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Title: The Crouching Beast
Author: Williams, Valentine (1883-1946)
Date of first publication: 1928 [The Crouching Beast];
   1936 [Preface to A Clubfoot Omnibus]
Edition used as base for this ebook:
   London: Hodder & Stoughton, September 1936
   [A Clubfoot Omnibus]
Date first posted: 25 January 2011
Date last updated: 25 January 2011
Project Gutenberg Canada ebook #707

This ebook was produced by Al Haines and Mark Akrigg






[Transcriber's notes: this etext is one of four stories drawn from an
omnibus book.  The original chapter numbers have been retained.]






A CLUBFOOT OMNIBUS



THE CROUCHING BEAST


BY

VALENTINE WILLIAMS




H&S

LONDON

HODDER & STOUGHTON, LIMITED




The Publishers wish to express their thanks to Messrs. Herbert Jenkins,
Ltd., who have very kindly given their permission for The Man with the
Clubfoot and The Return of Clubfoot to be reprinted in this Omnibus.



First printed in this Omnibus Edition

September . . . . . 1936




Made and Printed in Great Britain for Hodder & Stoughton, Limited,

by C. Tinling & Co., Ltd., Liverpool, London and Prescot.




PREFACE

Mr. Dooley remarks in the course of one of his conversations with his
friend Hinnissy that news is sin and sin news and that you can write
all the news in a convent on the back of a postage stamp.  The sage was
merely expressing in his own way the discouraging but inescapable truth
that evil makes livelier reading than good for the simple reason that
the blameless life is static while ill-doing implies action.  If as the
Good Book tells us, the way of the transgressor is hard, for the
purposes of fiction especially sensational fiction, it is incomparably
better value than the way of the just.  The descent to Avernus, from
the reader's point of view, is considerably easier going than the
primrose path.

Where authors congregate in the Elysian Fields it is no doubt a source
of gratification to the late Dean Farrar to know that generations of
schoolboys continue to devour _Eric or Little by Little_.  I am afraid
however, that the continued popularity of the good Dean's masterpiece
reposes more upon the tribulations of the well-intentioned but
unfortunate hero, and in particular, the fiendish machinations of
Barker the bully, than the elevating sentiments of worthy Mr. Rose.
The fact is that in fiction stained-glass heroes have a habit of
staying put in their windows: it is the bad boys, the men of flesh and
blood, that come to life--d'Artagnan and Tom Jones, Gil Blas, Figaro
and Hajji Baba.

Particularly the villains--those, at least, of the more plausible
variety--linger in the memory.  We may not recall the intricate plot of
_The Woman in White_ but who can forget Count Fosco, with his light
tenor voice and his canaries?  Still the mere names of Fagin, Long John
Silver, Dr. Nikola and Count Dracula send long shivers chasing down our
spines, however the exploits in which they figure be blurred in the
mind.

I wrote a book about a villain once--his name was The Man with the
Clubfoot--and it changed my whole career.  I think it was fated.
Desperate characters were ever my meat.  At a tender age, my mother
used to tell me, she discovered her sweet little boy directing his
sisters in a childish game of his imagining representing the police
(with handkerchiefs realistically tied over their noses) exhuming the
surplus wives whom the bigamous Mr. Deeming had interred under the
kitchen floor.

When my father took me as a schoolboy to the Adelphi melodramas my
delight was not the breezy and super-heroic Mr. Terriss but the
villainous Mr. Abingdon, with his black moustache, nonchalant air and
"faultless" evening dress.  I remember thinking, when we studied
"Hamlet" at school, that Shakespeare would have heightened the dramatic
effect of the play by giving us more of the King, so gorgeously
profligate, so resourcefully murder-minded.  I always felt that Conan
Doyle's Moriarty is no more than a rat in the arras--Sherlock Holmes
could only have gained in stature had the author bestowed on the
shadowy figure of the impresario of crime some of the tender care he
lavished upon the delineation of the harmless but necessary Watson.

When, in the midst of the World War, the spirit moved me to try my hand
at writing a "thriller," one of the first conclusions I arrived at was
that the surest and subtlest way to build up the hero's character was
by creating a reasonably plausible villain.  My hero was to be a quiet
Englishman of the regular officer type--it seemed obvious to me that,
the more ruthless his opponent could be made to appear, the more
effective the hero's nonchalance and resolute abstention from heroics.
The merit of the secret service setting with the Great War as a
background was that in this field, as I knew from a fairly intimate
acquaintance with the subject, there was absolutely no limit to the
perilous situations to be contrived.  Unconsciously, perhaps, _The Man
With the Clubfoot_ expressed the sense of bewilderment with which we
all discovered that in war anything can happen--and frequently does.

A novel resembles a dream in being a thing of shreds and patches, a
welter of impressions consciously or subconsciously absorbed.  Actually
my tale became for me an outlet of escape from the pent-up emotions of
the battlefield, for I wrote it when convalescing from wounds received
on the Somme.  One might say that the shell which blew me sky-high and
temporarily put an end to my military activities blew me into fiction,
for, before joining up with the Irish Guards, I had spent all my
working life in Fleet Street.  I was propelled aloft, that sunny
September afternoon, an experienced newspaper man and came down a
budding novelist.

_The Man With the Clubfoot_ embodies, as I discern in retrospect, some
of the "battle dreams," that familiar symptom of shell concussion,
which haunted my convalescence.  The Somme was probably the greatest
battle the world has ever seen: the carnage had no parallel in the
annals of war: we ate and slept and fought among piles of corpses.  The
Guards Division attacked twice in ten days and I took part in both
attacks.  In the first I was knocked flat three times by shell-bursts
but escaped injury: I had one orderly wounded and another killed at my
side: I received a bullet through the heel of my boot and a second
through the strap of my field glasses, but emerged unscathed as one of
the two or three surviving officers of my battalion, to go over the top
again in ten days' time.

Battle dreams are horrible.  I had visions of Hindenburg, as gigantic
as his wooden image reared in Berlin for patriots to knock nails into
on behalf of war charities, striding at me over mountains of dead: I
would fancy myself alone in a trench with walls a hundred feet high and
raked with monster shells.  But my most frequent nightmare, continually
recurring, was to find myself in war-time Germany without papers of any
kind and the whole of the secret police on my track.

When the time came for me to leave hospital and undergo three months'
convalescence, I faced the world in a miserable and terrified frame of
mind.  It was then that a gracious Royal lady came to my aid.  Princess
Louise, Duchess of Argyll, who was a patroness of the Empire Hospital,
Vincent Square, where I was a patient, offered me the use of Rhu Lodge,
on her Rosneath estate in Dumbartonshire.  In this charming retreat,
lapped by the waters of the Gare Loch, I found peace.  Violent exercise
or any form of excitement was forbidden me.  But after a crowded life
as newspaper man and war correspondent I could not remain inactive.
So, to occupy my mind, I resolved to write a "thriller."

Before the war I spent five years in Berlin as a newspaper
correspondent.  They were years when Anglo-German rivalry reached its
most acute phase and a certain type of German was at little pains to
conceal his true sentiments for Britain and the British.  Once, in the
press canteen of the Reichstag, an obscure German journalist,
representative of a pan-German and, consequently, violently
anti-British newspaper, tried to pick a quarrel with me.  The incident
was without importance, but I never forgot the berserk rage into which
this cantankerous fellow worked himself.  His blazing eyes, his
screaming voice, his large paunch shaking with ire, came back to me
when the character of Grundt, the master spy, was taking shape in my
mind.

The clubfoot was an added touch.  It seemed to me sound psychology to
ally physical deformity with a warped mind, as Hugo did with Quasimodo
and Dickens with Quilp: moreover, ever since I can remember, the
particular form of disability associated with a monstrous boot has
instinctively repelled me.  For the rest, Dr. Grundt's personality is
drawn from no one person but is an amalgam of the many different types
of Prussian functionary with which I came in contact during my years in
Germany under the Empire.

Although the reader may not appreciate it, actually a good deal of
first-hand observation of German Court life has gone into the
delineation of Dr. Adolf Grundt.  That rather pathetic figure, William
II, was absolute monarch and Supreme War Lord but largely for
window-dressing purposes--in fact he was the tool of the Camarilla, the
inner circle at Court.  Wherever you have an autocracy, you find
irresponsible advisers who, by a judicious admixture of flattery and
wire-pulling, exert even greater influence over the march of events
than the despot.  At the height of the ex-Kaiser's reign, for instance,
the most influential personage of the State, more powerful, even, than
the Imperial Chancellor, was the head of the Emperor's Civil Cabinet,
because he had the immediate ear of the sovereign.  If William II did
not have a personal secret service apart from the political police, he
might well have had one.  As things were in the entourage of the
monarch, if Grundt did not exist, he should have been invented, as
Voltaire said of God.

For myself, I set out to create a villain but must admit to having
acquired a sneaking regard for the Herr Doktor in the process.  He is
ruthless, but he has plenty of courage: he can be diplomatic on
occasion, but is full of character; and he has (or I like to consider
that he has) a sense of humour.  I am glad to know that many of my
readers do not consider him a hundred per cent. rascal, but speak of
him indulgently, nay, even affectionately, as "old Clubfoot."

Let me hope that, renewing acquaintance with him in this Omnibus
Edition, they will find that their feelings for him have stood the test
of time.


VALENTINE WILLIAMS

Estoril, Portugal,
  _March_, 1936.




CONTENTS


THE CROUCHING BEAST

CHAP.

  48. THE MUTTER OF THE STORM
  49. A FOOTFALL IN THE GARDEN
  50. THE GUN
  51. IN WHICH I FIRST HEAR OF THE LAME ONE
  52. DR. VON HENTSCH CHANGES HIS MIND
  53. THE MAN WITH THE CLUBFOOT
  54. "AUF WIEDERSEHEN!"
  55. IN WHICH I LOSE MY JOB
  56. I AM KISSED BY A NICE YOUNG MAN AND MAKE AN ALARMING DISCOVERY
  57. I ARRIVE IN BERLIN AND SCORE THE FIRST TRICK
  58. HOHENZOLLERN-ALLEE
  59. ENTER THE PELLEGRINI
  60. I CALL ON MR. BALE AND RECOGNISE A FAMILIAR OBJECT
  61. THE CAF ZUR NELKE
  62. NIGEL DRUCE
  63. A COUNCIL OF WAR ABOUT A COUNCIL OF WAR
  64. AT SCHIPPKE'S
  65. I ESCAPE FROM TWIN PERILS TO MEET WITH DISASTER
  66. THE CROUCHING BEAST
  67. THE PHOTOGRAPH
  68. IN WHICH I AM UNPLEASANTLY REMINDED OF AN UNIMPORTANT PERSONAGE
  69. HEDWIG
  70. THE RECKONING
  71. CONCERNING A WAITER AND HIS TRAY
  72. SANCTUARY
  73. TREED
  74. NEWS OF A FRIEND
  75. DRUCE AND I FALL OUT
  76. THE MAN ON THE STAIRS
  77. "HEUTE MIR, MORGEN DIR"
  78. IN WHICH WE PART FROM CLUBFOOT AND EMBARK ON A JOURNEY
  79. THE END OF THE JOURNEY
  80. THE STORY OF MARSTON-GORE
  81. "A FOOL, A FOOL, I MET A FOOL I' THE FOREST"
  82. IN THE CAPUCHIN CHAPEL
  83. THE BAFFLING OF THE BEAST
  84. "COME! SAYS THE DRUM"
  85. AFTERMATH
      POSTSCRIPT




THE CROUCHING BEAST



_Peace at last...._

_I can scarcely believe we have beaten them.  Yet to-night bonfires
were flaming the wonderful news across the Downs and Bill Bradley says
London has gone wild._

_Dear Bill!  He knew I would be sorrowing while all England rejoiced,
and he turned his back on the junketings in town to motor down to
Sussex and comfort me.  He has been so patient, so understanding,
through all these agonising months of uncertainty that to-night, before
he left, I promised to give him his answer at Christmas, if by then
there is still no news._

_How should there be any news?  The British mission which has gone into
Germany has been ordered to make the closest inquiries; but what more
can they do than the Red Cross, the Crown Princess of Sweden (bless her
golden English heart!), the King of Spain, the Vatican, all the high
neutral sources which have already tried and failed?_

_It is so bitter hard to abandon hope.  And yet I haven't much faith
left.  It is eight months since I last heard: and they are quite
definite when I see them in Whitehall.  Well may they call it the
Secret Service!  Shall I ever forget the furtive little office, high
above the stir of the Embankment, the tidy desk, with just a telephone
and some letter trays, and behind it my Nigel's Chief, that frightening
old man, whose eyes were yet so gentle as he told me I must make up my
mind for the worst?_

_To ease my mind of its grief, to clear it for this decision I feel I
owe to poor Bill, I have resolved to write my story.  Perhaps I shall
find solace in the very anguish of living in memory once more through
the phases of that extraordinary adventure which Nigel Druce and I
confronted together._

_The last bonfire has flickered out.  Not a dog barks: the countryside
is deathly still, blanketed in the November sea-mist that clings
pearling to the diamond panes of my cottage window.  But shadowy
figures come thronging about my lamp: dear Lucy Varley, my little
Major, the Pellegrini with her flaming hair, Rudi von Linz, dapper and
debonair, Pater Vedastus, as I first saw him, leaning on his spade in
the garden of the Capuchins, and that man of terror they called The
Crouching Beast, Clubfoot, the grim and sinister cripple who stood in
the forefront of those who brought down untold misery upon the world
and on me._

_And my Nigel.  God help me!  Of him it will be hardest to write..._.

_Olivia Dunbar._

11_th November_, 1918.




48

The mutter of the storm


Was the hush that rested over the garden of the old Kommandanten-Haus,
that breathless July evening of 1914 which launched me on my strange
adventure, symbolical of the lull before the storm which was about to
break over Europe?  Now that I look back upon that summer I spent at
Schlatz I think it was.  Personally, I was far too busy absorbing first
impressions of life in a pleasant German garrison town to have ears to
hear the ominous beat of the war drums, faint at first but growing
steadily louder, like the tomtoms of "Emperor Jones."  But later, when
I was a V.A.D. at Dover and at night the wind from the Channel would
awaken us with the throbbing of the guns in France, thinking of those
glorious summer days, I would picture myself sleeping peacefully, like
almost everybody else, through the growling thunder of the approaching
catastrophe.

On this evening, as I remember, dusk had fallen early.  The sun had
died in a riot of wrathful colour, and beyond the end of the garden the
lemon-tinted sky set off in sharp silhouette the high wall of Schlatz
Castle and the square tower, still higher, that rose to heaven above it
like a stern prayer in stone.

Not a leaf stirred in the rambling and neglected garden which, between
two blank grey walls, spread its train of green right up to the
piled-up mass of the Castle.  The air was warm, and through the open
French windows of Dr. von Hentsch's study the heavy fragrance of the
roses mounted to me as I sat at the typewriter.  I had the feeling that
the garden was holding its breath, waiting, as it were, for something
to happen, while the darkness slowly deepened and high up in the air
yellow lights began to glimmer in the Castle windows.

I had just switched on the reading-lamp when I heard the postman coming
up the gravel path at the side of the house.  Nothing much ever
happened at Schlatz; and we had so few visitors that it was not hard to
identify our different callers by their step.  Particularly Franz, our
postman.  Though Lucy von Hentsch and her husband were kindness itself,
I was at times homesick for England.  Letters made a great difference
to me at Schlatz, even poor Bill's, and I used to catch myself
listening for Franz's stolid, military tramp.

At his sonorous sing-song greeting, "Schon'gut'n Abend, Frulein!" I
looked up from Lucy's manuscript to see him standing in the open
window, his loose blue uniform all flecked with the July dust.

"There was nobody at the front, Frulein," he said, "so I thought I'd
look round at the back, on the chance."

