when he bore slowly down
toward the Schöndorf road.

Hare and hounds! An exciting game even in the old days when it meant
athletic honors, but now, with the alternatives of death as the penalty
of capture and a great triumph as the reward of escape, it made his
blood run madly. A good game--a fair game, with success as the reward
of intelligence.

He planned carefully. He must be sure to come down into the open at
a spot beyond where Wentz and his men were searching. He knew the
country well. There was a village on the hillside, half a mile below.
It was midway between Schöndorf and the farm house at Blaufelden.
The families of some of the foresters lived there and there was
telephonic connection both with the farm and Windenberg. All of the
men of Mittelwald who were not in the Forest Service were off at the
front and the chances were that unless Wentz and his men were there,
Hammersley would see only women and children. But he knew that von
Stromberg had neglected nothing that would give an inkling of his
whereabouts and his presence would be at once reported and the chase
begin. He was in excellent condition, trained a little too fine perhaps
for an Englishman, but fit. He had done little running since leaving
the University, and though he had lost some of his old speed, he
could rely upon the thought of his danger and Doris’s to provide the
incentive for extraordinary effort.

Mittelwald lay in a clearing similar to that at Blaufelden, and its
farms, if farms they could be called, clambered up the hillside
and straggled over beyond the road where they were merged into the
undergrowth of young oaks. The Schöndorf road, curving this way
and that, passed between the houses, which were set at irregular
intervals, like the strips on the tail of a kite. He went on through
the underbrush, coming out into the open upon the road at the point
where it entered the woods upon the Schöndorf side. Then he settled his
automatic loosely in its sheath, and went forward boldly. His eye had
marked the line of the telephone wire and followed it to the gable of
one of the largest houses in the village. It was to this house that he
made his way. A young woman was working in the garden and he approached
her quietly and politely, but with an air of a man not to be trifled
with, asked for food. He was aware that he was unshorn, covered with
mud, and that his face was streaked with dirt and perspiration, but he
knew that his appearance alone could not have accounted for the sudden
blanching of the woman’s face and the air of alarm with which she
regarded him. She straightened and fell back two or three paces toward
the house, unable to speak a word in reply. So he repeated his request,
while her mouth gaped at him and her eyes grew rounder. At last she
managed to stammer,

“Food! You are hungry?”

“Yes. Potato bread--anything, but quickly. I will go with you to the
house.” And he indicated the way.

She stumbled on before him, her head jerking anxiously this way and
that over her shoulder as though she feared at any moment to receive
a blow or a shot in the back. But he followed her indoors and noted
with satisfaction that she appeared after all to be a woman of some
intelligence. A thing that pleased him further was the telephone
instrument in the corner.

“Milk, if you please, and quickly. I will take the bread with me.” And
while she timorously brought them out, “Who lives here?”

“F-Förster Habermehl.”

“Where is he?” peremptorily.

“At Windenberg.”

“Oh! There are no men here?”

“No.”

“That is well, then.” He drank a glass of milk greedily and tore off a
piece of the loaf. “You are a good girl. Heaven will reward you.” He
made his way to the door, looking out cautiously, and then turned and
put his hand in his pocket, bringing out a piece of money. “See,” he
laughed, “I have concluded to reward you myself. Cash. Much better than
hopes, _nicht wahr_?”

She fetched a timorous smile and bobbed shyly.

“You will do me a favor,” he said in a whisper as he went out of the
door, “if you will tell no one of my visit.”

And with that, chuckling to himself, went down the road again in the
direction of Schöndorf, watching the turn in the road below the village
for a glimpse of Wentz and his men. Before he reached the edge of the
open country he paused and listened. From the house that he had visited
came the faint tinkle of a bell. Frau Habermehl had lost no time. She
had notified the master of the hounds who was clamoring for the scent.

Hammersley walked around the turn in the road, which hid him from the
house, and then went into the bushes where he sat on a fallen log,
peeping through the leaves toward the further side of the clearing,
where General von Stromberg’s men must appear. He did not know how
long he would have to wait. Half an hour, perhaps longer. If he knew
anything of von Stromberg, they would come in every sort of available
vehicle, from a high-powered machine to a donkey cart, picking up the
misguided Wentz and his men upon the way to follow this new scent. It
was difficult to sit still and wait. Hammersley wanted a smoke awfully,
but he chewed a twig instead, for he needed to keep his wind in good
condition and had purposely left his pipe at the Thorwald. He did not
want to get too far away from Doris. By the way he intended to return
he was now at least six miles from the cavern and with the mile or so
he must go toward Schöndorf before he turned, a good eight miles of
rough going lay between himself and safety.

Under other circumstances, he would have greatly enjoyed the chance for
a rest. With a cooler wind from the northeast the weather had cleared
and the period of higher temperatures through which they had passed
seemed to be drawing to a close. In spite of the doubts that hung about
his plan, he couldn’t help saying to himself that he felt jolly fit.

Twenty minutes--twenty-five. He got up and stretched his long limbs
luxuriously. The hare was ready. It was time they cast forward the
hounds. A peep through the bushes showed him Frau Habermehl standing
near her home watching the road to Windenberg. So he came out of his
place of concealment and stood in the open again until he was sure
that she saw him, when he turned and went slowly toward Schöndorf. He
had planned his moment nicely for before he was out of sight of the
clearing, an automobile came into view--paused a moment before Frau
Habermehl and then came on rapidly.

Hammersley waited until they had “viewed” him and then cut into the
woods to his left, slipping from tree to tree not fifty yards in the
cover when the machine came to a stop and the men jumped down and came
after him. He did not know who was in command and did not care, but
just to show them that he was the man they were after, he risked a
shot with his automatic and then sped along rapidly, working up the
mountainside, following in a general way the direction of Schöndorf.
He heard them plunging after him in full cry and the sound of their
footsteps made him move at a rare pace. He knew well this piece of
woods, and in a moment came to a path which curved to the right,
leading straight up the mountain. When he reached it he paused to
look over his shoulder. It was difficult to see the green uniforms,
but there was a flash of light from a patch of fir trees and a twig
just above his head fell across his path. His curiosity was satisfied.
He shut his mouth and, breathing through his nostrils, went off with
a burst of speed which put him around a turn in the path before any
of the green uniforms had come into sight. He had them coming now,
two--three men--one little one and two big ones. He caught a glimpse of
them in a moment when the path came into a glade of rocks and barrens.
There was his danger. A chance shot might get him when they emerged,
before he found the cover again. But leaping from rock to rock he
managed to reach the path upon the other side, and their shots went
wild.

When he reached cover he halted a moment for a breath, firing a shot in
the direction of the advancing men, who promptly dropped to cover. And
when they came on again, he had gained a clear lead of a hundred yards
or more.

He had foreseen his greatest danger--of being caught in thick
underbrush and surrounded--so he kept to the main path, only leaving
it for a smaller and more tortuous one, when the other turned down
the mountain toward the road again. Since the exchange of shots his
pursuers had become more cautious and when they reached the fork of the
paths they stopped, sweating in their heavy coats and cursing lustily,
while they debated upon the question as to which path he had taken.
The hounds were at fault. From a point above, he could see them quite
clearly and one of them was the Fatalist who had been his jailor last
evening. Just to discover whether he was sincere in his philosophy,
Hammersley sent a bullet skipping above his head. He ducked and
Hammersley laughed.

“Silly ass!” he muttered. “Fatalist! Fatality if I’d aimed at him!”

And he was off again, for other men had joined the leaders and the
scent was hot. He carried them fast, up to the bald top of the mountain
where the going was faster, and down in the valley to the right. They
had gained nothing on him and Hammersley with his second wind was
breathing more easily, but it was almost time to double. Here was as
good a place as another for the pack of them to spend the afternoon
and he made up his mind to lose them without further ado. There was
only one runner in the lot and he was the Fatalist, though how he had
ever happened to learn to run in the Imperial Navy, Hammersley had not
the time or inclination to decide. If his philosophy limped, his legs
at least were strong and he came on rapidly leaping like a young buck
toward the opening over the crest of the knob into which Hammersley had
disappeared. A short way down was a spur of rock, the beginnings of a
ridge which cut out into the hills, the watershed of two rills which
leaped from rock to rock to the valleys below. Hammersley chose the
right-hand valley for the going was better, and went down it at top
speed for a quarter of a mile or more, pausing where the path led into
the underbrush and pines until the Fatalist should view him when he
disappeared, and then turning into the thicket circled quickly to the
left, and taking advantage of every cover, slowly and carefully climbed
the ridge to a place of vantage where he crouched and waited, to have
the satisfaction a moment later of seeing his ex-jailor, weapon in
hand, go plunging down the path past his place of concealment.