"I didn't hear the bell," I explained.  "The Herr Landgerichtsrat and
Frau von Hentsch are dining out and the maids have gone to the Fair."

"And the Miss"--"die Miss" was the way I was often addressed--"remains
like that all alone in the house?"  Franz was sorting through his bag.

I laughed.  "The Miss has plenty to occupy her, Franz," I told him, and
pointed to the pile of manuscript beside my machine.

He wagged his head doubtfully.

"The newspapers are full of nothing but robberies and murders," he
observed with an air of gloom.  "The Kommandanten-Haus is lonely,
perched up here on the hill above the town.  Frau von Speicher, the
late Kommandant's lady, she would never stay in the house by
herself--nee, nee!  The Frulein should, at least, keep the windows
closed."

"Nothing's going to happen to me right under the noses of the Castle
guards," I answered, and took the letters he handed over--there was one
for me, I saw with delight, from my married sister, Dulcie.  "You must
remember that English girls are used to taking care of themselves,
Franz...."

"Na und ob!" the postman put in, as who should say, "Now you're
talking!"  "It's the men in England who need protecting, Frulein, if
the newspapers tell the truth about the goings-on of your friends, die
Suffragetten...."

We both laughed.  This was a stock joke between Franz and me.  Like all
Germans I met, he displayed a sort of incredulous interest in the fight
for female suffrage in England which loomed so large in the newspapers
that summer.

"Anyway, the Miss has nothing to fear from the prisoners," the postman
resumed, moving his head in the direction of the glowing windows of the
Castle.  "The Herren Offiziere amuse themselves far too well under
arrest to think of escaping...."

I smiled my assent, for the same thought was in my mind.  I should
explain that Schlatz Castle, once the seat of the Dukedom of
Schlatz--Herzog von Schlatz is one of the titles of the Kings of
Prussia--was used to lodge officers sentenced to fortress imprisonment
for offences against the military code such as duelling, gambling and
the like.  These officers were frequently let out on parole, to get
their hair cut and so forth, and I used to see them about the town in
undress uniform without their swords.  As far as I could gather, their
punishment consisted solely in the loss of promotion and the temporary
deprivation of their personal liberty.  Even Dr. von Hentsch used to
say that the drinking and gambling up at the Schloss were a disgrace.

The garden of the Kommandanten-Haus ran right up to the Castle wall,
and sometimes in the evening sounds of revelry would be wafted down to
us from the detention quarters.  Our house, as its name indicated, was
really the official residence of the Castle Commandant.  But when Major
von Ungemach, who was a bachelor, was given the post, he preferred to
occupy a suite in the Schloss and let the picturesque 18th-century
house to Dr. von Hentsch, who was transferred about the same time to
Schlatz as judge at the local courts.

"The Herren Offiziere won't trouble the gracious Frulein," Franz
added.  "I meant tramps and such rabble.  With the harvest a lot of bad
characters drift into the town."  He wagged his head.  "One can't blame
them.  Hunger makes men desperate.  As long as you have wage-slaves,
you'll have crime, Frulein.  Even in old England, which isn't a police
State like this...."

I stared at him in amazement.  "Why, Franz," I exclaimed, "you're
talking like a Socialist.  You'd better not let the Herr
Landgerichtsrat hear you...!"

His sun-browned face, bony and, in repose, rather severe, broke into a
slow smile at the horror in my voice.  I really was taken aback.
Socialists at home I knew of mainly as shabby men in cloth caps who
walked in procession to the Park on Sundays under huge banners.  But in
Dr. von Hentsch's well-ordered household, where only thoroughly
constitutional newspapers like the _Kreuz-Zeitung_ were read,
Socialists, or Social Democrats, as he called them, were mentioned only
to be denounced as incendiary scoundrels dangerously favoured by
parliamentary institutions.  It sounded to me odd to hear this
civil-spoken, rather staid Prussian postman in his trim uniform voicing
Socialist doctrines.

"One can say things to an English Miss one wouldn't say to a Prussian
official," he observed drily.

I hastened to change the subject, which I felt to be dangerous.

"I'm sure you'd like a glass of beer after your walk," I put in.

"Since the Frulein is so kind.  It's sultry out.  I think there's a
storm coming up...."

As I ran through the adjoining dining-room, hung with Dr. von Hentsch's
collection of antlers, to fetch a bottle of beer from the cooler in the
pantry, I heard a tremor of distant thunder go rolling across the
garden.  With a muttered "Pros't, Frulein!" Franz drained the glass at
a draught.  As he set it down and wiped his moustache, the lamp on the
desk blinked.

"Oh, dear," I exclaimed, "I do hope the light's not going to fail again
to-night.  I want to finish all this typing before I go to bed....!"

"The power station's overloaded," remarked the postman, adjusting the
sling of his bag over his shoulder.  "After the entertainment of His
Majesty when he visited Schlatz last winter there were no funds
available for carrying out the necessary improvements.  The town will
have to wait for a decent electric light supply until a few more Social
Democrats are elected to the council.  That time isn't far off now,
Frulein.  The struggle is coming to a head...."

"I'm afraid I don't know very much about your German politics, Franz,"
I interposed evasively.

"This is something bigger than mere politics, Frulein," he answered in
his earnest way.  "The struggle is not simply a clash between parties.
It's a fight between the army and the people.  It can end in only one
way.  There'll be either a revolution or a war."

Once more the thunder growled in the darkness without.

At that I laughed outright.  "Revolution?  War?  Now you're talking
nonsense, Franz.  If you said there was going to be a revolution in
England, you'd still be wrong; but you'd be less far from the truth.
Of course, if civil war does break out in Ulster, there's no knowing
what might happen.  But in Germany!  People who say things like that
don't know when they're well off.  You've got a Kaiser to be proud of,
a prosperous country, good wages, beautiful cities with splendid
theatres and music and open-air beer gardens where you can take your
wife and children, all kinds of inexpensive pleasures that working-men
in England don't enjoy, I can tell you.  As for war, you mustn't
believe all this scare rubbish you read in the newspapers.  In spite of
the _Daily Mail_ relations between Germany and England were never
better than they are to-day."

With a brooding air the postman settled his red-striped cap on his head
and hitched up his bag.

"All that may be true," he said.  "But if the military want a war, it
won't be hard to find a pretext.  For the rest, you Englnder have a
parliament that is a parliament, that can make and unmake Ministries;
not a wretched talking-shop with no real power like our German
Reichstag.  This is a military State, Frulein.  The civilian doesn't
count.  He's only fit to be sabred, like the cobbler of Zabern, to
teach him his place.  There is no liberty for the individual in
Prussia.  If you were to report to the Post-Direktor what I have said
to you this evening I should be flung into the street, into gaol,
maybe, my pension would be taken away and my wife and children would
starve.  But the masses are getting restless under the rule of the
sabre.  As soon as the military believe that the people are getting out
of hand, they'll start a war.  And that may be sooner than you
think...."

I laughed incredulously.  "A war?  A war with whom?"

For a moment Franz was silent, and in the pause I heard a sudden wind
brush shudderingly through the trees outside the window.  Behind the
jetty mass of the Castle the lightning flickered white across the sky;
and louder now, but still reluctant and stertorous, the thunder
muttered again.

Then the postman, having glanced cautiously over his shoulder, drew
nearer and, dropping his voice, said:

"Strange things are happening up at the barracks.  At the mobilisation
store they are working day and night.  There is talk of a new uniform
to be handed out, a grey uniform which has never been seen before.  Do
you know what that means, Frulein?"

His serious brown eyes, intelligent and trusting as any dog's, were
fixed on my face.  His manner was so portentous that I fell back a
step.  He did not wait for my answer.

"This new uniform is clearly for service in the field," he declared.
"In other words, the German Army is preparing to mobilise.  And that
means..."--he paused, to wrench his mouth into a wry and bitter
grimace, then added with measured deliberation--"... that means war!"

I was not greatly impressed.  Why, only that afternoon I had been to a
Kaffee-Klatsch at Frau Oberleutnant Meyer's!  All the young officers of
the infantry battalion stationed at Schlatz had been there, including
Rudi von Linz, a charming lieutenant who was a particular friend of
mine, and we had danced until seven o'clock.  And had not Major von
Ungemach, the Castle Commandant, telephoned that very evening to ask
whether he might call upon me?  I had no intention of being alone in
the house with the somewhat ardent Major and I had told him I was busy
and couldn't see him.

But when an army mobilises surely the officers haven't time to go
dancing or calling on their women friends?  So I said, rather
sarcastically, to Franz: "With whom, pray?"

He shook his head sagely.  "That remains to be seen, Frulein.  I'm no
politician.  Perhaps over this trouble in the Balkans.  The newspapers
say that the Austrians intend to demand satisfaction from Servia for
the murder of the Archduke...!"

"And quite right, too!" I cried.  "Dr. von Hentsch says the whole thing
was planned by the Servian Government.  To think of that poor man, and
his wife too, being shot down like that in cold blood!"

"Na," said the postman, heaving up his satchel, "what will be, will be!
I wish you good-night, Frulein!"  He glanced into the garden stretched
out black and listless in the close air.  "I must hurry if I'm to
finish my round before the storm breaks."

"Gute Nacht, Franz," I replied, and turned back to the desk to read my
letter.

At the window he hesitated.  "The Frulein will have the goodness not
to repeat what I said to-night?  It would get me into serious trouble
if it were known...."

"Schwamm darber!" I told him, or "Wash it out!" as you might say.
"I've already forgotten it.  And I advise you to do the same."

He smiled whimsically and wagged his head in a gesture expressive of
doubt.  Then, "Gute Nacht, Miss," he said.  "Angenehme Rune!"

"Ebenfalls!" I answered, giving him back the stock reply to his wish
that I might sleep well--German, like Chinese, bristles with ceremonial
greetings and no less formal rejoinders--his feet rasped on the path
and he was gone.  A vivid lightning flash revealed to me a momentary
glimpse of the garden with every leaf, as it seemed to me, hanging
motionless in the sultry atmosphere.  As I picked up Dulcie's letter,
once more the thunder rumbled sullenly out of the night....




49

A footfall in the garden


The postman's gloomy forebodings had left me vaguely restless.  Not his
talk of war.  The activity at the barracks I set down to preparation
for manoeuvres or the like; for, from the way the young officers
grumbled, to me, at any rate, the battalion at Schlatz appeared to be
constantly making ready for something, whether it were inspection by an
incredibly terrifying military personage, a field day, or night
operations.  I was thinking of what Franz had said about tramps.  The
Kommandanten-Haus was certainly isolated from the town, and I had read
in the German newspapers of ghastly crimes committed in lonely mansions.

But the night was airless, and with the windows closed I felt I should
stifle in the stuffy study with its thick red curtains, heavy mahogany
furniture, and great green-tiled stove gleaming dully in the corner.  I
contented myself, therefore, with opening the drawer of the desk in the
centre of the room on which my typewriter stood and assuring myself
that the big revolver which Dr. von Hentsch kept there was in its
accustomed place.  Leaving the drawer half open, I settled down in my
chair beside the lamp to read my sister's letter.

I came across that letter the other day, poor bit of flotsam to survive
the deluge which was to sweep so much away.  It is mostly about a plan
we had made, Dulcie, Jim her husband, and I, to pass the summer
holidays together in the Black Forest.  I had been invited to spend the
last week of July with some American friends in Berlin where Dulcie and
Jim, her husband, were to meet me on the 1st of August.  As the von
Hentsches were leaving for their summer holiday at Karlsbad on 24th
July, the arrangement just suited.

August, 1914!

As I re-read my sister's letter the other day, I felt glad that fate
had mercifully veiled the future from our eyes.  Neither she who dashed
off that cheery scrawl on the pretty, azure-tinted note-paper, nor I
who read it in the quiet of Dr. von Hentsch's study on that thundery
July evening, with the summer lightning streaking the sky behind Castle
Schlatz, could know that almost every date she mentioned was
inscrutably marked down to be a milestone of history.

This 31st of July, for instance, when she and Jim, who now sleeps under
Kemmel Hill, were to start off from London, was to see a brief cipher
flash like a train of fire across two vast Empires and call millions of
men to arms: this 1st of August, appointed date for our happy reunion
in Berlin, was destined to live through the ages as the day on which,
by mobilising against Russia, Germany took the irrevocable step: this
2nd of August, when we were to leave Berlin, was doomed to witness the
first blood spilled on French soil by the invader.  "_Jim has booked
our rooms in the Forester's house at Kalkstein for the_ 4_th_," Dulcie
wrote: the fateful 4th of August, which was to bring the British Empire
to its feet to face the challenge....

Dulcie wrote to me every week, adorable letters, a bit of herself.  I
have always been pals with Dulcie, for we had no brothers and Mother
died when we were kids.  And during the greater part of our childhood,
Daddy was soldiering in India while we were being brought up at home.

Dulcie is domesticated, not, like me, "an adventurous romantic," as
Daddy used to call me.  Before I went to Schlatz I lived with her and
Jim at Purley.  When Marie von Hentsch, who was at school with me--by
the time I got to Schlatz she was married and living in
America--proposed me to her mother as private secretary--perhaps I
ought to explain that Frau von Hentsch was Lucy Varley, the popular
American novelist--I was vegetating in a highly respectable, and
abominably dreary, typing job in the city.  Dulcie was all against my
going out to Germany.  But then she was all against my doing anything
except marry Bill Bradley.  She wanted me to marry Bill and "settle
down."

That is precisely what marriage with a thoroughly good-hearted, dull,
dear fellow like Bill would have done for me.  I should have "settled
down" like porridge in a plate.  But at twenty-two I didn't want to
settle down.  On the contrary, I was mad to be up and doing.  I wanted
to see more of life and the world than I could observe from the windows
of the 9.12 from Purley to London Bridge or from my desk in St. Mary
Axe.  So, having refused poor Bill for the umpteenth time, I went to
Schlatz.

Darling old Dulcie!  She always wrote reams, everything, just as it
drifted into her pen, about Jim and her babies, and the new car ... and
Bill.  Her letter carried me right out of the tranquil old house with
its faint, clean odour of much scouring blended with the summer scents
of the garden.  As I read on, sheet after sheet in her big, sprawling
hand, I forgot all about Franz and his dark forebodings and the
lightning flaming behind the Castle and the thunder growling ever
louder overhead.

"_Bill came in on Sunday after golf_," Dulcie wrote.  "_His first
question is always: 'How's Olivia?'  You really ought to write to the
poor fellow.  He looked perfectly miserable although he's won the
monthly medal with a round of 78.  He says you never answer his
letters.  He's convinced you've fallen in love with some incredibly
dashing Prussian officer.  Have you?  Jim says if you marry a German
he'll call him out and shoot him.  Tell me about your conquests when
you write.  Don't the German men rave about your blue eyes and black
hair?  They must be sick of blondes.  I saw Mabel Fordwych at Murray's
the other night.  She's got a studio in Chelsea and has cut her hair
short.  She looked MOST eccentric and mannish.  Everybody was staring
at her.  Great excitement here about the suffragettes.  Did you see
they tried to blow up the Abbey?  Jim took me up to town for our
wedding anniversary on Thursday.  We dined at the Troc. and went on
afterwards to see the new play at the Criterion.  At least, it's not a
new play but an old one revived.  Do you know it?  It's called 'A Scrap
of Paper.'  Stupid title but quite a thrilling story.  Some of the
crinolines were rather sweet.  I suppose you can't get any decent
frocks out there.  They say we're all going to show our ankles next
winter.  The creature next door won't like that, will she?  You and I
will be all right, anyway...._"

The sudden loud swish of water plucked me away from Dulcie's gossip.
Outside the rain was coming down in a solid sheet.  The garden rang
with plashings and gurglings, and the clean savour of wet leaves and
damp earth was wafted into the room.