Hammersley listened a moment to the sounds of crashing feet in front
of him and behind, and then, creeping slowly and making what speed he
could, crossed the ridge and in a while was out of sight and hearing of
them. He feared little in crossing the other valley, for his pursuers
were strung out in a line, each in sight of the other, and would follow
the leader like a flock of sheep. But there was little time to waste
and the greatest test of Hammersley’s endurance and Doris’s was to
come. For two, perhaps three hours, these men would search for him, and
more would come. The Fatalist would bear the brunt of their failure,
but in the meanwhile Hammersley must reach the cave in the Thorwald
and take Doris to Blaufelden. The first part of the return run must be
done at top speed to save time which would be needed later. So when he
crossed the second valley in safety and had reached the mountaintop,
Hammersley abandoned all caution, risking the chance of meeting Wentz
and his men, and with a sharp lookout ahead of him went as fast as he
could along the ridge, finding at last the trail by which he had come
earlier in the day, down which he ran with a long stride which covered
the four miles in less than half an hour. He reached the upper passage
to the cave in safety and in a moment was safe behind the projecting
bowlders of the amphitheater. He was breathing heavily, and the sweat
was pouring from him. Doris was watching for him.

“They’re following you? They’re coming?” she asked nervously.

He quieted her and led her inside the cave, where he dropped for a
moment of rest upon the stool. Doris watched him anxiously. In a moment
he was laughing.

“Oh, I led ’em a rippin’ run straight for Schöndorf,” he gasped.
“They’re pattin’ me out--six miles from here--on the top of the
Schmalzberg. Lord!” he grinned, “but that was a breather.”

She brought him the pitcher of water but he only rinsed his mouth.

“How are you feelin’? Fit?”

She nodded.

“Right-o. Come along. We’re off.”

He went over to the prisoner and examined his bonds carefully.

“Poor old Udo!” he muttered in German. “I’ve got to go. You might worry
through those strings. It’s the only way, because I’m not leaving any
matches.”

He leaned over and patted his cousin on the shoulder. “Good-by, Udo,”
he said. “We’ll meet again, some day, as friends, my cousin--as
friends.”

Von Winden’s eyes met Hammersley’s and then he lowered his head upon
the balsam boughs.

There was no time for amenities. Hammersley slipped on his leather
jacket and cap, fastening his belt outside, reloaded his automatic,
filled the pockets of Doris’s coat with biscuit and chocolate,
then made a bundle of the tools and spare parts, which he selected
carefully, and in a moment he and Doris were outside on the ridge,
peering over toward the road below. All was quiet, and they descended
carefully to the projecting rock, pausing there to listen again. The
machine of Wentz, which had been left near the crag, had gone on toward
Mittelwald. Hammersley smiled. The plan had worked. It was working.
They _must_ succeed.

Down in the bushes at the foot of the crag by the road they paused
again, listening, and then Hammersley went forward, peering out, up and
down the road. Silence. Solitude. Leading the way, with the hand of
the girl in his, he quickly crossed and plunged into the undergrowth
silently until they had reached a distance which would defy detection
from the road. Then Hammersley bore to the right and went on rapidly.

Doris’s heart was beating high with excitement and hope. The Yellow
Dove! Could they reach the hangar safely, and when there could they
tune up undetected? The success of the venture seemed impossible for
there must still be men on guard at Blaufelden--someone! But as they
went on through the wood, she found some of the contagion of Cyril’s
audacity. He seemed tireless. When they reached a trail which led in
the desired direction, without speaking to her, he set forward into a
steady jog trot which put them well upon their way. He turned around
from time to time and watched her, and when he saw that she was nearly
blown he slowed down to a walk and explained his plan.

“Jolly flyin’ weather this. Once we’re in the air they can’t stop us,
Doris. She’s armored around the cockpit and engines, and they haven’t
anything heavier than a rifle at Blaufelden. We’ll go up the Rhine to
the sea, flyin’ high. Then cut to the left along the coast, as far as
the French line, and then go in to Ypres and from there to General
French’s headquarters. You can easily tell by the lines of trenches. I
want you to listen carefully. I’ve got two seats and double control.
The arrangement is just the same as on your Nieuport, only she answers
her control much more slowly. The wheel is on a universal joint; the
gas, on your wheel, the spark to your left, the magneto, a button in
front of you. She starts by compressed air.”

“But the exhaust, Cyril,” she gasped, “before we go--it’s only a few
hundred yards from the shed to the house!”

“We’re going to risk that. With luck we’ll be movin’ in three minutes,
and then----” He paused grimly.

“And then----?”

“I’d like to see a dozen stop us.”

He had such perfect assurance that all doubt left her. Indeed, to
Doris, he seemed endowed with some hidden fount of initiative and
inspiration, and she was willing to believe anything he told her. They
went on rapidly, while he answered all her questions and gave her
final instructions, until at last they reached a path, the same, he
told her, by which they had come from the farm last night. They started
up a frightened deer, which fled away from them, but they didn’t
pause until the path cut sharply to the right and through the bushes
they could see the buildings of Blaufelden. There they stopped and
Hammersley went forward to investigate.

In the direction of the farmhouse was no sign of animation except
the thread of smoke that rose from the kitchen chimney. The back of
the hangar was just in front of them, a bare wall of wood, a hundred
and fifty feet long. The opening was upon the other side, to the
west, a huge canvas flap, toggled at the bottom to rings in the sill.
Hammersley came back and whispered to Doris to follow him. Until
the starting of the engine, this was the most hazardous part of the
proceeding, for, if they were seen from the house, there would be no
time for Hammersley to put the engines in order. He led her south
to a point in the woods where the storehouse hid them from the main
buildings, when, crouching low to avoid possible detection from the
Windenberg road, they covered the fifty yards to the storehouse and
waited again, completely hidden from all points except the forest
behind them, while Cyril looked around the edge of the building, and
then beckoned to her to follow. In a moment they had slipped between
the end of the canvas flap and the door, and were within the dusky
interior of the shed.

Before them stretched the wide expanse of the Yellow Dove, a huge
biplane with a spread, as nearly as Doris could figure it, of a hundred
and twenty feet from tip to tip. She stood before it in wonder and
awe, admiring its fine lines and sturdy appearance. A dragon-fly her
Nieuport was beside this great eagle of the air. The other machine,
an Etrich monoplane, which was used by Udo von Winden, seemed lost in
the shadows of the larger wings. Doris stood quite still, as Cyril had
directed, while he moved off noiselessly in the dim light. She saw him
slipping from one spot to another, quickly examining this and that, and
at last saw him climb up into the machine with his kit of tools. She
came nearer as he whispered down to her:

“They’ve taken out some plugs. I’ll have ’em in shortly.” And then: “Go
around the lower plane and tell me if the guys are all taut.”

She did as he asked, while she heard him above working over the engines.

“How long will it take?” she whispered.

“I can’t tell--twenty minutes, perhaps. The petrol tanks are empty,
too.”

“I want to help.”

“Are the wires all fast?”

“Yes.”

“Good. Then bring me the hose from the petrol tank. It’s there beside
you in the corner. You can run it in while I’m workin’.”

She did as she was bid, climbing up with a feeling of exultation into
the tall machine beside him.

“The reserve tank first--” he whispered. “Up here between the planes.
Here’s a wrench. The opening is on the top.”

They worked side by side, noiselessly and efficiently, Hammersley
fitting the missing spark-plugs and connecting a new coil wire which
had been removed. He looked over the machine carefully, but could
find nothing else missing, or even needing adjustment, for he had
taken care yesterday morning, as was his custom, to go over the engine
with his own hands. The impairment of the engine was of no serious
consequence, and intended only to delay. Von Stromberg had not counted
on such a chance for readjustment as this, or upon Hammersley’s reserve
supply of necessary material. And unless they had done something else
that he could not discover--but what? While he worked Hammersley tried
to think, casting between times anxious glances at the gears, the
propellers and the control wires. The reserve tank of petrol was filled
and the hose was steadily pouring the stuff into the one under the
forward cockpit, which was full by the time the plugs and wires were
all adjusted.