Frau von Hentsch had lived long enough in Germany to be as fussy as any
German Hausfrau about her belongings.  I sprang to the window to close
it; for the rain was spurting on the carpet.  As I rose from the desk
my eye fell on the clock.  The hands marked a quarter to ten.

As I reached the window I thought I heard a soft footfall scrape the
gravel outside.  It was too early for the Hentsches or the maids to be
back; and anyway the former would come in by the front door where the
car put them down, while the servants would use the kitchen entrance.

Rather startled, I paused and called out: "Wer ist's?"  But the
footsteps had abruptly ceased and only the hissing crash of the
downpour answered me.  The garden was inky black and I could see
nothing beyond the silvery shafts of the rain, a couple of yards from
the window, where the light from the room shone out into the night.

Suddenly the lightning flamed in a flash so broad and dazzling as to
light up and hold, for the fraction of a second, in brilliant
illumination the whole scene before me, from the little bushes,
writhing and bending under the lashing rain outside the window, to the
gilded fane on the summit of the Castle tower.  On the edge of the
turf, not a dozen yards from the window, I saw a man cowering in the
shelter of a bush.

I was terribly frightened but I did not lose my presence of mind.  As
all went black once more, I seized the two doors of the window to shut
them.  But at that moment came a clap of thunder, so unheralded, so
ear-splitting, that I staggered back into the room.

And then, without warning, the lamp at the desk went out and the study
was plunged in darkness.  Once more I heard that stealthy footfall on
the path.  There was a hollow sound as the wings of the window fell
back again.  Against the patch of semi-obscurity they framed, I saw a
dark form slip into the room.




50

The gun


Before I could move or cry out, a quiet voice spoke in English out of
the blackness:

"It's all right," it said.  "Don't be scared!"

It was a man's voice, well-bred, a little breathless and, as it seemed
to me, a trifle high-pitched from excitement.  Still, it was an English
voice--and I had not heard an English voice in the six months I had
been at Schlatz.  Somehow, the familiar timbre seemed to steady my
nerves.  Still rather tremulous, I answered: "Who are you?  What do you
want?"

I had stepped back and my hands were on the edge of the writing-table.
That blessed light again!  The switch of the reading-lamp turned
ineffectually at my touch.  Now my fingers groped in vain for the box
of matches I had left beside the typewriter with my packet of
cigarettes.  I knew that a candle used for sealing stood on the desk.

A low laugh sounded out of the obscurity.

"It's devilish awkward introducing oneself in the dark," was the reply.
"Don't you think we could have some light?  It is Miss Dunbar, isn't
it?  Miss Olivia Dunbar?"

The utter conventionality of his remark went far to allay my fears.
The humour of the situation struck me and I, in my turn, laughed.

"Yes," I said, "I'm Olivia Dunbar.  But the electric light has failed.
Who are you?  And what on earth do you mean by frightening me like
that?"

"I say, I'm most frightfully sorry, really," the voice broke in
contritely.  "I had no intention of scaring you.  Of course, I thought
you'd understand...."

The fright I had received had frayed my nerves.  I felt distinctly
irritable.  This invisible visitor's bland assumption that it was an
intelligible proceeding for a complete stranger to burst into a private
house at night at the height of a thunderstorm nettled me.

"I don't know what you mean," I retorted hotly.  "How am I to know you
aren't a burglar, creeping in like that?"

I heard a sharp sigh.

"My gracious goodness, I _can't_ explain things like this in the dark.
Can't you light a candle or something?  It's simply preposterous, the
two of us gassing away here like a couple of blind men.  Hang it, I
want to see you!"

His outburst had an almost pathetic ring which tickled my sense of
humour.

"Not half so much as I want to see _you_," I gave him back.  "Am I
supposed to know you?"

"Yes ... and no," was his extraordinary answer.

"Well, give me a match!" I said.

He groaned audibly.  "I haven't got one.  Have you?"

"There's a box somewhere," I replied, "but I can't lay my hands on it
in the dark...."

"Look here, if there's a box about, the two of us should be able to
find it..."

My eyes, growing used to the obscurity, could now discern a form
vaguely silhouetted against the dim window.  There was a brusque
movement towards me.

"Stop where you are!" I ordered sharply.  "Wait till I find the
matches!  Do you think I'm going to have you groping about after me in
the dark?"

I heard a suppressed chuckle and the movement stopped dead.  Then the
lightning gleamed and revealed a youngish figure of a man standing
bare-headed just within the room.  The sight of him, brief as it was,
linking up the vague, immaterial voice with a definite individual,
steadied me.

"Can't you _borrow_ a light from somewhere?" came out of the dark.
"I..."

A long, loud thunder peal drowned the rest of the words.

The sudden noise jarred me horribly.

"No, I can't," I answered crossly.  "Everybody's out, and I don't know
where there are any more matches."

Scarcely were the words out of my mouth than I knew I had said a
foolish thing.  Until I had ascertained what this man wanted, I should
never have let him know that I was alone in the house.  I realised my
mistake when I heard a sort of gasp come out of the obscurity and the
voice remark:

"There's nobody at home but you, then?"

I made no answer.  I was round at the front of the writing-table now,
hunting feverishly for those infernal matches.  My hand touched the
half-open drawer and I drew out the revolver and laid it on the desk
beneath a sheaf of typing paper.  Then to my intense relief I trod on
the box of matches which had fallen on the carpet.

I struck a match and lit the candle in its silver holder.  The wick,
smeared with the wax of ancient sealings, burned low at first,
spluttering, and by its feeble radiance I examined the stranger.  I am
bound to say that my apprehensions diminished with my first look at
him.  He was a little, gingery man, rather below medium height, whose
outward appearance certainly confirmed the impression I had derived
from his voice, namely, that he was a gentleman.

His grey tweed suit, though worn and rather crumpled, suggested a West
End cut; and as, the candle burning brighter, the detail of his
features became apparent, I saw that he was well-groomed, with
thinnish, sandy hair brushed neatly back off his forehead and a small,
carefully trimmed moustache.  He seemed to be very wet and had his
jacket collar turned up against the rain.  When I first saw him in the
light he was wiping the moisture from his face with what I remember
struck me as being an exceedingly unclean pocket-handkerchief.

If I scrutinised the stranger, he appeared to study me with no less
interest.  As we stared at one another in silence, it struck me that he
had an oddly watchful air, like a rabbit at the mouth of its warren.  I
noticed, too, that his eyes kept travelling from me to the half-open
door of the dining-room and thence over his shoulder to the window and
the garden, all rustling under the downpour, beyond.  They were curious
eyes, reddish in hue and set rather close together, with a reckless,
almost an unbalanced expression in their depths.

He was the first to break the silence between us.

"You were not expecting me, then?"

Greatly mystified, I shook my head.  "If you would tell me your
name..." I ventured.  But he ignored my lead.

"This _is_ Sunday, isn't it?" he demanded suddenly, very earnestly.

"Certainly," I replied.  I was beginning to feel uneasy again.  He
appeared to be perfectly sober; but didn't those shifting, tawny eyes
of his look a little mad?

"Sunday, the 19th of July, eh?" he persisted.

"Yes.

On that he fell into a brooding silence, puckering up his forehead and
casting sidelong glances at me from under his reddish lashes.

"You don't happen to know a party whose initials are N.D., I suppose?"
he said at last.

"N.D.?" I repeated.  "No, I don't think so.  Who is he?"

Again he evaded my question.

"And an Englishman hasn't called to see you here during the past few
days?  Or written?"

"No," I told him.  "You're the first Englishman I've seen for six
months.  You _are_ English, aren't you?"

"Me?" he said absently.  "Oh, rather!"  Then, harking back to his
theme, he demanded again: "And you don't happen to have seen this
fellow about the town, I suppose?"

"I don't know what he looks like," I replied.

"No," he rejoined absently, "of course, you wouldn't.  Party about
thirty, very fit-looking, sort of quiet, with dark hair and very bright
blue eyes...."

He rattled this off quickly, then paused, his furtive eyes eagerly
fixed on mine.

"No," I said, "I've seen nobody like that about the town.  As a matter
of fact, I believe I'm the only English person in Schlatz.  And now," I
went on, rather impatiently, for his extraordinary air of mystery was
getting on my nerves, "perhaps you would tell me what I can do for you.
In the first place, how do you come to know my name?"

At that, on a sudden, he seemed to slough off his vague and despondent
air.

"To tell you the truth," he remarked brightly, "I was asked to look you
up...."

"Oh," I said, "by whom?"

"By your people in town...."

I looked at him sharply.  Daddy's only brother has a fruit farm in
California, and Aunt Sybil, Mother's sister, our only other near
relative, is an invalid who lives at Bath.  And Purley cannot be
claimed as "town" by even the most optimistic of suburbanites.

"You've met my people then?" I replied.  "Who was it told you to call?"

He paused for a second, and then answered rather hastily: "Why, your
father!  You're Colonel Dunbar's daughter, aren't you?"

At that I stiffened.  But, noticing how sharply, how eagerly almost,
the stranger was eyeing me, I rejoined as nonchalantly as I could:

"Fancy your knowing Daddy!  When did you see him last?"

"Oh, just the other day, in London...."

"Where did you meet him?"

"Someone introduced us at a club.  The Senior, I think it was.  Or was
it the Rag?  When he heard that I was going to Germany he said to me:
'If you're in the neighbourhood of Schlatz, mind you look up my
daughter, Olivia.  She's secretary to Frau von Hentsch--Lucy Varley,
the novelist, you know--at the Kommandanten-Haus!'  A splendid fellow
your father, Miss Dunbar!"

"Yes, isn't he a darling?" I replied.  My heart was beating rather
fast, and I was straining my ears for any sound within the house that
should tell me of the von Hentsches' return.  But the clock warned me
that it was not yet ten; and I could not hope that either they or the
maids would be back before eleven.  "You ... you haven't told me your
name," I continued, as he did not speak and I felt I must say something.

He laughed rather nervously.

"Why, no more I have!  It's Abbott, Major Abbott.  And now that I've
introduced myself, Miss Dunbar," he went on rapidly, "you must let me
apologise once again for the way I frightened you.  But I was
sheltering from the storm under a tree out there, and when that
terrific flash of lightning came I suddenly thought of the danger of
trees in a thunderstorm, and ... and all that, don't you know, and
seeing you at the window I knew at once that you were English, so I
just dashed in out of the rain, meaning to explain.  And then the light
went out.  I expect you're wondering what I was doing in the garden.
Perhaps I ought to tell you that I wanted to see you on private and
very urgent business.  Before I rang the front door bell I thought I'd
try and find out if you were anywhere about...."

He dashed off this fantastic explanation with the utmost glibness and
paused, as though waiting to see what I should reply.

The house was very still.  The rain was lessening now, and the thunder
had ceased.  The storm seemed to have passed over, but there was still
some lightning about--I could see the flashes glint from time to time
on the gleaming leaves outside the window.

"Well, now that you are here," I said, and tried to banish the
nervousness from my voice, "won't you tell me what it is I can do for
you?"

He laughed easily.  "I'm in the most absurd predicament, really.  It's
this way.  I was going to meet this pal of mine here at Schlatz and
travel with him to London.  He was due here yesterday; but he doesn't
seem to have turned up.  As you were the only person I knew here I gave
him your name so that he could call--as I'd promised your father to
look you up--in my place, in case I didn't have time between trains.
That was why I thought you might be expecting me.  Do you see?"

"I see," I answered without enthusiasm.

"Coming here in the train this evening," he resumed, quite unabashed,
"I was robbed.  I fell asleep and when I woke up I found I'd lost my
pocket-book with all my money, my bag, my overcoat, my hat, even.  If
my friend were here I'd be all right, see?  And if I could stop over
till the morning, I could wire Cox's for funds, of course.  But I must
get on by the last train to-night.  And so I'm in the embarrassing
position of having to ask you, as the only person I know at Schlatz,
for a loan, a hundred marks or so would do, just enough to buy my
ticket.  And perhaps if you could borrow a hat for me..."

All this time we had been standing up, he furtive and so very glib,
between me and the window, I behind the desk with my hand clutching the
revolver under the sheets of paper that covered it.

"Is that all?" I said when he had finished.

At my tone the easy smile fled from his face.

"I ... I think so" he rejoined.  "You ... you believe my story, don't
you, Miss Dunbar?"

"Not a word of it," I answered firmly.

"But why?" he broke in.

"Because," I told him "my father died three months before I came to
Schlatz!"

He was not in the least disconcerted.  He ran a wiry freckled hand over
his sandy hair.

"My God," he ejaculated, "that's torn it!"

"And now," I said, "perhaps you'll leave this room by the way you
entered it?"  And with my free hand I pointed at the window behind him.

He stood there, gazing at me forlornly, his pointed features twisted
into an utterly woebegone expression, his forehead a mass of furrows.

"But I can't do that," he protested with a sort of desperate air.  "Not
without some money, and a hat, at any rate!"

"You'll get no money from me, _Major_ Abbott," I retorted very
scathingly.  "And I strongly advise you to take my offer and disappear
before Dr. von Hentsch comes back.  He's a German judge and you won't
find him as lenient as I am!"

"You don't understand," he exclaimed gloomily.  "I can't go.  Look
here, Miss Dunbar"--his voice grew warm--"be a sport!  Think what you
like of me; but lend me a hundred marks.  You'll get it back and you'll
render me a tremendous service...."

"I shall do nothing of the kind," I replied.  "You're nothing but a
common cheat.  Why should I give you money?"

"Because I must have it, I tell you!"

"I'm sorry," I gave him back coldly, "but I can't regard that as a
sufficient reason."

He shot a slow glance over his shoulder and remained like that for a
moment, as though listening for any sound from the garden.  The gesture
frightened me, I don't know why, and I disengaged the revolver, but
held it down on the desk so that my typewriter hid it from his view.
When he turned back to face me, his face was dark with determination.

"You make things very difficult," he said.  "But I've got to have that
money."  And he stepped resolutely forward.

On that I raised the revolver and covered him.

"It's loaded," I warned him in a trembling voice.  "If you come any
nearer, I'll shoot!"

He halted abruptly and held up his hands in front of him as though to
ward me off.  It irritated me to find that he was indignant rather than
impressed.

"Haven't you been taught never to point a loaded gun?" he cried
sharply.  "Put that damned pistol down!"

I stamped my foot angrily for, like a fool, I felt I might begin to
cry.  "Then go away!" I cried.  "I tell you again you'll get nothing
here!"

But he did not budge.  He stood there, facing the revolver which I
could not keep from shaking in my grasp, his tawny eyes warm and
friendly, a smile playing at his lips.

"By George," he exclaimed, as though to himself, "I like your spirit.
I wonder if I dare...!"

At that instant, with a roar that crashed and reverberated through the
dripping night, the Castle gun was fired.




51

In which I first hear of the lame one


Everybody at Schlatz knew the noonday gun.

It was a pudgy, little brass affair, mounted on a squat wooden
carriage, its bright muzzle peering down from the age-mottled Schloss
wall upon the red roofs of the town.  Each day, a few minutes before
noon, old Heinrich, the gunner who had left a leg at St. Privat might
be descried stumping along the battlements to take up his position
beside the cannon, lanyard in hand, eye on the Castle clock, whose
dials were set in the four faces of the tower.

As the first stroke of high noon clanged out above his head, the loud
bang of the gun would cut across the confused chiming of the mid-day
bells down in the town.  The other clocks did not always wait for the
gun; for the Castle clock was not particularly accurate.  It was a
stock joke of Dr. von Hentsch's that old Heinrich took his time from
the Schloss clock and that the Schloss time was regulated by the noon
gun.  In all the months I had been at Schlatz, I had never known the
cannon fired except at mid-day.

Even as the gun spoke now and the Kommandanten-Haus, according to its
wont, jarred and shook to the concussion, I saw my visitor spring back
from the window.  At the same time, from sheer surprise, I forgot all
about the revolver and, still clutching it, my hand sank down upon the
desk.

"The Castle gun!" I whispered blankly.  "Why are they firing it at this
time of night?"

Without replying, the little man sprang to the window, closed it and
drew the heavy curtains across.  Even as he did so, within the lofty
enclosures of the Schloss a wild hubbub broke loose.  There came a
sudden burst of shouting, a whistle shrilled thrice, a drum rolled.
Then the cannon roared again, over-toning the din, and, as the noise of
the explosion rolled away, an electric gong, brazen-throated,
nerve-racking, like a fire-alarm, began to stutter its harsh summons
through the night.

As I stood there, one hand pressed to my heart, and listened to that
awesome racket, too insistent for either closed window or drawn curtain
to drown, all the dank and clinging darkness outside seemed to be
vibrant with dynamic energy.  I had the feeling that, at the foot of
the hill, the sleeping town was stirring into life, with voices
upraised in affright and footsteps that raced madly through its narrow
streets.

For the third time the gun boomed forth above the swelling tumult and
the windows of the old house started and sang.

"Oh, what has happened?" I asked in a panic.  "What does it all mean?"

My companion was cool and brisk.

"It means," said he, and held me with his bright, bird-like eye, "it
means that a prisoner has escaped from the Schloss."

"A prisoner?" I repeated incredulously.  And then the truth dawned upon
me.  "You mean...?"

He nodded cheerfully.

"But you're English...?" I faltered.

"I'm English all right," he retorted.  "Nevertheless, I've been stuffed
away in that damned stone jug up there for thirteen days without a
trial...."

People at Schlatz were always talking about the imprisoned officers;
but I had never heard of an Englishman being of their number.  Many of
the prisoners were known to me by name, too; for some of them were
quite lionised in conversation, such as the young Hussar lieutenant
who, to avenge his wife's honour, had killed in a duel a brother
officer, his senior in rank: the offences of others were passed over in
silence, like that of Rittmeister von Krachwitz, a horrible,
drink-sodden creature--I had seen him about the town--who had
"accidentally" slain his soldier servant.

Yet this time it did not occur to me to doubt the statement of my odd
visitor.  For once his uncanny composure had forsaken him and his
words, spoken heatedly, savagely almost, rang true.

Suddenly a lump came into my throat and I felt myself soften to this
quiet, tawny little man.  I had been many times to the Castle and knew
its grim, high walls, its solid, frowning gates, iron-studded, guarding
its cloistered intricacy of keep and covered way and courtyard, its
ringed system of solemn, pacing sentinels.

My thoughts flashed back to that moment when, the candle flaring up, I
had had my first clear glimpse of my mysterious visitant, a little
breathless, wiping the rain out of his eyes with his grubby
handkerchief, but no more flustered than one who has run for shelter
from a sudden shower, he who, with what infinite resource, cool
judgment and reckless daring, had but lately burst his way to freedom
through massive doors, over lofty escarpments, past lines of guards!

I thought of him, with his gloomy prison at his back and the minutes of
the precious start he had gained slipping, one by one, away, almost
jauntily spinning to me the foolish yarn, by means of which, without
disclosing the truth, he had hoped to enlist my aid.  His motive for
concealment was not hard to understand.  With a rush I realised that
this must be an almost incredibly cool and fearless man.

But now, in his clipped and jerky way, he was speaking to me.

"I'm a British officer on duty," he exclaimed.  "I can't say more.
That should be enough for you, a soldier's daughter, to know.  And I've
got to get clear away.  Never mind about those lies I told you: the
service don't encourage confidences.  They smuggled a letter in to me
up there "--he jerked his head backwards--"giving me your name and
saying that Nigel Druce--you don't know him, apparently, but he's
another one of us--would warn you to expect me.  You've seen nothing of
him, you say?"

"No," I answered wonderingly.

"Then he's dead," snapped back my little man, very decisively.  "Nigel
never missed a date in his life.  Listen, you'll help me?"

"Yes," I said.

"How much money have you got?"

I had already picked up my bag from where it lay beside the typewriter
and was counting through my notes.

"A little over 300 marks."

This, in those days, was fifteen pounds odd, a lot of money to me.

"Can you spare all of this?"

"Of course," I lied.

He took the notes I gave him and stuffed them in his pocket.

"You'll get it back," he remarked.  "Either from me or from my people.
If you don't, write in for it.  Just drop a line to M.I. 5, War Office,
and explain the circumstances.  They'll pay you."

With a bland air he rubbed his hands together.  "I must have a hat," he
announced.  "And some sort of overcoat would be useful, too!"

"Dr. von Hentsch's son, who's studying law in Bonn, is away," I
replied.  "There's an old hat and, I think, a raincoat of his, in the
hall.  They're not likely to be missed until he returns for the
vacation.  You could have those.  I'll fetch them...."

"Wait!" he bade me.  He was looking at the clock.  "Half-past ten now:
at what time do you expect your people home?"

"Not before eleven at the earliest.  The servants are supposed to be in
by eleven.  But they've gone down to the Kermesse and they're sure to
be late.  And the von Hentsches are out playing bridge.  They mayn't be
back until half-past eleven or a quarter to twelve.  I don't want to
hurry you," I added hesitatingly, "but don't you think you ought to be
getting on?"

"There's no great urgency now that they know I've legged it," he
answered nonchalantly.  "It's always a sound plan to let the first heat
of the chase spend itself before one takes to the road.  I've got half
an hour, anyway...."

"Not if they search the garden," I suggested.  "They're bound to think
of that, aren't they?"

He wagged his head knowingly.

"Perhaps.  Not at once, though.  Our German pals haven't got much
imagination.  I purposely laid a good strong scent on the ramparts on
the other side from this, where that market garden comes up to the
Schloss wall on the slope nearest the town.  I'm trusting that they'll
start by following up that clue...."

"Then you escaped on this side?" I broke in eagerly.  "Do tell me how!
Not by our garden?"

His amused smile seemed to me to confirm my idea.

"But," I exclaimed aghast, "the wall between this and the Castle is
frightfully high and all studded with spikes and broken glass.  And the
door's locked...!"

The door I spoke of was at the end of the garden, a little postern gate
set deep in the immensely thick and lofty outer wall of the Schloss,
and giving direct access to the courtyard.  It enabled the Commandant
of Schlatz to enter the Castle from his house without going round by
the main gate.  When Dr. von Hentsch went into residence at the
Kommandanten-Haus, the door, being no longer in use, was locked and the
key deposited in the Castle orderly-room.

"Locks can be picked," bluntly retorted my little man.  "But," he went
on, looking at me with a friendly air, "I'm not going to tell you
anything.  Bear this in mind, my dear: the less you know about me, the
better for you.  You've got to forget that you've ever seen me.  You're
green to this game; but I want you to understand that there's the worst
kind of trouble in store for any one suspected of aiding me to
escape...."

"Bah," said I, little knowing how bitterly I was to think back upon the
foolish boast, "they daren't do anything to me.  I'm English.  I'm not
afraid of them."

The tawny eyes were, of a sudden, thoughtful.

"Don't be too sure.  '_Der Stelze_' don't stop at anything."

"'_Der Stelze_'?" I repeated.  "That means 'the lame one,' doesn't it?
Who is '_der Stelze_'?"

I was watching my companion and at my question I saw a curious change
come over his face.  The features seemed to grow rigid and, for an
instant, an odd light, like a tongue of fire, flamed up in his wary
eyes.

"God forbid that you should ever run foul of him, my dear," he said, so
earnest of a sudden, by contrast with his former easy, almost
bantering, manner, that I stared.  "But, remember what I say to you
now, especially after what has happened to-night!  If a lame German, a
whopping great fellow with a clubfoot, comes inquiring after me, be on
your guard!  Don't let him suspect you or ... beware!"

A little silence fell between us.  All was still outside now.  The
tumult up at the Castle seemed to have died away.  With a brisk gesture
the little man buttoned up his jacket.

"And now," he said smartly, "action front!  By reason of what I've just
told you, you mustn't get mixed up in this.  We're going to put out the
candle, you'll fetch me that hat and coat and show me where the front
door is.  Then you'll cut upstairs to your room as fast as your legs
can carry you, nip into bed and stay there until morning...."

"And you?"

He shrugged his shoulders.  "Oh, I'm going to finish my job."  He
extended his hand.  "Good-bye, my dear, thank you a thousand times.  I
wish to Heaven I'd trusted you from the start.  But a woman let me down
once, and since then I'm being extra cautious."

His lean hand clasped mine.  My hands were cold as ice; but his grasp
was warm and firm.

"Good luck," I said.  "I'm sorry I was so ... so unsympathetic at
first, but I didn't understand.  Before you go I want to tell you this:
I think you're the bravest man I've ever met."

He shook his head and laughed.

"Not brave.  Only reckless.  As a gambler's brave who's down to his
last penny.  I left my honour behind when they nabbed me and clapped me
in gaol up there.  But now, by God"--he pursed his lips into a grim
line--"I'm going to fetch it back!"

"Your honour?" I echoed.  I wondered what he meant.  But his
unflinching pluck touched me, and I said: "Listen, Major Abbott, I've
done so little for you.  Can't I help in any other way?"

He shook his head.  "You've been a perfect brick.  But there's nothing
more you can do ... here."

"Where are you making for?" I asked.

He hesitated and looked at me steadily.

"Berlin..." he said at last.

"Berlin?" I repeated.  "Why, I'm going there myself next week...."

He paused, and his eyes narrowed.  "The devil you are!" he muttered
softly.  Then he laughed.  "No.  You keep out of this.  It's no work
for a charming girl like you...."

"I'm not such a helpless female as that sounds," I told him.  "I'm used
to taking care of myself.  And I really do know German well.  If there
was anything..."

He checked me with his hand.  "I know.  But I've got to plough a lonely
furrow."  He turned to the desk.  "Ready?  I'm going to blow out the
light...."

At that very moment an electric bell resounded through the house.

The little man was stooping to the candle on the desk.  Now he
straightened up and looked at me inquiringly.  And for the first time
his face was really anxious.

"There's someone at the front door," I explained in a rapid undertone.

"Who is it, do you know?" he whispered.

Mystified, I shook my head.  "The von Hentsches wouldn't ring.  They
have their key.  And so have the servants."

"Bad!" he commented briefly.  "It must be the window for me, then.
That path I saw outside the house, does it lead to the road?"

"Yes," I said.

"Good.  Shut the window after me, then bolt upstairs and get into a
wrapper.  Come down, then, and see who's at the front door.  I'll watch
my opportunity and nip out on to the road...."  The bell trilled again.
"You can let 'em ring for a bit.  They'll think you're asleep."

He tiptoed to the window.  "Ready?" he said softly.  Then I saw his
body stiffen.  He held up a warning hand.  I listened; and out of the
stillness I heard the gentle rustle of feet in the garden.

Quick as thought, my companion bent to the candle and the study sank
into darkness.  At the same instant another patient, enigmatic ring
whirred through the silence.  There were vague, muffled sounds in the
garden; but not very close to the house, as it seemed to me.

A hot, staccato whisper rasped on my ear.

"You're going to Berlin for sure?"

"Yes, on Friday.  Why?"

"If anything should happen to me, can I rely on you to redeem a ghastly
folly of mine?

"I'll help you in any way I can."

Our hands met in the dark.

"Listen, then!  In the drawing-room of a woman called Floria von
Pellegrini, an opera singer, who has an apartment at 305
Hohenzollern-Allee, a sealed envelope is hidden in the gramophone
cabinet.  It is in the lower part, thrust away behind a lot of old
gramophone records, a blue envelope, you can't mistake it.  Do you
think you could retrieve that envelope without this woman or any one
else knowing, and take it to an address I'll give you?"

Feeling rather scared, I answered as bravely as I could:

"I'll do my best.  But how can you be sure it's still there?"

"Because the gramophone is never used.  Floria hates gramophones..."

His use of the woman's Christian name was to recur to me later.

"If the envelope has gone," he went on, "you'll know that I've been
there before you.  She gets up late.  If you call early, it oughtn't to
be difficult.  Pretend you've got something to sell, frocks or furs,
and the maid--her name is Hedwig--will show you into the salon to wait."

Again that awful bell, patient but persistent.

"And what am I to do with this envelope?" I asked.

"Take it to one Joseph Bale.  He's got a theatrical agency in the
Tauben-Strasse, one of the turnings off the Friedrich-Strasse, at No.
97.  Give him the envelope, in person, only in person, remember.  He'll
know what to do with it.  He's an elusive beggar, but if you say you're
a friend of mine, he'll see you at once."

"You can count on me," I said.

He squeezed my hand.  "I know you won't fail me.  If you only
understood what this means to me!  I let my people down.  And I have to
make good.  Sure you've got those two addresses?"

I repeated them as he had given them to me.

"Good.  The name's Bale, remember.  'A friend of Major Abbott,' you'll
say.  Got that?"

"Yes," I said.

"Then stand by to shut the window after me!"

I caught his hand as he turned away.  "You're never going out there?"

Two long and steady peals in succession resounded from the front hall.

"It's my only chance.  There's no knowing what they wouldn't do to you
if they caught me here.  Besides, for the present it seems all quiet
again.  Hush, now!"

His hand was on the window-latch.  Noiselessly the window swung back.
The smell of damp leaves was in my nostrils.  And then the little man
was gone.  The night, moonless, starless, and black under a pall of
low-hanging clouds, seemed to swallow him up.  Only then did I remember
that he had left without the coat and hat I had promised him.

I closed the window as gently as I could, groped my way to the door,
and darted up to my bedroom.  By candlelight I whipped the pins out of
my hair, tore off my blouse and skirt, and dragged on my kimono.
Candle in hand, I hastened downstairs again to the front door.

"What is it?  Who's there?" I asked, my hand on the latch.

A thick voice answered in guttural English:

"Is that you, gndiges Frulein?  Please to open quickly.  It is I,
Major von Ungemach...."

His voice, usually a sort of jolly, jovial bellow, was husky and
apprehensive.  I scarcely recognised it.

"But what do you want?" I persisted.  "I'm not dressed.  I was in bed
and asleep...."

His heavy hand beat impatiently upon the glass panel of the door.

"Open only!  I must see you at once.  It is most urgent!"

I swung back the door.  Von Ungemach stepped swiftly into the hall.
His puffy face was deeply troubled and his pale eyes smouldered
angrily.  His grey military overcoat was cast about his shoulders, and
he carried an electric torch in his hand.

The change in his appearance gave me a sudden feeling of fear.  I had
never seen the Herr Kommandant like this before.  I knew him only as a
plump, self-indulgent, amusing creature, prodigiously vain, an
indefatigable talker, and untiringly assiduous in his attentions to me.
I found it hard to identify him with this grey-faced man, haggard-eyed
and curt of speech.

He turned from me to rap out an order to someone invisible in the gloom.

"Stay there with your men at the garden gate," he barked.  "You'll let
nobody pass, verstanden?"

"Zu Befehl, Herr Major," a gruff voice spoke back out of the night.
Von Ungemach took the door from me and closed it.  I was tortured with
anxiety for my poor little man.  Penned in, as he was, in the garden,
with its high, unscalable walls, and the gate on the road guarded, what
chance did he have?

"One of our people has escaped," said the Major bluntly: he spoke in
German; usually he aired his English on me.  "It is thought he may have
come by way of your garden.  You say you were in bed.  Did you hear any
suspicious sound downstairs?"

"Only the gun," I replied, and wondered whether I looked as terrified
as I felt, "and the excitement afterwards."

The beam of his torch swept the bare hall.  It fell upon the electric
switch beside the door.  His hand turned the button; but the hall
remained dark.

"Verdammt," he rasped, "the light to fail on this of all nights!"  He
swung round to me.  "You said the Herr Landgerichtsrat was out when I
telephoned.  Has he come back yet?"

"No," I replied.

"Then, with the gracious Frulein's permission, I will take a look
round.  We'll start with the study, as that gives on the garden...."