“That will be enough, Doris,” he whispered. “We only need to get to the
English lines. There’s no time for more.”

She saw him try the wheel, watching the connecting gear keenly, and,
when he ordered it, she climbed down into the rear seat. He gave her a
leather coat, gloves and helmet, and buckled her into her seat. Then,
in a state of nervous tension, they waited. She saw Cyril climb down,
coolly wiping his hands with a piece of waste, restore the hose to its
place, and then peer out from a slit in the canvas door. Then he bent
over, and running quickly along the flap from side to side, one after
another quickly unfastened the toggles which held it in place.

“We’ve got to chance it now,” he whispered up to her. “If she doesn’t
work--God help us----”

“But the canvas----”

“The machine will----”

He stopped abruptly, for Doris’s eyes were staring in panic at
something behind him. Hammersley whirled quickly toward the slit in
the canvas, his automatic in his hand. There, not four paces away,
blinking into the dusk, stood the tall figure of His Excellency,
General Graf von Stromberg.




CHAPTER XXII

FROM THE HEIGHTS


Hammersley had him covered, and the General made no move to defend
himself. He bent his head and folded his arms, peering into
Hammersley’s eyes like a short-sighted man trying to adjust his vision
to an unaccustomed task. But his frown relaxed almost immediately and
his lips separated, showing a gleam of teeth.

“My compliments, Herr Hammersley,” he said. “You have done well. It
pleases me to meet at last----”

“Move your right hand again the fraction of an inch and I will shoot,
Excellenz,” said Hammersley, in the sharp, quick accents of a resolute
man.

Von Stromberg only smiled more broadly. But he did not move. He had
seen enough of Herr Hammersley to respect his sincerity.

“I have staked my professional reputation upon your presence elsewhere,
Herr Hammersley. Instinct, perhaps, led me here. I do not know what
else. But I came alone. I am not armed.”

Hammersley was in no mood for trifling and time was flying. Better to
shoot the man and be done with it, but he couldn’t, somehow. Instead he
searched him quickly for weapons.

“You’re too late, Excellenz. I am sorry, but I have no time for
conversation.”

“You will at least let me pay you the compliment of saying that the
Prussian blood in you has made you the most brilliant Englishman I have
ever met.”

“I have no time to match phrases with you----”

“_Ach_, but you match what is much more important--a genius for
dissimulation. Yesterday you disappointed me, Herr Hammersley, with
your talk of plans--of fortifications--of Strassburg. I had been hoping
that you were playing a deeper game, something that would relieve the
flat monotony of my routine. You were to save me from utter boredom. It
is true. I had hoped that. I was disappointed when I thought that you
were like the others. Disappointed! I should have known----”

“And now that I have the papers--what are you going to do about it?”
asked Hammersley with a touch of bravado.

Von Stromberg shrugged.

“I confess that I am so rapt in admiration of your genius that I am at
a loss--I must yield to the inevitable. But I am happy in the knowledge
that only a person of the skill of Herr Hammersley could have succeeded
in outwitting the head of the Secret Service Department of the Empire.”

“Enough of this!” Hammersley broke in. “I should kill you, General
von Stromberg, but I won’t if you obey me promptly. Stand aside--over
there--against the wall. If you move, I’ll shoot. I’m going out of
here.”

Von Stromberg did as he was bidden, and his long strides and erect
carriage had lost none of their dignity. When he reached the wall he
turned with a smile. Then he said suavely:

“I fear, Herr Hammersley, that you will not go forth as rapidly as you
like.”

Hammersley only laughed at him.

“We’ll see about that.” He took a stride to the canvas curtain and had
a quick look outside. And then to the girl: “Crank her, Doris! The
compressed air--the button to the left beside the wheel!”

There was a long pause when Doris reached forward in her seat. A pause
filled with meanings for Hammersley, in which his fate and hers, was
hanging in the balance. Von Stromberg seemed to read his thoughts, and
the wolfish smile spread again over his face.

“It is just possible,” he said blandly, “that someone may have been
tinkering with the machinery.”

There was another long silence--a moment of agony for Hammersley.

“Yes, _I_ have,” roared Hammersley exultantly.

For just then there was a violent explosion, deafening in the enclosed
space, like the roar of a giant cracker would have been--another--and
then more rapidly another, followed by a number of concussions, like
a pack of giant crackers catching intermittently and then in quick
succession.

General von Stromberg’s smile faded--then vanished in a look of
inefficacy and dismay. He was senile. Hammersley’s grin derided him.
Speech was impossible, but the muzzle of the automatic was as eloquent
as before. One more explosion or six, for that matter, would add little
to the din. Von Stromberg’s life hung by a hair at that moment and
he knew it. Still covering His Excellency, who was now glancing at
the slit in the curtain beside him, Hammersley climbed up to the seat
in front of Doris in the cockpit of the machine. And just as he was
putting a leg over, His Excellency took a quick glance upward, which
had in it a world of expression--and bolted.

Hammersley’s shot must have missed. He looked around at Doris and
laughed, and she saw the light of triumph that rode in his eyes. The
exhaust was roaring steadily now, but with one hand on the wheel and
in the other his automatic, Hammersley sat motionless, watching the
slits in the canvas for the men that he knew must come in a moment.
At a gesture of his, Doris sank low in the cockpit, her hands on the
wheel, watching, too, and ready to do her share as Cyril had directed.
One--two minutes passed--she seemed to be counting the seconds. The
body of the machine was trembling as though with the excitement of the
moment and the explosions had blended into one continuous roar. Cyril
threw the clutch in and the note lowered as the propellers began to
whirr. The huge fabric jumped forward, gathering momentum as it went,
until by the time it reached the canvas curtain in front of it, it was
going as fast as a man would run. The weight of the heavy flap retarded
it for a moment, but it went steadily on, and the canvas was pushed
outward--then rose--it seemed to Doris like the curtain on a melodrama.
Men were running up, shooting as they ran. They clutched at the toggles
and swung off their feet, falling in a heap upon the ground. She saw
a man, the only one not in uniform, take hold of the lower plane and
try to stop the momentum. It was John Rizzio. She saw his face for
a second, dark, handsome, smiling. Cyril rose in his seat and their
weapons streamed fire. Rizzio moved backward with the machine, still
clinging to the lower plane, and then disappeared, passing under it,
just where the blades of the right-hand propeller were.

A slight shock and a shapeless mass went rolling over and over until
it brought up motionless against the jamb of the door. Two other men,
Foresters, warned by Rizzio’s fate, sprang aside with horror in their
eyes. Doris sank lower in her seat, her cheeks bloodless, grasping her
wheel with icy hands, filled with horror. Cyril had sunk down in his
seat, clutching at the side of the cockpit, his weapon falling from
his fingers. With an effort she steadied her hold on the wheel. The
canvas curtain had passed over their heads. They were in the open. To
the right, coming from the Windenberg road, a machine filled with men
was dashing across the field before them at a diagonal which would
intercept them. She heard shots near at hand. Cyril did not move. She
had a glimpse of General von Stromberg, who had snatched a pistol from
the hand of the nearest soldier and fired.

They were moving fast. But the automobile in the field before them
seemed to be moving faster--Captain Wentz and four men! She saw Cyril’s
hand rise in front of her, pointing to the left to avoid them, but
Wentz came on. The Yellow Dove was still running on its wheels. She
saw the danger. Wentz was aiming at a collision. She pulled her wheel
toward her instinctively and the Yellow Dove rose, skimming the ground.
She felt it lifting, slowly, now rapidly. The automobile seemed about
to strike them. Another jerk on the wheel and the skids of the Yellow
Dove just grazed the wind-shield of the machine, and a soldier leaped
into the air, trying to catch a hold, missed and tumbled to the ground.
In the car men were shouting like demons, and a volley of pistol
bullets pierced the planes. She felt them strike the armored body, but
she sank lower, clutching her wheel.

Clear? They must be. A second of agonized suspense and she saw Cyril
turn his head and look down behind them. His face was white but his
eye flashed triumph. His lips moved, but she heard nothing. Safe? They
must be. The Yellow Dove, mounting easily, had cleared the trees at
the border of the farm and before the eyes of the girl stretched only
undulating surfaces of gray and green.

In front of her Cyril lay back in his seat. His hands clutched the
sides of the cockpit. O God! She had not been sure before what his
sudden lassitude had meant. He had been hit! John Rizzio! He turned
around and smiled at her and one hand, stretched before him, pointed
up and to the right. Her throat closed and her heart seemed to stop
its beating and the Dove for a moment swung and tossed like a drunken
thing, but with an effort she inclined her wheel and met it. Cyril
again raised his fingers and pointed upwards. Higher! She tipped the
wheel further toward her. His gesture was like an appeal to Heaven--a
symbol of his faith in her and in the God of both. She set her lips and
obeyed. Broken and helpless--perhaps dying, he was putting his faith in
her. She must not fail him now.

She kept her gaze before her over Cyril’s head, trying to gain strength
for what she had to do, thinking that she was in England--at Ashwater
Park--and that the wheel she held was that of her own little Nieuport.
There seemed to be little difference between them, except that the
Yellow Dove was easier to manage. It responded to the slightest touch,
and had a magnificent steadiness that reassured Doris as to her ability
to do the thing that was required of her.

The mountains had fallen below them and the horizon had widened until
it blurred into the haze of the distance. She looked down on what
seemed to her a plain of purple velvet touched with lighter patches
of orange and violet. Before her the sun was setting blood red in a
sea of amber. She mounted above it into the clear empyrean of azure,
higher--higher yet. She felt the exhilaration of large spaces, the
joy of conquest over all material things. Death even did not dismay
her--Cyril’s--her own. She seemed to have crossed at a bound, from the
realm of substance into that of immateriality. Her soul already sang in
accord with the angels. They were mated. She and Cyril--mated! And even
Death should not separate them.

Dusk fell slowly below them, like a black giant striding across the
face of the earth, but all was still bright and clear about her. The
red ball of the sun would not set. She was going upward--upward into
the realm of continuous and perfect day. Below her a thread of silk,
thrown carelessly upon a purple carpet. The Rhine! She saw Cyril’s hand
come up and move feebly to the right. She turned slowly and followed
its direction. The Rhine--she remembered Cyril’s words back there in
the woods. She must follow the Rhine to the sea and then turn to the
westward along the coast. She would do it. She must.

Cyril was hurt--but perhaps not badly. His gestures reassured her. He
moved his hand in a level line in front of him and she understood.
They had mounted high enough. The barograph showed four thousand
feet. She brought the wheel up to normal and held it there. The wind
burned her cheeks and she knew from the changes in the river below
her that the speed of the Yellow Dove was terrific--ninety miles--a
hundred--a hundred and twenty--an hour--perhaps much more--she did not
know. The speed got into her blood. Faster, faster, was the song her
pulses sung. She was a part of the Yellow Dove now, and it was a part
of herself. Its wings were her wings and its instinct was in her own
fingertips.

Night fell slowly, a luminous night full of stars. She seemed to be
hanging among them--to be one of them--watching the earth pass under
her. Two of them gleamed like St. Elmo’s lights at the tips of the
planes. The sky was clear and bright, of a deep bluish purple, like
the skies she remembered high up on the plains of the great West in
her own country. The air was bitter cold upon her face and she blessed
Cyril’s foresight for the helmet, gloves and old leather jacket that
he had put on her in the hangar. In front of her Cyril leaned slightly
to one side and his right hand touched a button, throwing an electric
light in a hood in front of the wheel upon the face of the compass
and barograph. She glanced at them quickly--four thousand feet--the
direction north-northwest. She longed to speak to him and shouted his
name. But in the roar of the engines she could not hear her own voice.

He still sat up, the fingers of his right hand moving from time to
time as he gave her the direction. She thanked God for that--he was
alive--he would live until they reached Ypres. He _must_ live. He
_must_. She set her teeth upon the words and _willed_ it, praying at
last aloud with lips that screamed yet made no sound.

Below her moved the lights of a city. She did not know what it was.
Cologne, perhaps. She had passed it yesterday morning in the train with
John Rizzio. Yesterday! It seemed a year ago. Cologne--then Dusseldorf.
The river was not difficult to follow. She lost it once and then
moving at a lower altitude she found it quickly. But the old terror was
gripping her now. Cyril! His fingers no longer moved directing her. He
had sunk lower in his seat and his head had fallen back upon one side,
his face upturned to the stars. Was he----?

She put the thought from her. It was impossible. She had prayed. Not
that.... He had only fainted from pain, from sickness. Not dead--she
would not--could not believe it. She longed to reach forward--to let
him feel her hand upon his neck--that he might know her pity and her
pain. It almost seemed better that death should come to them both now
than that he should die and not know the comforting touch of her hand.
She leaned forward and one hand left the wheel, but she lost her touch
of the air and the planes tipped drunkenly, threatening the destruction
she courted.

The madness passed--and with its passing came a calm, ice-cold. She
was no longer a sentient being. She was merely an instinct with wings,
flying as the eagle flies straight for its goal. She kept her glance on
the compass and followed the river. North-northwest. The silver thread
had become a ribbon now, reflecting the starlight. She passed over
other towns. She could see their lights, but her gaze was fixed most
often on the distant horizon, where after a while she would find the
sea.

A yellowish light, painting the under side of the plane above her head,
bewildered her. She could not understand. It was like a reflection of
a candle inside a tent. Low as it was, it blinded her eyes, accustomed
to the soft light of the stars. There was a crash nearby, in the very
air beside her it seemed, a blinding flash of light, and the Yellow
Dove toppled sideways. Instinctively she caught it, turning as she went
and rose higher--higher--as a bird flies at the sound of a shot below.
She knew now what it meant--a searchlight! They were firing at her with
the high-angle guns. She had come fast, but the wire from Windenberg
had been faster. She put the light behind her and long arms of light
still groped for her, but she rose still higher, five--six thousand
feet her barograph told her. Below, to her right, a small thing, shaped
like a dragon-fly, was spitting fire--to her left another, but she sank
lower in her seat laughing at them. Something of Cyril’s joyous bravado
possessed her. She defied them, rising far above them--higher--seven
thousand feet--eight, until she could see them no more.

North-northwest! She found her course again and flew on into the night.
She had lost the river, but that did not matter now. She knew that
after a time--an hour or more--she must come to the sea. And when all
signs of danger were gone she went down again where she could more
plainly see the earth. The moon had come up and bathed the scene below
with its soft light, and far ahead of her she saw irregular streaks of
pale gray against long lines of purplish black. The sea? She had lost
all idea of time and distance. How far the sea was from Windenberg
she did not know, and if she had known it, the passage of time was a
blank to her--a continuous roar, the music of the spheres which took no
thought of time or space. The flight had lasted but a minute--and an
eternity.

To her left the gray streaks were nearer--west by north her compass
said, and she steered for them. Soon she made out distinctly contours
of large masses of gray against the black--water and land. The air was
milder and she sniffed the salt. She went down to three thousand feet
to get her bearings, ever watchful for the dragon-flies and ready to
soar again at the first flash of a searchlight. She had already learned
to avoid the planes where the lights were grouped--the colonies of
glow-worms that here meant danger.

Had she crossed the Belgian line? She had been to Antwerp, to Brussels,
and tried to remember what they had looked like on the map. There was
water near Antwerp--she remembered that, inland bodies of water which
led to the sea. Now she could see beyond the bodies of inland water to
a wide expanse of gray beyond the dark--uninterrupted gray--the ocean!
She bore to her left until her course was due west. A searchlight
flashed upon her for a second and was gone. By the way the contours
were changing she knew that her speed was terrific. And slowly but
more and more certainly as she neared the sea, a problem presented
itself--her goal! Where was it, and how to find it in the dark? Cyril
had said that they must land back of Ypres. But where was Ypres? Beyond
Ostend and inland--thirty--forty miles. She knew that much from the war
maps that she had pored over with her father. But how to find it?

She was over the sea now. The Yellow Dove felt a new breeze and the
wheel tugged under her hand, but the machine lifted at the touch and
wheeled like a gull to speed down the coast. Ostend! The Kursaal!
If she could get a sight of it! It was dangerous, but she must go
lower--three--two hundred feet from the sea, where she might make out
familiar profiles against the sky.