Familiar as he was with the house, he led the way without hesitation
along the passage and through the dining-room, his lamp flinging a
shaft of white light before him as he went.  I followed, my mind a
medley of conjectures and fears.  Had my visitor left any trace behind?
And what story was I going to tell if the Major took it into his head
to cross-examine me as to my movements during the evening?

We had reached the study threshold when a single shot rang out from the
garden.  With a muttered exclamation von Ungemach dashed into the room
and plucked open the window.  There fell another deafening explosion
without; guttural voices shouted incoherently, heavy footfalls grated
on the gravel.

The Major darted out, taking his torch with him, and I was left alone
in the dark.

Sick with fear, I leaned back against the door-post, afraid to ask
myself what those shots portended....




52

Dr. von Hentsch changes his mind


Doubtless you who have lived through the amazing Iliad of the Great War
will count it as nothing that a rifle should crack out across the peace
of a German garden, and a man disappear thereafter as completely as
though he had never existed.  But at the time of which I write the
world at large still knew not what manner of thing was this Prussian
military system which the spirit that sets liberty before death was to
undertake to smash....

I least of all.  I was of that generation of the English to the bulk of
whom a European war, as a reality of everyday life, appeared a
catastrophe as fantastically remote as a volcanic eruption in our
Surrey hills.  Before that thundery July evening and the events it
brought in its train, it never occurred to me that the military
atmosphere I found so entertaining at Schlatz--the elegant officers,
the bright uniforms, the many parades, with hundreds of stiff legs
moving as one in the goose step, and the bands crashing out through the
red dust,

  "Ich bin ein Preusse,
  Kennt Ihr meine Farben?..."

--I never discerned, I say, that all this brave show was merely the
fair cover of a ruthless and deadly machine which, while peace endured,
crushed those who opposed it at home as mercilessly as later it was to
seek to overthrow the world that sprang to arms to destroy it....


Two shots and then silence, but for the growing hubbub of voices under
the trees.  And I, standing there by the open window in the dark, as
Major von Ungemach had left me, trying in vain to read the riddle,
wondering apprehensively what I should do next....

The muffled throbbing of a car, the sound of an angry altercation in
the hall, and the violent slamming of the front door, decided the
question for me.  A light glimmered in the passage, and Dr. von
Hentsch, in a high state of nervous indignation, burst into the study.
He was engaged in a furious argument with his wife, who followed after.
He carried the paraffin lamp from the lobby in his hand.

"Shots in my own garden, Donnerwetter," he exclaimed shrilly, "and I'm
not to be told what it means?  I'll let von Ungemach know exactly what
I think of him, keeping me out of my own grounds with his damned
sheepsheads of guards!"  He set the lamp down on the desk and caught
sight of me.  "Ach, Olifia," he cried, "what's happening here?  Have
they all gone mad up at the Schloss?"

"A prisoner 's escaped," I replied rather weakly, for I was feeling
terribly upset.  "Major von Ungemach came round about it.  He's out
there in the garden now...."

"Quatsch!  Bldsinn!  Ridiculous rubbish!" squeaked my host.  "A nice
state of things, I must say, if they're going to open fire from the
Schloss and picket my garden every time one of these good-for-nothing
gentlemen chooses to stay out all night with his mistress...."

"Once and for all, Fritz," his wife intervened, but not severely--I
don't think Frau von Hentsch could have been really severe with any
one--"once and for all, I won't have you say such things in front of
Olivia...!"

"Olifia's not a child," the Doctor snapped back.  "Like everybody else
at Schlatz, I presume she knows that all these fellows in fortress
arrest keep women down in the town.  But, zum Teufel," he went on in an
access of exasperation, "if von Ungemach thinks I'm going to put up
with his tomfool melodramatic nonsense, he's very much mistaken.  Es
ist unerhrt!  I shall certainly complain to the General."

With a furious gesture he dashed his hands together, and his tubby form
vanished through the open window into the garden.

Frau von Hentsch shook her head compassionately, an indulgent smile on
her plain but rather charming face.  She came across and put her large
arm about me.

"Poor Fritz is very cross," she explained.  "A soldier tried to prod
him in the stomach with his bayonet.  Such a stupid man not to know
him!  One of these Polish recruits, I expect: some of them scarcely
seem to understand German.  Dear child," she added, looking at me
anxiously, "I'm afraid you must have been dreadfully alarmed?"

"I was rather scared," I admitted, very ill at ease.

"Tell me what happened!" she urged....


Dear Frau von Hentsch!  How I hated to lie to her!  Here was one of the
sweetest, most unselfish natures I have ever known.  I always thought
that the popularity of the Lucy Varley books, those simple tales of
American farm life that everybody has read, was largely due to the fact
that they were infused with something of my dear friend's Christian
kindliness.

Somehow she had contrived to impart this radiant spirit of hers to her
German husband.  With a wife of his own race I suspect that Dr. von
Hentsch, caste-bound, dogmatic, fussy, as he was, would have developed
into a bully like so many of his fellow-countrymen.  But Lucy von
Hentsch, without hectoring or fault-finding, but solely, as I read it,
by virtue of her great affection for her husband, appeared to have
brought out the best in him.  Through all the bitterness of the war
years I held fast to my memory of Fritz von Hentsch as an upright and
honourable man.

Poor Frau von Hentsch!  The war killed her as surely as it killed Kurt
von Hentsch, their only son.  When Kurt fell on the Somme, Lucy Varley
laid aside her pen and wrote no more.  But America's declaration of war
was the _coup de grce_ for her who, during more than thirty years of
exile, had always remained the staunchest of Americans.  Fended by the
conflict between her love of country and her affection for her husband,
that loyal heart broke, and she died.

I can see her now as I saw her that evening in the study, the last
night I was to spend at Schlatz, with her beautiful white hair and her
ample, motherly figure moulded in a black velvet gown, exquisitely
draped (Frau von Hentsch always bought her frocks in Paris, despite
sundry pan-German jeremiads of the Doctor's)--that plump body of hers
that used to give her so much anxious thought.  ("_Child, I know I'm
getting to look like a regular, stout old German Frau.  It's because
I'm just greedy, I guess.  But my! their cooking is so delicious!_")...


I set my teeth and fibbed.  What else could I do?  The secret I held
was not mine to share with another living soul.  So I explained that,
growing sleepy over my typing, I had gone off to bed, to be awakened
out of my first sleep by the firing of the Castle gun.  Lest von
Ungemach should mention the fact that he had been kept waiting at the
front door, I was careful to add that, when he first rang, I had put my
head under the bedclothes, too frightened to go downstairs and see who
sought admittance.

As I warmed to my tale, my fears began to leave me.  My story was quite
plausible, I felt, and, glancing unobtrusively about the study, I could
not discover that my visitor had left behind any trace of his presence.
But I wished I knew what had become of him!  I should have no peace of
mind, I felt, until I found out.  The echo of those two shots seemed to
go reverberating down my memory....

"Well, I declare," exclaimed Frau von Hentsch, when I had done, "I'm
not surprised at Fritz getting mad!  If I know anything of these
Deutschers, there's going to be one most almighty row over this!  That
von Ungemach must be plumb crazy!  I could understand one of those dumb
Poles losing his head if he were alone in charge and a prisoner broke
loose.  But the Major was here himself, you say, when those shots were
fired in the garden?"

"Yes," I replied.  "He was talking to me here in the study...."

Frau von Hentsch went over to the window and peered into the night.  A
lantern shone among the trees, and there were voices at the gate.

"I wonder what Fritz is doing," she said.  "I hope this man wasn't hit.
Did the Major tell you who it was?"

"No...."

"If it were that von Krachwitz creature I shouldn't worry," was her
caustic rejoinder.  "But I expect the Commandant's doing some thinking.
If anything's happened to this man, Major von Ungemach can go out and
buy himself a suit of plain clothes, I'll say!  _He_ won't want his
uniform any more.  My goodness, I hope his successor isn't married!
I'd just hate to leave this dear old house...."

"But why should Major von Ungemach get into trouble?" I asked.  "If a
prisoner escapes he has to try and catch him again, hasn't he?

"You've got to remember that all these prisoners are German officers,"
said Frau von Hentsch, gazing out into the darkness.  "And an officer
in this country is a little tin god on wheels, even if he is in
fortress arrest.  This is a military State, my dear...."

Her words touched a responsive chord in my memory.  Where had I heard
that phrase before that night?  Suddenly I remembered my talk with
Franz, the postman.  What had he said, again?  "_This is a military
State, Frulein..._"--Frau von Hentsch's identical words--"_...the
civilian doesn't count...._"  Then in a flash, the rest of our
conversation came back to me: Franz's forebodings, his tale of
preparations for war; and I thought of my little man and his mission.
For the first time I began to speculate about the contents of this
envelope, the recovery of which had seemed to be of such vital
importance to my odd visitor.

Frau von Hentsch had taken a cigarette from her bag.  She stooped and
lit it at the lamp.

"And," she went on, "the officer is its highest social unit, the only
class that matters.  The Government never lets the Army down.  That is
why this von Krachwitz brute, instead of being handed over to the
police to stand his trial for murder, as would have happened in your
country or mine, is judged by a military court and gets a nominal
sentence...."  She began to walk up and down the study, like she used
to do when she was dictating her stories to me.  "If Dr. von Hentsch
had been wounded by that sentry to-night, do you suppose he'd have got
any satisfaction, although, as you know, he's a judge, a high Prussian
official?  No, child, not on your life!  As like as not, the Major
would have been commended and the sentry promoted.  That's the way they
handle things in Deutschland.  The Army can do no wrong.  It's the
Prussian system, and if you live here, as I do, you've got to get used
to it."  She paused and abstractedly flicked the ash from her
cigarette, into the wastepaper-basket beside the desk.  "Not that I
ever have, Olivia," she continued rather wistfully.  "Dr. von Hentsch
knows it, and we've agreed to differ.  It's the only real difference of
opinion we've had in the twenty-eight years we've been married.  In my
heart I believe that my husband thinks as I do, for he's good and just
and God-fearing.  But he's an officer himself, an officer of the
reserve, and he has to support the existing order...."

There was a step on the gravel outside the window, and Dr. von Hentsch
came in.  I am pretty intuitive, and the moment I saw him I was aware
of a sort of tension existing between us.  His first glance was towards
me, an odd, questioning glance delivered with a faint air of
embarrassment.  I felt myself go cold all over.

Frau von Hentsch divined at once that something unpleasant had happened.

"Ah, there you are at last!" she said.  "I hope that no one's been
hurt, Fritz?"

Before he replied the Doctor turned his back on us to close the window
and draw the curtains across.

"Nothing of any consequence," he remarked nonchalantly, picking up the
letters which Franz had left on the desk.

"But the gun, the alarm bell, this shooting?" his wife demanded.

"A misunderstanding, it would appear," rejoined the Doctor, who was
glancing through his mail.

"But the Major _told_ Olivia that one of the prisoners had escaped,"
Frau von Hentsch persisted.

"As a matter of fact," retorted her husband rather testily, "the Major
was not in the Castle at all when it happened.  He was down in the town
at Schmidt's Weinstube.  With your permission, my dear Lucy," he went
on quickly, seeing that Frau von Hentsch was about to speak again, "I
don't propose to discuss it.  The matter is best forgotten, unless you
want to get von Ungemach into serious trouble with the General...."

"But, Fritz, you said yourself that you intended to make a complaint to
the General...!"

The little Doctor clicked with exasperation.

"It is human nature to make rash statements in moments of irritation,"
he remarked pedantically.  "I have received the Major's apology.  I am
content to let the matter rest there.  And I do not wish you, Lucy, or
you, Olifia"--his small, vivacious eyes flashed to my face--"to gossip
about this affair.  We don't want to get von Ungemach into hot water,
if only for the reason that if he's transferred we shall probably have
to leave this comfortable house...."

Frau von Hentsch laughed.

"Most immoral reasoning from a judge, I call it," she chaffed him.
"It's all very mysterious, but if our staying on at the
Kommandanten-Haus depends on our discretion, Olivia and I will be
silent as the tomb, won't we, Olivia?"  She broke off, wrinkling her
brow.  "But, by all accounts, the noise to-night was enough to wake the
dead.  The whole of Schlatz will be buzzing with it in the morning:
have you thought of that?"

The judge coughed discreetly.  "There have been night alarms at Schlatz
in the past to test the preparedness of the garrison.  This time,
instead of the barracks, it was the turn of the Schloss to be aroused.
There's no need for the public to be told more than that."  He made a
deliberate break as though to intimate that the subject was exhausted.
"But," he continued in a more matter-of-fact tone, "it's close on
midnight.  Time we were all in our beds!"

Usually Frau von Hentsch went upstairs with me, leaving the Doctor to
make all fast for the night.  But on this evening she remained behind.
She kissed me warmly and for an instant I clung to that affectionate
embrace, so anxious, heart-sick, and lonely was I.

The Doctor's "Good-night!" was kindly enough.  But, as he gave me his
hand, once more his eye, the stern, probing eye of the judge, rested
tentatively on my face.

And again I felt a quick stab of fear....




53

The man with the Clubfoot


I passed a wretched night.  For pondering over the enigma of those
shots in the garden I scarcely closed my eyes.  Dr. von Hentsch's
attitude made it clear that the authorities meant to hush the matter
up; but whether this was because the prisoner had been recaptured, or
because he had got clean away, I was at a loss to determine.  At this
juncture I don't think I ever seriously imagined that my visitor might
have been shot down and killed.  In those halcyon days of peace the
Reaper was a less familiar companion than--in how short a span of
weeks!--he was destined to become.

Nor was I at this time so much concerned for myself as for my little
man.  Most devoutly I wished him safe; but I also had a sort of
subconscious hope that, were he still at large, he would contrive to
send word and relieve me of the necessity of carrying out his
embarrassing errand which, on cooler contemplation, I was most
reluctant to undertake.  Regardless of Dr. von Hentsch's injunction I
was determined not to rest until I had discovered the truth.  I thought
I should be able to find out something from one or other of my friends
among the young officers of the garrison; and I made up my mind to set
to work next day.

On which resolution I fell asleep at last.  But it was only to slide
into a ghastly nightmare in which I seemed to be fleeing along an
endless, stone passage, very narrow, with towering walls on either
hand, pursued by a gigantic lame man who waved a blue envelope above
his head.  Already he was gaining on me, and I could hear him drawing
ever closer, his heavy limp thumping rhythmically on the flags, when,
with a stifled cry, I awoke to find my room flooded with sunshine, and
Franziska, the housemaid, rapping at the door and crying: "Sieben Uhr,
Frulein!"

I hurried over my bath and dressing in order to have an early
breakfast, and polish off the typing I had left over from the night
before.  A batch of the new story we were engaged upon had to be
despatched to New York by the afternoon mail.  Right up to the lunch
hour I was fully occupied.  Frau von Hentsch always worked in the
mornings.  Breakfast over, and the Doctor packed off to the Courts, she
and I would settle down in the study, where she would dictate to me
until one o'clock, when the Judge came home for the mid-day meal.  She
used to dictate straight on to the machine, afterwards revising the
typescript chapter by chapter.  Then--usually in the evenings, for we
went out little at night--I would make the final fair copy.

Frau von Hentsch was wonderful at dictation, clear-minded and precise,
rarely at a loss.  But on this morning she was, for her, curiously
distrait.  I wondered what Dr. von Hentsch could have confided to her
after I had left them on the previous evening.  Her manner towards me,
however, was as kindly as ever; and I sought to dismiss my suspicions
from my mind by telling myself that probably she was simply worried, as
she sometimes would be, about the development of her plot.

Luncheon brought no elucidation of the mystery which so greatly
intrigued me.  Indeed, there was no allusion of any kind to the events
of the preceding night.  Dr. von Hentsch, who had been talking with a
colleague fresh from Berlin, was in his most ponderous political mood.
He treated us to a long lecture on the misdeeds of the Servians whom,
he solemnly assured us, the Austrians would chastise as such "murder
ruffians" merited.