The waves rose to meet her, reflecting the starlight, and just below
her to the left the surf rolled in lines of white upon the beach.
Dunes, dunes interminably, with here and there a collection of huts.
A dark shape moved in the water ahead of her, another---- Warships?
Destroyers. She wheeled out to sea and flew above them, but before they
had time even to get their searchlights ranged upon her, the danger was
past. She would win now. The Yellow Dove was invincible.

A dark irregular mass ahead of her rose above the monotony of dunes,
buildings, and a bulk she seemed to recognize--a round dome iridescent
like a soap bubble in the moonlight. The Kursaal! Ostend! She was
nearing her destination--the end of the German lines. Friends were
near--Belgians, French, and English. Twenty--thirty miles beyond Ostend
and then inland somewhere back of Ypres she would find the English.
The English lines were thirty or forty miles long, she remembered.
It should not be difficult to find them. She must be sure to go far
enough--but not too far--not to where the French army joined the
British forces. Cyril’s papers must go to the English, to General
French himself. He had said so.

She had no way of judging distance except by the passage of the
minutes. At the speed she was flying she must turn inland in fifteen
minutes. She had no watch and she tried counting the seconds. She had
counted sixty--four times--when a battery hidden among the dunes along
the shore opened fire on her. She was half a mile from shore, flying
low, but the flash of light startled her and the shell burst beyond.
She rose quickly, moving further out to sea, frightened, but still
self-possessed. It would not do to fail now with the goal in sight.

The compass gave her course southwest by west. She counted again,
guessing at the time she had lost, and then, making a wide spiral out
to sea and rising to three thousand feet, she drove the Yellow Dove
inland. Searchlights were turned on her and shots fired, but she went
higher, trying to make out if she could the lines of the opposing
armies. Red and yellow lights were displayed below to her left, and
far to her right were tiny clusters of lights, but there seemed to be
no order in their arrangement--no lines that she could distinguish
even at this height. Her keen eyes, now inured to the darkness, made
out a monoplane against the starlight ahead of her--but she swerved to
the right, the greater power of the Yellow Dove enabling her to rise
and elude it. She flew for what seemed ten or fifteen minutes, going
steadily to the south and west, when she drove for a spot where there
were no lights and then shut off the throttle and dove.

She knew that this was perhaps the greatest moment of her great
adventure. A landing place in the dark in a country she did not know,
where a church steeple, a telegraph wire, the limb of a tree, would
bring her and her precious freight to disaster. With the sudden
shutting off of the power, a silence that bewildered her, a silence
broken only by the whirr of the wind against the planes. Her ears ached
from the change of pressure in her swift descent. She eased her wheel
back gently, trying to make out objects below. Dark patches--woods--to
be avoided, the roof of a house--another--lights here and there, small,
obscure, which she had not seen. She avoided them all, planing down in
a spiral toward what seemed to be unobstructed space.

She breathed a prayer as the earth came up to meet her. Death----?
Whatever came--Cyril, too.... She stared straight before her, feeling
out the wind pressure on the planes, gliding as near the horizontal as
she dared. An open field! Thank God! A gentle shock and the springs
responded. The Yellow Dove rebounded slightly and ran along the ground
smoothly upon its wheels--then stopped. She tried to get up, but could
not. Her hands seemed fastened to the wheel. She heard the sound of
men’s voices shouting and saw lights, but she could not seem to make
a sound. She was shivering violently, also laughing a little, but she
had no sense of being cold. She seemed very weak somehow, and very
helpless. And then, just as the lights grew brighter--they went out.




CHAPTER XXIII

HEADQUARTERS


“A woman!” she heard a man’s voice say at her ear. She was lying upon
the ground, and strange faces were bending over her. “Well, I’m damned!”

English!

“And the other?” she heard again. “Dead as a ’errin’!”

Doris sat up, staring at them wildly.

“Wait! There’s a flutter ’ere yet.” She heard the other man say. “Come,
Bill. Let’s have ’im over to the ’ouse.”

Doris managed to find a whisper. “A surgeon--for _him_,” she said to
the man supporting her. “He will not die. He is only wounded.”

It was her obsession. It would not leave her.

She saw them carrying Cyril toward the house, and when they wanted to
take her, too, she said that she would walk. Though deathly weak, she
managed to reach the house where they had carried Cyril. They gave her
a drink of something and she revived.

It was a Red Cross station, they told her, and the doctor would be here
in a moment. But in the meanwhile first aid was administered, and at
her place at his bedside she saw Cyril struggling faintly back to life.

“He will not die,” she repeated quietly when the surgeon had examined
him gravely.

“I hope not--but he’s bled a good deal. We’ll see.”

They cut away his coat and wanted to send her away, but she pleaded
to remain and in a moment she heard Cyril’s voice whispering
hoarsely--“Papers--coat pocket--Sir John French.”

“All right,” said the surgeon cheerfully. “We’ll see to that.”

“Doris.”

“Here, Cyril.”

“Rippin’ fine--of you--no mistake--old girl----”

His whisper trailed off into silence and at the surgeon’s orders they
led her away from his cot, but she would not leave the room until she
got the papers out of the pocket of his jacket. An orderly led her to
a young officer with his arm in a sling who sat at a table in another
part of the building. He listened to her story attentively and read the
documents carefully, his lips as he read emitting a thin whistle. He
glanced at his watch and for a moment left the room.

“It is arranged. You shall go,” he said when he came back. “A machine
will be here in a moment.” He paused, examining her doubtfully. She was
spattered with grease and oil, but the pallor of her face beneath its
grime showed that her strength was near its end. “Wouldn’t you trust
those dispatches to me? It’s ten miles to headquarters and rough.”

“No--no, I will go. I promised.”

But he ordered some hot coffee and bread, and thus fortified, when the
motor came around she was driven upon her way. The young officer sat
beside her, eagerly listening, while she gave him a brief outline of
their adventures.

“Amazin’!” he said from time to time. “Most amazin’!”

And then as she went on, he said quietly:

“You’re goin’ on your nerve, I think. Better save your strength until
we get to headquarters. It isn’t far now.”

She tried to keep silent, but it seemed as though she must go on
talking. That seemed to give her strength to complete her task, for
when she sank back in her seat and tried to relax she only grew weak
thinking of Cyril lying back there, hovering between life and death.
And then she heard herself saying aloud, “He will not die. He has gone
through too much to die now.”

The man beside her glanced down at her and smiled gently.

“No, he isn’t going to die. Bullets don’t kill nowadays--unless they
kill at once.”

“Yes--yes,” she assented. “That’s it. If he had been going to die, he
would have been dead now, wouldn’t he?”

She laid her hand eagerly on the young officer’s arm and he put his
hand over hers.

“Palmerston is the best surgeon along this part of the line. He’ll pull
him through. Don’t you worry.”

“I won’t--I’ll try not to--you’re awfully kind. Would you mind telling
me your name?”

“Jackson. Second Leinster Dragoons. And yours?”

“Mather--Doris Mather. I--I don’t want to forget your name. You’ve been
very good to understand everything so perfectly.”

“Oh, it’s nothing. There are reasons--I’m on Headquarters Staff, you
know.”

That was one reason. But another one was that there was a girl at
home just as much worried over his wound as Miss Mather was over
Hammersley’s.

They passed from the rough roads between gates into a smoother one
which was bordered with poplars. At the end in front of her she saw
lights and reached a doorway, where an orderly opened the door of
the machine and saluted her companion. Their arrival, it seemed, was
expected. Captain Jackson took her by the arm and led her indoors, for
her courage or her nerves seemed to be failing her again, down a quiet
hall into a room where an officer with a gray mustache sat before a
lighted lamp at a table covered with papers. She recognized him at once
from the many portraits that had appeared in the weekly papers. He
spoke to her and she tried to reply, but she could not. She seemed only
to have strength enough to thrust the papers forward into his hand,
when her knees gave way under her and she sank in a heap upon the floor.

Gentle hands lifted her and laid her upon a couch in the corner of the
room. She tried to get up, but could not. She heard the voices of the
officers in the room as from a great distance, and then a woman came
and two men carried her upstairs and put her to bed. She realized that
she was talking incoherently of Cyril, of the Yellow Dove. They gave
her something to drink and her nerves grew mysteriously quiet. She
seemed to be sailing smoothly through the air--higher, higher--Cyril’s
fingers were pointing upward. She was tipping the wheel toward
her--ever toward her, and they rose higher. They had reached the region
of continuous and perfect day. Cyril turned his head and looked at her,
and then he smiled.

       *       *       *       *       *

It was broad daylight when she awoke, for the sunshine was streaming in
at the window. A woman sat near her, knitting. She was an old woman of
many wrinkles, kindly wrinkles which seemed to vie with one another to
express placidity. As Doris rose in her bed the old woman rose, too,
and came forward briskly, speaking in French.

“Ah, Mademoiselle is awake. _Bon._ She is feeling better?”

“Yes, better--but a little tired.” And then, as she realized where she
was, “Could you tell me----? General French--could I see him?”

“All is well, mademoiselle. Monsieur le General--he is not here now.
But he will be back after a while. He will see you, then, but first
it is proper that you have breakfast and a bath. Mademoiselle needs a
bath--I think.”

Doris glanced at her hand, which lay upon the white coverlid. It was
black. “Yes, I will bathe. But first will you tell me----?”

The old woman smiled as she interrupted, “I was to tell you that
Monsieur yonder is better. That is what Mademoiselle wished to know, is
it not?”

Doris sank back upon her pillow in a silence which gave the full
measure of her joy. Cyril would recover. She had been sure of it. She
had told them last night. God was good.

The news gave her strength, and the coffee and eggs that were brought
revived her rapidly. Her nerves still trembled in memory of what they
had passed through, but when she was bathed and dressed in clean linen
garments, much too large for her, a surgeon brought her medicine, and
what was better than medicine, news that Cyril was conscious and was
asking for her.

But they would not let her go to him. Tomorrow perhaps. Meanwhile the
doctor would be glad to take a message. Doris colored gently. The
message that she would have liked to send was not to be transmitted by
this means.

“Tell him,” she said at last quietly, “that I am well--and that I will
see him when I have permission to do so.”

The officer smiled, gave some directions to the old woman and went out.

It was not until late in the afternoon, when dressed in her own
garments, which had been carefully cleansed and brushed by her nurse,
that she was admitted to the office of the Field Marshal. She was shown
into his room and he greeted her with unmistakable cordiality, offering
her the chair next his own and congratulating her warmly upon the
success of her achievement and Cyril’s.

“You know,” he asked quietly, “the contents of these documents?”

“Yes. Their importance made it necessary that I should.”

“Then of course you realize the necessity for the utmost secrecy?”

“I do.”

The General smiled at her and brought forward a copy of a recent issue
of the London _Times_.

“Did you know that for the past three days England has actually stopped
criticizing me to talk about you?”

“About _me_?” she asked.

“Yes, read,” he said smiling, and she took the paper from him, skimming
the headings of a news item he pointed out to her:

                      MISS MATHER STILL MISSING.

              MYSTERIOUS DISAPPEARANCE STILL UNACCOUNTED
                                 FOR.

                  LADY HEATHCOTE TELLS STRANGE STORY.

              JOHN RIZZIO, THE FAMOUS COLLECTOR, A GERMAN
                                 SPY.

And then in the news item below:

    Allison Mather, of Ashwater Park, believing that his daughter
    is still alive, today offered a reward of five thousand pounds
    to anyone----

She stopped reading and put the paper down.

“Poor Daddy!” she whispered. “O Sir John, will you let him know----?”

“I have already done so, child. He knows that you are safe.” And then
with a laugh, “The five thousand pounds--I think are mine. I need a new
hospital corps.”

“Oh, he’ll give it, I’m sure.”

“You promise?”

“Yes.”

He took her hand and rose in the act of dismissal. “We have supper at
six. I hope you will be able to join us.”

“But, General----” She paused at the door.

He smiled at her softly.

“If all goes well--you shall see him tomorrow.”

She colored prettily. Everyone seemed to know, but she didn’t care. The
world, in spite of its terrors, was a garden of roses to Doris.

       *       *       *       *       *

She did not see Cyril the next day or the one following. His
temperature had risen, and while the danger of a relapse was not
acute, they thought it safer that she be kept away. She had worried,
fearing the worst, but the frankness of the head surgeon reassured her.
The bullet had drilled through him, just scraping the lung. He would
recover. But why take a chance of complication when all was going well?
There was no reply to that, so Doris waited at headquarters, thankful
and trying to be patient, sending two penciled scrawls which were
delivered to the wounded man.

It was not until three days later that she received word that she would
be permitted to see him. His cot had been carried into a small room
at the front of the building, and she entered it timidly, the nurse,
with a smile and a glance at her watch, both of which were eloquent,
withdrawing. He was propped up on pillows, and though pale from the
loss of blood, greeted her with his old careless smile. She sank into
the chair by the side of the bed and caught his hand to her lips.

“O Cyril,” she murmured. “Cyril, I’m so glad. But I knew you wouldn’t
die--you couldn’t after getting safely through everything else.”

“Die! Well, hardly. I’m right as rain. Jolly close shootin’ that of
Rizzio’s, though. Pity he had to go--that way.”

She hid her face in her hands.

“Don’t! Let’s forget him.” And then, “Have you suffered much?”

“No. The bally thing burns a bit now and then--but the worst of it is,
they won’t let a chap smoke.”

She laughed and he caught her hand closer.

“How did you do it, Doris? How did you?” he questioned.

“I had to, Cyril,” she said. “It wasn’t anything--except knowing where
to come down. That bothered me. I guessed at Ypres. The rest was luck.”

“More than luck, old girl. Just courage and intelligence. I felt myself
failin’, up there, but I saw you knew your way about and then I--I
seemed to go to sleep. Silly of me, wasn’t it?”

“Silly! You fainted, Cyril.”

“Rotten time to faint.”

“You might have died up there. Once I thought you had died. Oh, that
dreadful moment! I wanted to go, too--with you. I was a little mad, I
think. I wanted to take you in my arms and go with you--down--down. My
hands even left the wheel. The Yellow Dove toppled--but I caught her.”

“Poor child!”

“After that I seemed to grow all cold with reason and skill. I
forgot you. I looked beyond, over your poor head. I had to succeed,
Cyril--that was all.”

His hand pressed hers tenderly.

“You’re the only girl in the world who could do it. I’m glad--proud----”
He broke off. “My word, Doris! There’s no use tryin’ to tell you what I
think of you. I’m no good at that sort of thing.”

“I understand. You’re just--yourself. That’s enough for me.”

“You were a trump up there in the Thorwald--to stay with poor old Udo,
but I had to go. It was the only way. I never thought we’d make it.”

“But we did.”

“_You_ did. It was the Dove, Doris--the good old Dove. Isn’t she a
ripper?”

“I never had a fear--once she rose. How did you happen----”

He laughed.

“It was to be a surprise. I’d been workin’ on her for a year--tryin’
her out on the moors. Nobody knew--until the war came--and then I told
Udo, who told von Stromberg. I tried a flight to Windenberg and made
it comfortably. Awf’ly easy thing. I stayed at Windenberg in October,
flyin’ over the English lines, droppin’ bombs.”

“That was where you were----!”

“But I never hit anythin’. Wouldn’t do, you know. Then when I came back
I told the War Office. They sent me for the papers. You know the rest.”

“O Cyril, I’m so glad it’s all over. You’ll go to England now and rest.”

“For a while.” And then, “Will you marry me, Doris? Soon?”

“Yes,” she said softly. “Whenever you want me.”

“Here? Now?”

“But, Cyril----”

“There’s a parson chap about here somewhere. I saw him browsin’ in here
the other day.”

“Isn’t it a little----”

“Say you will, there’s a dear.”

“Yes, if you wish it. But----”

“What?”

“Clothes.”

“Nonsense. You’re jolly handsome in those togs--handsome no end,” he
repeated. “Marry me tomorrow, Doris. There’s a dear.”

She leaned her face down upon his hand.

“We’re already married, Cyril. Up there I felt it. Even death couldn’t
have separated us.”

“Thank God! Kiss me, Doris.” She obeyed.

“I’ll see Jackson,” he whispered. “He’ll manage it. Resourceful chap,
Jackson. He’ll get us a chaplain like pullin’ a rabbit out of a hat.”

She laughed.

“I don’t suppose I’d ever have known you, Cyril, over there in England.
You always did wonderful things carelessly, Cyril.”

“But not this wonderful thing----” and he kissed her.

“It is a wonderful thing,” she whispered. “So wonderful that I wonder
if it can be true.”