After lunch he and Frau von Hentsch disappeared for their customary nap
whilst I returned to the study to finish typing out the chapters which
had to catch the afternoon post.  I had told Frau von Hentsch, who
seldom went out during the heat of the day, that I would walk down to
the station with her batch of MS. and post it in the mail train which
left Schlatz at 4.35.  After my bad night I thought a turn in the fresh
air would do me good.  But I also remembered that, between the hours of
four and five, the Hohe Strasse, which is the main street of Schlatz,
was full of people; and I hoped to run across some acquaintance who
might throw some light on the mysterious happenings up at the Schloss.

Accordingly, the chapters completed and sealed up in their envelope,
soon after four o'clock I was descending the leafy avenue of lime-trees
that curved down to the town.  It was a serene afternoon of sunshine,
the air heavy with the perfume of lime-blossom, and as I walked slowly
down the hill, my eye rested pleasurably on the _sang-de-boeuf_ roofs
of the old houses which, stepped one behind the other down the
precipitous hillside, seemed to glow under the bright blue sky.

The siestia hour was over.  The Hohe Strasse was stirring into life.
At their doors the shopkeepers, most of whom greeted me impressively,
were sunning themselves and watching with never-failing interest the
unchanging pageant of the small garrison town.

How I loved it all, finding it always fresh, always picturesque, after
the smug drabness of Purley!  Little did I think, that sunny afternoon,
that I was gazing for the last time upon that scene: the old-world
street, smooth-cobbled, winding down to the tiny square where the tubby
little Rathaus, baroque survival of the city's ducal heyday, with its
turrets and pinnacles and rounded windows, seemed to be snoozing in the
sunshine over against the ancient inn with its swinging sign, "Zur
Ewigen Lampe"; the groups of strolling officers, all moustaches and
pomade, high-collared and tight-laced in their blue military frocks,
caps set at a rakish angle, desperate dogs every one, ogling the women
and saluting each other punctiliously with many bendings from the
waist; a party of recruits tramping wearily back from the
parade-ground, impassive, loutish peasants for the most part, in coarse
canvas suits; soldier servants with market baskets; the Lutheran pastor
in sober black; the Frau Brgermeister in bugles chatting with the Frau
Post-Direktor in a dreadful pork-pie hat; Colonel Drner, the grizzled
garrison commander, at whose passage the whole street was of a sudden
alive with salutes and bows, driving himself back to the office in his
dog-cart.

There seemed no place for tragedy in that peaceful landscape; yet, had
I but known it then, tragedy hung poised above us all as surely as the
tall tower of Castle Schlatz that reared itself above the little town.

I was passing the Einhorn Apotheke when the apothecary, a chubby, pink
young man, with a brushed-up Kaiser moustache, ran out.

"The gndiges Frulein will excuse me," said he, "but I have received
the drops for the Frau Landgerichtsrat.  If the gndiges Frulein were
going home, the bottle is there!"

Herr Apotheker Lachwitz knew all the gossip of Schlatz.  So as I had
plenty of time before the train, I followed him into the shop.  With
the Herr Apotheker no need for me to disobey Dr. von Hentsch's
injunction: he opened fire at once.

"What doings up at the Schloss last night, Frulein!" he began as he
wrapped up the bottle.

"You heard the racket, too, then?"  said I.

His cherubic face creased itself into a good-humoured smile.  "Na, and
who didn't?  Unless it were my neighbour, the corn-chandler, who's so
deaf that he'll miss the Last Trump."  He chuckled at his joke.  "Every
one thought that war had broken out.  But I happen to know that it was
only a false alarm, a surprise, as you might say, to test the vigilance
of these gentlemen up at the Schloss.  But they didn't catch them
napping, eh, Frulein?"

"Rather terrifying if one isn't used to that kind of thing, isn't it?"
I ventured to put in.

"Tchah," remarked the chemist dispassionately, handing me my package,
"with a great army such things must be."  His voice waxed sonorous.
"Encircled as we are with enemies, we Germans must continually satisfy
ourselves that our good sword is sharp.  What did der alte Fritz
say...?"

But I had ceased to listen.  I was not interested in the dictum of the
great Frederic.  Dr. von Hentsch's version was going the rounds, then.
I was surprised to find it thus implicitly accepted.

And then, resuming my walk, as I crossed the Rathaus Platz, whom should
I run into but Sonia von Wiltsche, whose husband was rather a nice
major on the Staff at Schlatz?  Of all the women I knew at Schlatz,
Sonia was the only one who had any pretence to looks or elegance, the
only one, apart from my dear Frau von Hentsch, I cared anything about.
She was a Rumanian by birth, young and dark and vivacious, with plenty
of pretty frocks, wherefor she was secretly envied and publicly sniffed
at by the dowdy frumps who composed the feminine section of the
military set.

"Olivia, my dear, you look lovely," she cried in her impulsive
way--Sonia always raved about her friends.  "I adore your big, shady
hat.  No wonder all the young officers are dying of love for you.  Rudi
von Linz will talk of nobody else.  Only at dinner last night..."

"Rubbish!" I said.  "Rudi's a nice boy, but much too sentimental.  Walk
up to the station with me, Sonia, if you're not in a hurry.  I've got a
letter for the train, and I don't want to miss it!"

"Volontiers, ma chrie," she answered: Sonia detested German and spoke
French whenever she could.  "How's our darling Lucy Varley?  I saw the
Judge going into the Headquarters office this morning, looking
frightfully important.  By the way," she added, "what exactly did
happen up at the Schloss last night?"

I shrugged my shoulders.  "I don't quite know.  All I can tell you is
that there was a terrible hullabaloo which scared me stiff.  Dr. von
Hentsch says it was a surprise alarm, to test the garrison, you know."

Sonia gave a contemptuous laugh.  "Et avec a?" she exclaimed
derisively.  "You don't believe that cock-and-bull story, do you, ma
chre?"

"For want of a better I have to.  What is supposed to have been going
on, anyway?"

"They say one of the prisoners escaped."

I received a sudden thrill.  Had my little man won his way to freedom
after all?

"Did your husband tell you this?" I asked.

She threw back her head and laughed.  "Grand Dieu, no!  Franz tells me
nothing.  I had it from Anna my maid, who got it out of Anton, my
husband's orderly.  I asked Franz about it, but..."--she laid a finger
on her lips and flashed her dark eyes mischievously--"not a word!  He
said I was not to listen to such nonsense.  But for all that, I think
it's true."

"Why?" I demanded eagerly.  We had now reached the Kaiserin
Augusta-Strasse, the broad boulevard that ran straight to the station.
Sonia glanced at the clock above the station and stopped.  "Twenty past
four!  Good gracious, cherie, I can't come any farther.  I promised to
be at the Dorners at four for bridge.  I'm going to hop into that
little carriage."  She waved her gay parasol at a passing droschke.

I followed her to the kerb where the cab had drawn up.  "What makes you
think that this story's true?" I asked, doing my best to appear
unconcerned.

Her foot on the carriage step, she turned back to me and answered
impressively: "Because there was the most frightful row at Headquarters
this morning.  The General was over from Wiesenfeld.  This poor von
Ungemach, it appears, was on the carpet.  Anton told Anna he had never
seen the General in such a fury."  The long sude gloves she carried
gave my arm an affectionate tap.  "Au revoir, ma petite.  Come and see
us soon again.  Franz, the monster, is in love with you, too, you know!"

"Everybody knows whom Franz is in love with," I laughed back.  She
fluttered her hand at me, the driver whipped up his ancient horse and
she drove away.  Almost gaily, for her news had lightened my heart, I
continued on my way to the station.

The long mail train was in when I went on the platform.  Having posted
my letter in the postal van, behind the engine, I was making for the
exit through a press of passengers and porters, when a man standing at
the door of one of the compartments, lifted his hat to me.

It was Major von Ungemach.  At first I did not know him, for he was
wearing plain clothes, and hitherto I had seen him only in his smart
uniform, sky-blue with pink facings, of the Dragoons of the Guard.  Now
in an appalling suit of black-and-white check and very yellow shoes, he
looked shapeless and shabby and undistinguished.

He came towards me at once and ceremoniously kissed my hand.

"Just now I have thought of you," he said, in his stiff English.  "Dear
Miss Olivia, of all my friends at Schlatz, you are the only one I was
sorry to part from without making my adieux...!"

Sonia was right then.  The prisoner had got away.  Was it possible that
the unfortunate von Ungemach had been relieved of his command?  At once
I thought of the von Hentsches and their lease.  Oh dear, how upset
they would be....

"But, Major," I exclaimed, "you're not leaving us for good, I hope?"

He nodded sombrely.  "Yes," he said, "I do not come back any more to
Schlatz."

It struck me, then, that all his ebullience had left him, as though,
with his gay uniform, he had stripped off that buoyant air of his which
at times I had found rather tiresome.  Loose in the ill-fitting tweeds,
his big body had a deflated look, and his voice was tired and toneless.

"Dear me," I remarked, "I shall miss you, Major!  But surely it's very
sudden, isn't it?  Have you got another job?  Or are you going back to
your regiment?"

"Neither," he answered huskily.  And then, to my horror, his face
contracted and his bushy moustache began to tremble.  "I must tell you
now, my dear," he said brokenly, "that I leave the Army.  I am----" he
turned from me and stared at the train with tragic eyes--"I am sent
away!"

The spectacle of this fat man on the verge of tears was incredibly
grotesque.  But I had no inclination to laugh.  By contrast with his
wonted self-sufficient sprightliness, there was something genuinely
pathetic about his utter moral abasement.  Besides, his statement
surprised me considerably.  It looked to me as if my little man had
been a prisoner of mark....

"Oh, dear," I rejoined, "I'm very sorry to hear that.  But what's
happened?  Is it over the pris----?"

He threw up his hands to stop me, glancing rapidly about him.  "Um
Gottes Willen," he exclaimed in a low voice, "you must forget what I
told you last night.  For that indiscretion, for that and for ... other
things, they have retired me...."

I stared at him aghast.  "It isn't possible!"

He nodded mournfully.  "By special decree of the Emperor's Military
Cabinet.  No trial and no appeal."

"But what have you done to merit such a terrible sentence?"

"I must not say.  But it is nothing that goes against my honour.
You'll believe me when I tell you that, won't you, Miss Olivia?"

"Of course," I assured him.

"Eighteen years' service and then to be thrown away like some old hat.
It is hard," he sighed.  "Now I go to my estates in Pomerania to be a
farmer and grow swines.  Can you imagine me as a dealer of swines, Miss
Olivia?"  There was a passing touch of the old gaiety in his voice.
"But at home among my peasants," he went on dramatically, "I will think
to myself: 'When these old cats at Schlatz shall start pulling my
reputation to pieces, the so beautiful Olivia will speak up and tell
them all that this poor von Ungemach may have been a stupid fellow, but
he did nothing that went against his honour.'  You'll say as much for
me, my dear, nicht wahr?"

"Indeed I will."

"Hand darauf!" he cried, already more cheerful.  As we shook hands on
our bargain, a whistle shrilled, doors slammed.  The Major made a
flying leap for his carriage, and, as the train began to move, thrust
his head out of the window and kissed his hand to me with the utmost
gallantry....


Without further encounters I returned to the Kommandanten-Haus.
Outside the front door an enormous scarlet racing car, smothered in
white dust, was parked under the limes.  A chauffeur with a hard face,
grimy and unshaven, sprawled in a death-like slumber at the wheel.
Franziska, who answered my ring at the bell, explained the presence of
the car.  It belonged to a gentleman who had called to see the Herr
Landgerichtsrat and, finding him from home, though momentarily expected
back, had elected to wait.  The Herr was in the study now.  The gndige
Frau, the servant added, was also out: I remembered, then, that Frau
von Hentsch had spoken of going to the Dorners' bridge party.

I had started to mount the stairs to go to my room, when the idea came
to me to avail myself of the absence of the von Hentsches to have a
look round the garden.  I was certain now that Major Abbott had got
away; for, since he had contrived to elude the ring of his pursuers, I
made sure he would be fully capable of eluding ultimate recapture: and
I thought I should like to see for myself his route of escape.  Anyway,
I should have to go into the garden some time before the evening meal
to cut flowers for the table: Frau von Hentsch always left the
arrangement of the flowers to me.  So I fetched the flower-basket and
the garden scissors from their place in the pantry (everything in Lucy
Varley's household had its place) and, going out by the front door,
entered the garden through the gate on the road.

I have always loved a garden, and on this perfect summer afternoon my
mind, weary from the harassed hours I had passed, seemed to drink in
the peace of this old-world pleasaunce.  Years of neglect had effaced
almost the last semblance of arrangement from what had once been a
stiffly formal park, with patterned flower-beds laid out upon the
hillside to contrast with the dark verdure of the trees behind where
the Schloss was piled up against the sky.  Now between the phalanxes of
luxuriant rhododendrons sentinelling the garden on either hand, the
flowers ran riot everywhere, insolently trailing out upon the
moss-grown paths, and making of what once had been a precise mosaic a
crazy quilt of many colours.

It was a place of vivid hues, of drowsy insect noises, of busy bird
chatter, of fragrance, of solitude, of oblivion.  Deliberately, to give
myself up to its enchantment, I put off the real errand which had
brought me there, wandering haphazard, my basket on my arm, along the
paths and stopping from time to time to pluck a flower.

I felt very happy that evening in the garden.  I was twenty-two,
romantic and eager: I had had the most picturesque adventure: and I
possessed a secret, a delightful, exciting secret, to browse over and
be thrilled by in moments of depression.  Luxuriously, I let my mind
slide back over the events of the past twenty-four hours, and smiled
out of sheer relief that all--for Major Abbott and me, at least--had
passed off so well.

I had left the path I had been following and, smiling happily to
myself, was bending over a rose-bush which grew apart in front of a
laurel thicket, when a harsh voice spoke suddenly almost in my ear.

"It is so mournful to be mirthful alone," it said in German.

Considerably startled, I sprang back.  From the other side of a laurel
bush a man with a heavy, square face was smirking at me most
ingratiatingly.

"I beg your pardon?" I said rather hastily.

He had doffed his hard, black felt hat, disclosing a very short crop of
wiry, grizzled hair.  His head was shaved at the sides so as to reveal
the scalp greyly.  He was one of the most hirsute individuals I had
ever seen.  There were pads of black hair on his projecting cheek
bones, and little tufts at his nostrils, and a velvety thatch darkened
the backs of his large and spade-like hands.  He was half-hidden by the
laurel bush; but from what I could see of him he was a most
massively-built person, with curiously long arms and an amazingly broad
shoulder span.  Altogether, what with his remarkable build, his great
bushy eyebrows shadowing hard and rather fierce eyes and his general
hairiness, there was more than a suggestion of some gigantic man-ape
about him.

At my rather stiff rejoinder, he cocked his head at me, narrowing his
eyes.  Then he smiled more expansively than ever, baring under his
coarse and close-clipped moustache big yellow teeth set with gold that
glinted in the sun.

"A quotation," he said in his grating voice.  "Minna von Barnhelm.  The
masterpiece of our national poet, Lessing.  A classic.  You, as a
foreigner, mein teures Frulein, you should study our great German
writers!"

His familiar air offended me, besides, I was growing uncomfortable
under his persistent stare.  So I said very distantly: "This is a
private house.  Were you looking for anybody?"

For an instant his mouth was grim and rather frightening.  Then he
smiled again, but this time his smile was less engaging.

"Aye, that I am.  And the goddess, Fortune, who, like all women--with
your permission, dear lady!--never spurns those who resolutely show
themselves independent of her caprices, has come to my aid.  Jawohl!"