“I’ll prove it to you----”

But she had straightened and kissed his hand.

“No more now--I mustn’t stay. I hear them in the hall.”

“Tomorrow?” he asked.

“Yes.”

“Jackson?”

“Yes.”

The nurse knocked discreetly and entered. “Five minutes. I’m sorry.”

“So am I,” said Hammersley, with a sigh.

       *       *       *       *       *

Three weeks later they stood side by side at the rail of the Channel
boat on the way to Ashwater Park for the parental blessing. The shores
of France were already purple in the distance. They had looked upon
Death with eyes that did not fear, but the sight of it together had
made the bond of their fealty and tenderness the stronger. There was a
sadness in his look and she knew instinctively of what he was thinking.

“Germany, Cyril,” she said aloud. “I love it because a part of it is
you. But I love England more, because it _is_ you.”

Hammersley watched the receding shores beyond the vessel’s wake, her
hand in his.

“They’re followin’ false gods, Doris. Gods of steel and brass----!”

“They _must_ fall, Cyril.”

“They will.” And then, “But you can’t help admirin’ the beggars! Poor
old Udo!”

“I think about him, Cyril. Do you think he got away?”

“Well, rather! I cut his bonds with a huntin’ knife before we went
down.”

She looked up into his face in amazement. “You dared do that?” He
laughed.

“You wouldn’t have let him be more generous than me.”

“And he let us go?”

“He didn’t think we _could_ go. He left things to Destiny.”

“Good old Udo!” she repeated. And then dreamily, “Destiny! You were not
meant to die, Cyril.”

“Not yet.” He said slowly: “But I must go back--over there, Doris.”

She shivered a little and drew closer to him.

“Yes, I know,” she said. “But you’ve earned----”

“I couldn’t ever earn what I’ve got,” he broke in quickly.

“Nor I----”

“I’m not much of a chap at pretty speeches and all that sort of thing,
but you’re a rare one, you know, the rummiest sort of a rare one--the
kind a chap dreams about but never gets--and yet I’ve got you-- Oh,
hang it all, Doris,” he broke off helplessly. “You know----”

She smiled at him and slipped her arm through his.

“Yes, I know,” she said.

“Good old Doris,” he muttered. “Silly ass, aren’t I?”

But she wouldn’t admit that.




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I ACCUSE (_J’ACCUSE!_) By a German. A Scathing Arraignment of the
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GROSSET & DUNLAP, PUBLISHERS, NEW YORK




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GROSSET & DUNLAP, PUBLISHERS, NEW YORK




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GROSSET & DUNLAP, PUBLISHERS, NEW YORK




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May be had wherever books are sold. Ask for Grosset & Dunlap’s list.


THE LIGHT OF WESTERN STARS

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Most of the action of this story takes place near the turbulent Mexican
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This is the record of a trip which the author took with Buffalo Jones,
known as the preserver of the American bison, across the Arizona desert
and of a hunt in “that wonderful country of yellow crags, deep cañons
and giant pines.” It is a fascinating story.


THE HERITAGE OF THE DESERT

Jacket in color. Frontispiece.

This big human drama is played in the Painted Desert. A lovely
girl, who has been reared among Mormons, learns to love a young New
Englander. The Mormon religion, however, demands that the girl shall
become the second wife of one of the Mormons--

Well, that’s the problem of this sensational, big selling story.


BETTY ZANE

Illustrated by Louis F. Grant.

This story tells of the bravery and heroism of Betty, the beautiful
young sister of old Colonel Zane, one of the bravest pioneers. Life
along the frontier, attacks by Indians, Betty’s heroic defense of the
beleaguered garrison at Wheeling, the burning of the Fort, and Betty’s
final race for life, make up this never-to-be-forgotten story.


GROSSET & DUNLAP, PUBLISHERS, NEW YORK




STORIES OF RARE CHARM BY

GENE STRATTON-PORTER

May be had wherever books are sold. Ask for Grosset and Dunlap’s list.


[Illustration]

LADDIE.

Illustrated by Herman Pfeifer.

This is a bright, cheery tale with the scenes laid in Indiana. The
story is told by Little Sister, the youngest member of a large family,
but it is concerned not so much with childish doings as with the love
affairs of older members of the family. Chief among them is that of
Laddie, the older brother whom Little Sister adores, and the Princess,
an English girl who has come to live in the neighborhood and about
whose family there hangs a mystery. There is a wedding midway in the
book and a double wedding at the close.


THE HARVESTER.

Illustrated by W. L. Jacobs.

“The Harvester,” David Langston, is a man of the woods and fields, who
draws his living from the prodigal hand of Mother Nature herself. If
the book had nothing in it but the splendid figure of this man it would
be notable. But when the Girl comes to his “Medicine Woods,” and the
Harvester’s whole being realizes that this is the highest point of life
which has come to him--there begins a romance of the rarest idyllic
quality.


FRECKLES.

Decorations by E. Stetson Crawford.

Freckles is a nameless waif when the tale opens, but the way in which
he takes hold of life; the nature friendships he forms in the great
Limberlost Swamp; the manner in which everyone who meets him succumbs
to the charm of his engaging personality; and his love-story with “The
Angel” are full of real sentiment.


A GIRL OF THE LIMBERLOST.

Illustrated by Wladyslaw T. Brenda.

The story of a girl of the Michigan woods; a buoyant, lovable type of
the self-reliant American. Her philosophy is one of love and kindness
towards all things; her hope is never dimmed. And by the sheer beauty
of her soul, and the purity of her vision, she wins from barren and
unpromising surroundings those rewards of high courage.


AT THE FOOT OF THE RAINBOW.

Illustrations in colors by Oliver Kemp.

The scene of this charming love story is laid in Central Indiana. The
story is one of devoted friendship, and tender self-sacrificing love.
The novel is brimful of the most beautiful word painting of nature, and
its pathos and tender sentiment will endear it to all.


GROSSET & DUNLAP, PUBLISHERS, NEW YORK




 JOHN FOX, JR’S.
 STORIES OF THE KENTUCKY MOUNTAINS

May be had wherever books are sold. Ask for Grosset and Dunlap’s list.


THE TRAIL OF THE LONESOME PINE.

Illustrated by F. C. Yohn.

[Illustration]

The “lonesome pine” from which the story takes its name was a tall tree
that stood in solitary splendor on a mountain top. The fame of the pine
lured a young engineer through Kentucky to catch the trail, and when
he finally climbed to its shelter he found not only the pine but the
_foot-prints of a girl_. And the girl proved to be lovely, piquant, and
the trail of these girlish foot-prints led the young engineer a madder
chase than “the trail of the lonesome pine.”


THE LITTLE SHEPHERD OF KINGDOM COME.

Illustrated by F. C. Yohn.

This is a story of Kentucky, in a settlement known as “Kingdom Come.”
It is a life rude, semi-barbarous; but natural and honest, from which
often springs the flower of civilization.

“Chad.” the “little shepherd” did not know who he was nor whence he
came--he had just wandered from door to door since early childhood,
seeking shelter with kindly mountaineers who gladly fathered and
mothered this waif about whom there was such a mystery--a charming
waif, by the way, who could play the banjo better that anyone else in
the mountains.


A KNIGHT OF THE CUMBERLAND.

Illustrated by F. C. Yohn.

The scenes are laid along the waters of the Cumberland, the lair of
moonshiner and feudsman. The knight is a moonshiner’s son, and the
heroine a beautiful girl perversely christened “The Blight.” Two
impetuous young Southerners fall under the spell of “The Blight’s”
charms and she learns what a large part jealousy and pistols have in
the love making of the mountaineers.

Included in this volume is “Hell fer-Sartain” and other stories, some
of Mr. Fox’s most entertaining Cumberland valley narratives.


_Ask for a complete free list of G. & D. Popular Copyrighted Fiction._

GROSSET & DUNLAP, 526 WEST 26th ST., NEW YORK




CHARMING BOOKS FOR GIRLS

May be had wherever books are sold. Ask for Grosset & Dunlap’s list.


WHEN PATTY WENT TO COLLEGE, By Jean Webster.

Illustrated by C. D. Williams.

One of the best stories of life in a girl’s college that has ever been
written. It is bright, whimsical and entertaining, lifelike, laughable
and thoroughly human.


JUST PATTY, By Jean Webster.

Illustrated by C. M. Relyea.