He broke off with a sort of irascible grunt and, still clasping his
hat, folded his hairy hands across his great paunch to rest on the
crutch handle of his walking-stick.

"I come a long and fatiguing journey by automobile to pay a call on our
esteemed friend, Herr Landgerichtsrat von Hentsch...."

He must have been watching me more closely than I realised.  For, as
though he could read my thoughts, he rapped out sharply: "You saw my
automobile outside, hein?  Na, schn," he resumed, "I find the worthy
Judge from home.  Do I sit down to repose myself in the cool of the
house?  Do I loiter idly to await his coming?  Nein, Frulein.
I..."--he touched his chest with impressive forefinger--"I never rest.
'If I rest, I rust!'--you know the proverb?  So I step out into this
beautiful garden to see what gift Fortune has in store for me.  And
sehen Sie, the fickle jade meets me with open arms!"  His great body
shook in a silent chuckle.

All this time he had been eyeing me with his probing and vaguely
menacing glance.  And I was seized with an almost uncontrollable panic
of fear.  For suddenly Major Abbott's warning had come into my mind:
"_if a big German, an enormous man, with a clubfoot, comes inquiring
after me, be on your guard!  Don't let him suspect you or ... beware!_"
Instinctively my eyes dropped to the stranger's feet.  But the bushes
concealed them.

Meanwhile, the rasping, guttural voice went on:

"And then, while I walk behind the laurels here, meditating upon the
vicissitudes of human fortune, I raise my eyes and what do I see?  The
most exquisite picture of English girlhood approaching.  Like some
beautiful butterfly, most gracious young lady, you moved from flower to
flower, smiling at your thoughts"--he made a little pause, and my heart
seemed to miss a beat--"the happy thoughts of innocent and guileless
youth, no doubt," he added blandly.  "How does your great Shakespeare
put it?  'In maiden meditation, fancy free.'"

I was racking my brains feverishly for an excuse to break away and
leave him.  This man was playing with me.  He knew something.  But, oh
God, how much?

"Once more," the snarling tones proceeded, "Fortune was kind to me.
For, sehen Sie, liebes Frulein, it happens that I am in need of your
assistance...."

He broke off deliberately.  And I was silent, tongue-tied through fear.

With an ungainly movement he thrust his hand slowly into the pocket of
the black alpaca coat he was wearing and produced a man's collar.  It
was a soft collar, one of the double kind, with a blue and white
stripe, and all stained with earth.

I knew the collar at once.  Major Abbott had worn one like it.

The stranger held out the collar across the laurel bush.

"Will you have the great kindness, my dear young lady," he said
sleekly, "to tell me whether you have ever seen a collar like that
before?"

I tried to answer nonchalantly, for his challenging eye was on me.

"I'm sure I don't know," I retorted.  "Heaps of men wear collars
similar to this."

"But not in Germany," was the quick rejoinder.  "This is a collar made
in London."  He opened it out.  "See, the makers' name, 'Maitland &
Chard, Jermyn Street....'"  His thick finger dabbed at the lettering on
the inner band.

But I was not looking at the lettering.  My eyes were riveted on a
long, dark-brown smear that stained the linen through and through.  And
I knew that the stain was not of earth, but of blood.

With a brusque thrust of his huge body, the stranger burst through the
laurel bush and stood before me.

He limped as he went and, as he emerged from the thicket, I saw that
one of his feet was misshapen and encased in a monstrous boot.




54

"Auf Wiedersehen!"


But for the surprising intervention of Franziska, I believe my face
would have betrayed me.  I was numb with horror.  My little man was
once more a prisoner, then, if not dead, and here already, hot on the
track, appeared "der Stelze," against whom he had so impressively
cautioned me: I was not likely to forget the odd expression that had
come into his eyes when he spoke the name.

I thought of the travel-stained car, the weary chauffeur, at the door.
"The Lame One" had lost no time.  The memory of Major Abbott's warning
descended upon me like a cold douche: "_There's the worst kind of
trouble in store for any one suspected of aiding me to escape..._"; and
my sense of security collapsed like a house of cards.

Franziska's appearance, I say, gave me a brief respite.  I had not
heard her approach, and the first thing I knew of her presence was when
a solid mass of flesh, tightly packed into blue and white check,
tripping over a root, was precipitated between us.  Franziska, a
strapping peasant wench, with scarlet cheeks and hair screwed up into a
close bun at the back of her head, was always falling over things,
moving through life like an elephant in the jungle.  I helped her to
her feet.

"Herr Je," she panted, one red hand pressed to her enormous bosom.  "I
ran so fast ... the Herr Landgerichtsrat is so nervs.  He's waiting in
the study now to receive the gentleman.  Ach, du lieber Gott...!"  She
gasped, puffing, for breath.

I busied myself with brushing the pine needles from her dress; for I
was conscious of the jealous challenge of those disquieting eyes.
Anything to gain time....

"Tell the Herr Landgerichtsrat I will see him presently," was the
clubfooted man's surly rejoinder.  "And you, get out!"

The maid goggled at him.  "But the Herr Landgerichtsrat is impatient,
Herr," she blurted out.  "He ordered me to find you immediately and
bring you to the study...."

"The Herr Landgerichtsrat will await my pleasure." announced the
cripple, with dignity.  The crutch-handled stick described a gesture of
dismissal.  "Do as you're told, my girl!"

The action seemed to terrify Franziska, for she staggered back, her
china-blue eyes starting from her head.  "Aber, Herr..."

"Go...!"

Sharp as the bark of a dog and as fierce, the order rang out.  At the
same time the lame man lurched forward a pace, determined, ominous,
with stick uplifted.  Franziska did not wait for him.  Unceremoniously
she took to her heels and fled.  A distant crash of glass among the
cucumber frames marked her head-long retreat to the house.  Then once
more all was still, and the drone of the bees and the chatter of the
birds resumed possession of the garden.

I had myself in hand now.  I knew the danger, and I was prepared to
meet it.  Boldly I faced the man with the clubfoot.  I saw him holding
out the collar to me.  But I feigned to ignore it.

"Dr. von Hentsch isn't used to receiving orders," I explained, laughing.

The cripple bent his bushy eyebrows at me.  "Then he'll find he'll have
to change his habits.  Like certain other self-complacent individuals
in this town...."

As he said this, he shot me a mustering glance out of the corner of his
eyes.  His manner was frankly threatening; and I resented it.  After
all, I was a British subject, the guest of one of the highest officials
at Schlatz.  Who was this man that I should be afraid of him?  I could
not gainsay his unmistakable air of authority; but, for the rest, his
manner, and particularly his sober if rather nondescript clothes,
suggested the small Prussian functionary.  In that case, it seemed to
me, he would not bounce Dr. von Hentsch very successfully.  So I smiled
politely and said: "Perhaps you don't know that the Herr
Landgerichtsrat is the highest judicial authority in the district?"

He bowed.  "Nothwithstanding that, even..."  With a thoughtful air he
began to roll up the collar between his fingers.

"Then you can't identify this collar?" he asked presently.

"No," I answered.  "It's English, you say?"

"You saw the makers' name..." he pointed out.

"I didn't know there was such a thing as an Englishman at Schlatz," I
told him.  "I've never met one, at any rate...."

"Nevertheless, there was one here," he rejoined, stuffing the collar
away in his pocket.  "A prisoner in the Castle..."

"But I thought that only German officers were interned at Schlatz?" I
interposed.

"As a rule, yes.  But this was the exception.  A desperate criminal, my
gracious young lady, a ... a murderer, a man who would stop at nothing,
arrested by the German authorities and held at the request of your
British Government...."

All the time he was speaking his tigerish eyes kept boring into my
face.  Not for an instant did I believe his tale.  My game little Major
was no murderer, of that I was convinced.  But I grew nervous, scenting
a pitfall.

"You knew that a prisoner had escaped, didn't you?" he added casually.

I thought rapidly.  If this man were charged, as he appeared to be,
with the investigation of the affair, he must be acquainted with my
story as I had given it to Major von Ungemach and the von Hentsches.
So I said, yes, I had heard so.

"Did this Major Ungeheuer, Ungeziefer, na, whatever the Kommandant
fellow's name is, did he tell you that the prisoner was _English_?"

For the fraction of a second I paused.  I was not afraid to tell him
the truth; but some instinct bade me beware of a trap.

"No," I answered very decidedly, and left it at that.

"So, so," said the lame man musingly.  "Then you've only just heard
from me that it was an Englishman who escaped, nicht wahr?"

"That is so...."

His gleaming gums were fleshed in an expansive smile.  "What a
wonderful thing is the phlegm of the English!" he exclaimed in a softly
purring voice.  "What nonchalance!  What self-control!  You, a charming
young girl, are startled out of your beauty sleep by the firing of
cannon, the ringing of bells, the hue and cry, in a word, the whole
_klimbim_ of the alarm, and learn that a prisoner has escaped!  What
more thrilling than an escape, mein Frulein!  What more dramatic!  The
historic and inevitable file, the rope ladder, the breathless wait for
the sentries to pass, the bold dash into freedom, the scurrying in the
dark like a hunted rat!  Tell me, don't you find it exciting?"

I felt very much like a hunted rat myself, a poor, little, frightened
rat, worried by a savage, bristling dog.  Rather hurriedly, and not
knowing much what I was saying, I agreed absently that it was most
exciting.

"And yet," he went on reflectively, cocking his clipped head at a
thrush swaying on a pine-branch, "and yet you display no emotion.  Mein
Kompliment, Frulein!  Your English upbringing, no doubt.  Had I been
asked, I should have said that an English girl like you, alone in a
foreign land, would have been amazed and thrilled to learn that the
hero of this romantic episode was an Englishman, one of her own flesh
and blood...."

My throat was dry; my hands burned.  I had blundered, and blundered
badly.  Of course, I should have manifested surprise, interest, and
plied him with questions about the prisoner.  But his allusive manner,
and, above all, the persistent inquisition of those suspicious eyes,
had quite flustered me out of my rle....

"After all," the velvety voice proceeded, "if he had known, when he was
skulking in this very garden, that one of his compatriots was only a
few yards away, he might have sought you out and implored your
assistance...."

"Oh," I cried, "I'm thankful he didn't.  I should have died of fright.
A murderer, you said he was, I think?"

"Jawohl.  A redoubtable assassin...."

"And did he get away?  I mean, did he make good his escape?  Or was he
recaptured and brought back?"

A cloud seemed to pass over my companion's hard features.  He gave me
another of his piercing glances.

"You'd better ask your friend, Major ... Major..." he snapped his
fingers--"na, this imbecile of a Kommandant!"

I laughed, though, God knows, I felt little like mirth.  "Ah, but the
Major won't talk.  Besides, he's gone away...."

The big cripple seemed to take a deep breath; his sprouting nostrils
opened and shut; and his eyes flamed up suddenly, like a kindling fire.
"Yes," he growled irascibly, his sleek accents forgotten, "and lucky he
is to get off so lightly.  If I'd had my way, I'd have clapped the
infernal, bungling fool into the lowest range of the solitary
confinement cells at Spandau, and left him to rot there, verdammt!"
His great chest swelled out.  "Himmelkreuzdonnerwettersakrament
nochmal," he boomed in a crescendo of expletive--he was chattering now
like an angry baboon, grinding his teeth and rolling his eyes--"am I to
plan, to toil, to slave, to follow my goal unswervingly, heedless of
the enemies, the powerful enemies, I make, in order that some clumsy
sheepshead of a cavalry Major shall come blundering in and upset my
careful calculations?  Herr Gott,"--he rolled out the oath raising his
hairy paws aloft and shaking them at the sky of cloudless blue--"it's
enough to drive a man out of his mind.  Pah!"  He spat raucously, and
then, drawing an enormous red and yellow handkerchief from his pocket,
blew his nose with the noise of a trumpeting elephant.  This dual
operation appeared to pacify him, for presently his large, rather pudgy
hand went out, and he would have stroked my bare arm if I had not
shrunk back.

"Na ja," he remarked in a silky voice, "it's a hard life, a very hard
life, my dear.  More kicks than pfennigs, is old Clubfoot's portion.
But I can learn from you, jawohl.  You've given me a lesson in
self-control.  An excellent thing, self-control, an invaluable
quality..."--he broke off to plunge his searching regard again into my
face--"provided you're sure of yourself.  A bold front, that's the
secret of success.  How do the smart Yankees put it?  'It's a good life
if you don't weaken'!"  He paused, and then, lingeringly, as though he
were smacking his chops over the words, repeated the phrase.  "If you
don't weaken, my dear young lady!"  He made me a ceremonious bow.  "I
have the honour to wish you a very good evening!"

"Good ... good-bye!" I said falteringly.

"Auf wiedersehen!" he countered.

With a grave deliberation that to my fevered imagination had in itself
a faint air of menace, he clapped his bowler hat on his head and,
leaning heavily on his stick and hauling his monstrous foot along in a
painful limp, hobbled briskly off in the direction of the house.

I stayed behind in the sun-lit garden.  Picking up my basket, I
returned to my flowers.  I realised that I was still in the dark as to
Major Abbott's fate, and asked myself, without finding an answer, how
far I had compromised myself in the eyes of this sinister man.  I
wondered whether his parting words had any ulterior meaning.  This
mysterious cripple terrified me; and I resolved, his confident "auf
wiedersehen!" notwithstanding, to keep out of his way as long as he
remained in Schlatz....


For perhaps half an hour I lingered among the roses until the mighty
roar of a motor engine in the distance told me that the racing car had
taken the road again.  Of course I could not be sure that the
clubfooted man had gone with it, so I carried my roses indoors by the
kitchen, making for the pantry, where I was accustomed to arrange the
flowers.  As I entered the pantry, Franziska appeared from the
adjoining dining-room.

"I was just coming to look for the gndiges Frulein," she announced.
"The Herr Landgerichtsrat wished to see the Miss in the study
immediately."

Her words gave me an unpleasant sensation.  Never before had Dr. von
Hentsch been thus formal in his dealings with me.  What could this man
have told him?

"Has the visitor gone, Franziska?" I asked.

With a grunt Franziska plumped her rotund person down upon a chair,
planting her hands on her knees.  "Jawohl, and a good riddance," she
declared.  "You should have heard him in the study, that's all!
Shouted and raged like a Turk, he did.  I thought murder was being
done.  And when the study bell went for me to show him out, there was
the Herr Landgerichtsrat, God help me, as white as a shroud, handing
old hop-and-go-kick his hat as it might be the Pope!  Such insolence!
I wish the gndige Frau had been here!  She'd have put the great ape in
his place...."

Her vehement indignation brought a smile to my face.  But, as I crossed
the dining-room to the study, I, too, wished with all my heart that
dear Frau von Hentsch would come back.  I sorely lacked her gentle
presence in this atmosphere of storm....




55

In which I lose my job


Dr. von Hentsch always reminded me of an elderly cherub.  Short and
plump and round, he had a tight little tummy spanned by a watch-chain
as taut as a telegraph wire.  His chubby face, of which a gleaming bald
pate seemed to be merely the extension, so pink and smooth was it, was
suffused with a perennial flush like the Alps at sunset.

I found him pacing up and down the study smoking a cigarette with
quick, nervous puffs.  When he caught sight of me, he hastened to bring
me into the room, shutting the door after me.

"Please to be seated, Olifia," he said in his rather stilted English.
"I have something to say to you."

With his wonted gravity he placed himself with his back to the
unlighted stove, his little paunch stuck out, his hands tucked away
beneath the tails of his black morning-coat.  His manner was extremely
embarrassed.  Behind their rimless pince-nez his eyes were troubled.
He looked like a distracted cupid.

"I must tell you, my dear," he began, "that I ... that we,"--he fumbled
for the word--"that my wife and I find it necessary to make a change."