Patty is full of the joy of living, fun-loving, given to ingenious
mischief for its own sake, with a disregard for pretty convention which
is an unfailing source of joy to her fellows.


THE POOR LITTLE RICH GIRL, By Eleanor Gates.

With four full page illustrations.

This story relates the experience of one of those unfortunate children
whose early days are passed in the companionship of a governess, seldom
seeing either parent, and famishing for natural love and tenderness. A
charming play as dramatized by the author.


REBECCA OF SUNNYBROOK FARM, By Kate Douglas Wiggin.

One of the most beautiful studies of childhood--Rebecca’s artistic,
unusual and quaintly charming qualities stand out midst a circle of
austere New Englanders. The stage version is making a phenomenal
dramatic record.


NEW CHRONICLES OF REBECCA, By Kate Douglas Wiggin.

Illustrated by F. C. Yohn.

Additional episodes in the girlhood of this delightful heroine that
carry Rebecca through various stages to her eighteenth birthday.


REBECCA MARY, By Annie Hamilton Donnell.

Illustrated by Elizabeth Shippen Green.

This author possesses the rare gift of portraying all the grotesque
little joys and sorrows and scruples of this very small girl with a
pathos that is peculiarly genuine and appealing.


EMMY LOU: Her Book and Heart, By George Madden Martin.

Illustrated by Charles Louis Hinton.

Emmy Lou is irresistibly lovable, because she is so absolutely real.
She is just a bewitchingly innocent, huggable little maid. The book is
wonderfully human.


_Ask for a complete free list of G. & D. Popular Copyrighted Fiction._

GROSSET & DUNLAP, 526 WEST 26th ST., NEW YORK




MYRTLE REED’S NOVELS

May be had wherever books are sold. Ask for Grosset & Dunlap’s list


[Illustration]

LAVENDER AND OLD LACE.

A charming story of a quaint corner of New England where bygone romance
finds a modern parallel. The story centers round the coming of love
to the young people on the staff of a newspaper--and it is one of the
prettiest, sweetest and quaintest of old fashioned love stories, * * * a
rare book, exquisite in spirit and conception, full of delicate fancy,
of tenderness, of delightful humor and spontaneity.


A SPINNER IN THE SUN.

Miss Myrtle Reed may always be depended upon to write a story in
which poetry, charm, tenderness and humor are combined into a clever
and entertaining book. Her characters are delightful and she always
displays a quaint humor of expression and a quiet feeling of pathos
which give a touch of active realism to all her writings. In “A Spinner
in the Sun” she tells an old-fashioned love story, of a veiled lady who
lives in solitude and whose features her neighbors have never seen.
There is a mystery at the heart of the book that throws over it the
glamour of romance.


THE MASTER’S VIOLIN.

A love story in a musical atmosphere. A picturesque, old German
virtuoso is the reverent possessor of a genuine “Cremona.” He consents
to take for his pupil a handsome youth who proves to have an aptitude
for technique, but not the soul of an artist. The youth has led the
happy, careless life of a modern, well-to-do young American and he
cannot, with his meagre past, express the love, the passion and the
tragedies of life and all its happy phases as can the master who has
lived life in all its fulness. But a girl comes into his life--a
beautiful bit of human driftwood that his aunt had taken into her
heart and home, and through his passionate love for her, he learns the
lessons that life has to give--and his soul awakes.

Founded on a fact that all artists realize.


_Ask for a complete free list of G. & D. Popular Copyrighted Fiction._

GROSSET & DUNLAP, 526 WEST 26th ST., NEW YORK




B. M. Bower’s Novels

Thrilling Western Romances

Large 12 mos. Handsomely bound in cloth. Illustrated


CHIP, OF THE FLYING U

A breezy wholesome tale, wherein the love affairs of Chip and Della
Whitman are charmingly and humorously told. Chip’s jealousy of Dr.
Cecil Grantham, who turns out to be a big, blue eyed young woman is
very amusing. A clever, realistic story of the American Cow-puncher.


THE HAPPY FAMILY

A lively and amusing story, dealing with the adventures of eighteen
jovial, big hearted Montana cowboys. Foremost amongst them, we find
Ananias Green, known as Andy, whose imaginative powers cause many
lively and exciting adventures.


HER PRAIRIE KNIGHT

A realistic story of the plains, describing a gay party of Easterners
who exchange a cottage at Newport for the rough homeliness of a Montana
ranch-house. The merry-hearted cowboys, the fascinating Beatrice, and
the effusive Sir Redmond, become living, breathing personalities.


THE RANGE DWELLERS

Here are everyday, genuine cowboys, just as they really exist. Spirited
action, a range feud between two families, and a Romeo and Juliet
courtship make this a bright, jolly, entertaining story, without a dull
page.


THE LURE OF DIM TRAILS

A vivid portrayal of the experience of an Eastern author, among the
cowboys of the West, in search of “local color” for a new novel. “Bud”
Thurston learns many a lesson while following “the lure of the dim
trails” but the hardest, and probably the most welcome, is that of love.


THE LONESOME TRAIL

“Weary” Davidson leaves the ranch for Portland, where conventional
city life palls on him. A little branch of sage brush, pungent with
the atmosphere of the prairie, and the recollection of a pair of large
brown eyes soon compel his return. A wholesome love story.


THE LONG SHADOW

A vigorous Western story, sparkling with the free, outdoor, life of a
mountain ranch. Its scenes shift rapidly and its actors play the game
of life fearlessly and like men. It is a fine love story from start to
finish.


Ask for a complete free list of G. & D. Popular Copyrighted Fiction.

GROSSET & DUNLAP, 526 WEST 26TH ST., NEW YORK




THE NOVELS OF

STEWART EDWARD WHITE


THE RULES OF THE GAME.

Illustrated by Lajaren A. Hiller.

The romance of the son of “The Riverman.” The young college hero goes
into the lumber camp, is antagonized by “graft” and comes into the
romance of his life.


ARIZONA NIGHTS.

Illus. and cover inlay by N. C. Wyeth.

A series of spirited tales emphasizing some phases of the life of the
ranch, plains and desert. A masterpiece.


THE BLAZED TRAIL.

With illustrations by Thomas Fogarty.

A wholesome story with gleams of humor, telling of a young man who
blazed his way to fortune through the heart of the Michigan pines.


THE CLAIM JUMPERS. A Romance.

The tenderfoot manager of a mine in a lonesome gulch of the Black Hills
has a hard time of it, but “wins out” in more ways than one.


CONJUROR’S HOUSE.

Illustrated Theatrical Edition.

Dramatized under the title of “The Call of the North.”

“Conjuror’s House” is a Hudson Bay trading post where the head factor
is the absolute lord. A young fellow risked his life and won a bride on
this forbidden land.


THE MAGIC FOREST. A Modern Fairy Tale.

Illustrated.

The sympathetic way in which the children of the wild and their life
is treated could only belong to one who is in love with the forest and
open air. Based on fact.


THE RIVERMAN.

Illus. by N. C. Wyeth and C. Underwood.

The story of a man’s fight against a river and of a struggle between
honesty and grit on the one side, and dishonesty and shrewdness on the
other.


THE SILENT PLACES.

Illustrations by Philip R. Goodwin.

The wonders of the northern forests, the heights of feminine devotion
and masculine power, the intelligence of the Caucasian and the instinct
of the Indian, are all finely drawn in this story.


THE WESTERNERS.

A story of the Black Hills that is justly placed among the best
American novels. It portrays the life of the new West as no other book
has done in recent years.


THE MYSTERY.

In collaboration with Samuel Hopkins Adams.

With illustrations by Will Crawford.

The disappearance of three successive crews from the stout ship
“Laughing Lass” in mid-Pacific, is a mystery weird and inscrutable. In
the solution, there is a story of the most exciting voyage that man
ever undertook.


GROSSET & DUNLAP, 526 WEST 26th ST., NEW YORK




      *      *      *      *      *      *




Transcriber’s note:

 --Except for the frontispiece, illustrations have been moved to
   follow the text that they illustrate, so the page number of the
   illustration may not match the page number in the List of
   Illustrations.

 --Punctuation and spelling inaccuracies were silently corrected.

 --Archaic and variable spelling has been preserved.

 --Variations in hyphenation and compound words have been preserved.

 --The author’s em-dash and long dash styles have been retained.



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