My face fell.  I had not anticipated this.  At twenty-two one does not
worry much about the future; but now that I was installed at Schlatz
and had fallen into Frau von Hentsch's ways, I had expected to make my
home with her more or less indefinitely.  Horrid memories of Purley and
its red-brick villas, of my desk under the grimy, reflector-lit window
of St. Mary Axe, the evening fight for trains at London Bridge, poured,
jostling, into my mind....

"Oh!" I exclaimed in dismay.  "I hope you're not dissatisfied with me,
Herr Doktor?"

"No, no," he answered at once.  "We shall be most sorry to lose you,
Olifia."  His mouth set in an obstinate line.  "But my wife will have
to engage another secretary."

"Has Frau von Hentsch any fault to find with my work?" I put in.

"On the contrary," he made haste to assure me in his pedantic way, "she
has never had a more efficient amanuensis."

"Then why do I have to go?"

He was silent, studying the pattern of the carpet.

"Does Frau von Hentsch know about this?" I asked suddenly.

He kept his eyes to the ground; but his ears became very red.  "As a
matter of fact," he said reluctantly, "I have not as yet discussed the
matter with her.  But she will recognise that the change is
inevitable...."

All this, I was well aware, was only so much beating about the bush.
It was not hard to see what had happened.  The moment I entered the
study I divined from the Judge's manner that his visitor had spoken to
him against me.  I had always regarded Dr. von Hentsch as a fair-minded
person, and, though I realised that I was getting only what I deserved,
I was surprised to find him thus willing to condemn me unheard.  Not
from hypocrisy, but merely to discover, if I might, the extent of the
lame man's suspicions against me, I assumed an injured air and said: "I
can guess what it is.  The person who was here just now has poisoned
your mind with his suspicions.  I know it.  Do you believe I had
anything to do with this Englishman's escape, Herr Doktor?"

"Not for one instant!" he declared emphatically, and with such honest
indignation that I felt a secret twinge of shame.  "I accepted your
word implicitly, my dear, as I told this gentleman not five minutes
ago."  He cleared his throat.  "This is a hard task for me, mein Kind.
We have grown very fond of you since you have been here, my wife and I.
With our daughter married on the other side of the Atlantic, and our
son so much away, our house was lonely until you came.  You brought
back the joy of youth under our roof, and we are grateful to you."  He
whipped off his pince-nez, breathed on the lenses, and started to
polish them with a sort of furious industry.  "We ... we shall miss
you, Olifia."

"Yet you send me away?" I said.

He threw up his hands helplessly and turned aside.

"Of what does this man accuse me?" I demanded.

"He brings no specific charge, save that you are a foreigner.  On that
ground he objects to your presence here, practically within the
precincts of a State prison."

"And you admit his objection?"

The little Judge coloured up.  "I have no choice," he muttered.

"Good gracious," I exclaimed, "even if this isn't a free country, I
should have thought a man in your position..."

"Gott...!"  His manner was deprecatory.  He was staring miserably out
through the open window.  "You don't understand.  This gentleman has
influence which I find myself unable to withstand."

"Influence?" I repeated contemptuously.  "What influence does a vulgar
creature like this possess, I'd like to know?"

"Enough, at any rate, to have had Major von Ungemach placed on
half-pay.  And von Ungemach is in the Guards Cavalry, with a father who
is a General.  I may be the next victim for all I know."

"I don't believe it," I cried.  "The man was boasting!"

The Herr Doktor shook his head.  "I have only too good reason for
knowing he was not," he replied.

"But who is this man?" I demanded.

The Judge did not reply at once.  In the silence that fell between us,
a symphony of quiet, unobtrusive sounds, as it were the pulse-beat of
this tranquil German household, drifted into the room: Franziska's
voice in the kitchen, rather flat and monotonous, raised in song; the
distant squeak of a pump; the hollow rattle of woodblocks in the cellar
where, on this hot afternoon, with characteristic Teuton foresight, the
winter supplies were being laid in.  Gravely the Judge adjusted his
pince-nez and looked at me.

"Olifia," he said, "I take the privilege of a friend who is old enough
to be the father you have lost to offer you a piece of advice.  Through
no fault of your own, you have touched the fringe of a disagreeable, an
unfortunate, business.  It is perhaps natural that you are inquisitive
about it: curiosity is the principal weakness of your sex; but believe
me, if you indulge this propensity you run the risk, the serious risk,
of deepening those suspicions which--quite blamelessly, I admit--you
have aroused.  Ask no questions, my dear, but forget the whole affair
and return to your own country without delay!"

Dr. von Hentsch liked to orate, and this rather pompous speech appeared
to raise his morale.  It was with a certain briskness that he stepped
over to the desk and picked up an envelope which lay there.

"Here," he went on, "is your salary for six months, together with your
fare to London.  The last train for Berlin leaves here at 11.12
to-night.  It reaches the Stettiner Bahnhof at 6.21 in the morning.
That will give you plenty of time to have a bath and some breakfast
before going on to London by the noon train from the Friedrich-Strasse.
I can give you the name of a quiet, respectable hotel..."

"But, Herr Doktor," I broke in, rather agitated, "you surely don't
expect me to leave right off like this, this very evening?"

He looked terribly uncomfortable.  "Believe me, it would be best," he
murmured.

"But I'm going to Berlin on Friday, anyway, and this is Monday.  The
Transomes can't have me before Friday as they've got friends stopping
with them until then.  And I can't return to England.  As you know, my
sister and her husband are meeting me in Berlin on the first for our
holiday in the Black Forest.  Surely it can't make any difference if I
stay on here until ... until the night train on Thursday, say?"

"I am sorry, Olifia," he answered testily, "but it is impossible...."

Then I knew that the lame man must have demanded my instant dismissal.
If he suspected me, that was not surprising; but what filled me with
consternation was my host's meek acquiescence.  Dr. von Hentsch came of
old Pomeranian Junker stock, a class which, as he was fond of telling
me, for all its disciplined loyalty, had always jealously defended its
prerogatives, even in defiance of the throne; and he was not the man to
be bullied into acting against his conscience.  Who was this mysterious
cripple, and what strange power did he wield to be able to sweep the
unfortunate von Ungemach, for all his aristocratic connection, into
ignominious retirement, to impose his orders upon a highly-placed and
usually by no means tractable Prussian judge.  If he were of the
police, then he must be a very important official, perhaps the Chief.
In any case I had made a dangerous enemy....

Dr. von Hentsch was speaking again.  "According to your agreement with
my wife," he said, "you are entitled to your first-class fare home.
You are, of course, mistress of your own plans; but if you will be
guided by me, Olifia, you will put your friends off, give up this
holiday, and go straight back to England."

"Give up our trip to the Black Forest?" I exclaimed.  "Why on earth
should I?"

Nervously Dr. von Hentsch pounded the knuckles of his right hand into
the palm of his left.  He cast a despairing glance to right and left of
him like a frightened rabbit.

"I have said as much as I ought," he rejoined testily.  "But this much
I will add: if you remain in Germany, the consequences to you may be
disagreeable.  Even dangerous, perhaps."

He mentioned no name, but I knew what he meant.  He was warning me
against "der Stelze," the second warning, within twenty-four hours, I
had received against this enigmatic figure.  A sensation of despair
suddenly assailed me, the sort of feeling some people have in a tunnel
or one of those slimy, stalactite caves which tourists are dragged to
see--claustrophobia, don't the doctors call it?  I felt as though
unseen hands were weaving a web about me, an intricate mesh which was
slowly but surely closing in to stifle me.  I had a vision of the man
with the clubfoot as a great, hairy spider, obese and horrible,
crawling laboriously, menacingly, athwart the web he was spinning about
me, patient and implacable.  And I was afraid, afraid....

At that moment, I think, I had fully decided to take the Judge's advice
and return straight to England.  I picked up the envelope.

"Oh, all right," I said listlessly.  "But I can't accept all this
money, Herr Doktor.  Six month's salary is excessive.  You are far too
generous."

An immense relief appeared in his face.  He beamed through his glasses,
and coming over, put his arm about me and patted my shoulder.  "Not at
all, not at all," he declared.  "It is the least we could do, my dear.
We are greatly in your debt, Olifia.  You have brought the sunshine
back to our house and made my wife so happy...."  With a deeply
perplexed air he rubbed his eyebrows.  "Weiss der Teufel, what she's
going to say!"  He took my two hands in his.  "Think kindly of us, when
you are once more in your own country," he said very earnestly.  "We
... we have loved you, Olifia, and I am ashamed to have to treat you
thus.  Aber..."  He broke off and hunched up his shoulders in a forlorn
shrug.  "I have telephoned for my wife," he went on.  "She is on her
way here now.  I have been called to Wiesenfeld"--Wiesenfeld is the
large town nearest Schlatz--"but I shall see Lucy before I leave.  And
I shall telegraph your sister to expect you to-morrow evening in
London.  You will, perhaps, explain matters to her when you see her.
As I shall not be back from Wiesenfeld to-night, I will say good-bye to
you now."  He hesitated.  "I shall ask permission to embrace you,
Olifia...."

I couldn't help it: my eyes filled with tears.  The simple little Judge
had always been kind to me.  I stooped to him, for I was by half a head
the taller, and he solemnly kissed my cheek.  Then he stepped back and
blew his nose loudly.  "There's a receipt in the envelope," he
announced in a mournful voice.

I signed the docket he had prepared and went to my room to pack.  I
never saw Dr. von Hentsch again....


Half an hour later my dear Lucy Varley came to me in my little green
and white bedroom, all littered with my preparations for departure.
"My dear, my dear," she cried, as she took me in her arms, "I don't
know what I'm going to do without you!  Oh, these men and their
wretched politics!  It's at moments like this that I realise that
Germany is no country for a woman.  I've had to get used to it, and it
hasn't always been so easy.  But this is the hardest blow of all."

She plumped down on my bed, her fat face all wrinkled with dismay.

"They object to an Englishwoman being here right alongside their old
Castle," she explained.  "We're in Germany, and I guess they have the
right.  You don't want to feel sore with Dr. von Hentsch, honey.
People in Berlin are very jumpy about the international situation just
now, he tells me.  If it comes to a war between Austria and these
wretched Servians, Russia will never stand for it, he says, and that
would mean the French and, maybe, you British as well, being dragged
in."

"Who is this lame man who's been making all the fuss?" I demanded.

"I don't know," she answered frankly.  "My husband didn't tell me.  And
when Fritz von Hentsch doesn't tell me a thing, I just don't ask.  Some
time or other every woman who marries a Prussian official has to learn
that lesson.  But I can tell you his name: it's Grundt, Dr. Adolf
Grundt...."

"Is he in the police or what?"

"I haven't any idea.  But he's some one high up, mighty high up, or my
husband would never have let you go, child.  I can tell you that."

"What became of this Englishman who escaped?" I asked.  "Did they catch
him again?"  And I told her about the blood-stained collar which the
clubfooted man had shown me in the garden.

Frau von Hentsch shuddered.  "My husband knows, I think," she answered;
"but he hasn't told me.  Something happened in the garden last night,
but what it was I have no idea.  Since they won't let you stay on
here," she added, "I suppose it means that they've recaptured this poor
creature.  Or that he's dead.  Unless, of course, there are other
English spies imprisoned in the Schloss...."

I felt my pulses quicken.  I bent down over my open trunk so as to hide
my face as I asked, as nonchalantly as I could contrive: "He was a spy,
then?"

"Dr. von Hentsch calls him a political prisoner.  But I guess that's
just a polite way of saying the same thing...."

So much for Grundt's stupid lie, I thought...!

"A great many queer things go on in this country that nobody knows
anything about," Frau von Hentsch proceeded.  "The discipline is
wonderful.  If the word goes forth that a certain scandal is to be
hushed up, well, it's as if it never had been, and that's all there is
to it, I'll say.  With the exception of Major von Ungemach I don't
believe a soul in this town knew that an Englishman was interned in the
Castle.  Dr. von Hentsch certainly didn't, or I feel sure he would have
made difficulties about your staying on here.  This affair is one of
their secrets, and a mighty big secret, judging by the almighty rumpus
they've made about it.  It's not healthy for foreigners to get mixed up
in these things.  That's why Dr. von Hentsch is anxious to get you back
home as quickly as possible."

There by my open trunk, a crepe-de-chine nightdress in my hand, I fell
a-musing.  Once more that staccato whisper was in my ear: "_If anything
should happen to me, can I rely on you to redeem a ghastly folly of
mine?_"

"If anything should happen to me..."

In all the fog of mystery that imprisoned me, was not the only tangible
feature looming up through the gloom the fact that Major Abbott was out
of the running, either back in his fortress cell, or deep in a nameless
grave?  And he had entrusted me with the redemption of his honour, the
good name he had left behind him in Berlin where, so be it I had the
pluck to defy the lame man and his unspoken threats, I might, with
luck, carry out my mission between trains.

If I took the night train I should reach Berlin on the morrow, which
was Tuesday.  A little dash of courage, and an hour on the following
morning, should see my mission accomplished.  I reckoned on having
enough time between trains to retrieve the envelope and deliver it to
Mr. Joseph Bale, of 97 Tauben-Strasse--the names and addresses my
little man had given me were firmly fixed in my memory.  And did I miss
the noonday train for London, there was one in the evening I could
take.  On reflection, my mission seemed simple.  And yet, when I
thought of "der Stelze"...

It would be more prudent, I knew, to wash my hands of the whole affair
and spend the few hours I should have in Berlin with Molly Transome, to
whom, over breakfast, I would explain my change of plan.  But Daddy,
sprung from a long line of Empire-builders, always bade me avoid the
easy thing.  Most of the trouble in my life has been due to my trying
to follow that stout-hearted counsel.  And so, too, this time it was to
befall...

"I declare you're not listening to a word I say," Frau von Hentsch's
voice, gently reproachful, cut across my meditation.  "Why, child, you
look as though your thoughts were miles away...."

"They were," I told her, "I was thinking of my journey...."

But not, merciful Heaven--for I still groped in darkness--of what that
journey was to bring forth!




56

I am kissed by a nice young man and make an alarming discovery


Under the frigid beams of the arcs the long Berlin train stood at the
platform.  At that late hour Schlatz station was almost deserted, and
so quiet that, as I followed the sleepy attendant into the compartment
he allotted me in the single Schlafwagen, I could hear the engine's
hoarse and rhythmic panting beat upon the still night air.

A certain stealthy hush about the sleeping-car suggested that my
fellow-passengers were already asleep.  Only one other person besides
me joined the train at Schlatz, a nondescript German in a
mustard-coloured overcoat, who looked like a commercial traveller.  He
was given the berth next to mine.

There was no one to see me off.  Frau von Hentsch wanted to come, but I
would not let her.  Having made up my mind to deceive her, I was
feeling pretty badly about it; and I was afraid of my resolution
weakening under the ordeal of a prolonged station farewell.  I bought a
ticket to London, as I was going to register my heavy luggage through
to Victoria: I had only my dressing-case with me in the carriage.  The
ticket allowed me to break my journey at Berlin if I wished.

The attendant had returned, and I was thinking about going to bed when
from the outside an enormous sheaf of pink roses was pressed against
the window.  A signet ring rapped upon the glass.  I let it down and
saw Rudi von Linz.  The sight of him reminded me of how lonely I was
feeling.  His bright and boyish face looked rather white: but perhaps
it was only the effect of the ghastly, mauvish light.

"Olivia," he cried breathlessly, "I was so afraid I'd miss you!  I
heard only just now at the Officers' Casino that you were leaving."
His voice was reproachful.  "I wasn't sure you'd want me to come and
say good-bye, as you never let me know you were going away..."

"I'm sorry, Rudi," I answered, genuinely enough, for I had always liked
him tremendously, "but, honestly, it wasn't my fault.  I had barely
time to get my packing done and catch the train...."

"But what's the hurry?" he demanded, "I thought you weren't going to
Berlin until Friday...?"

"Haven't you heard what's happened?"

"No..."

I looked at him inquiringly; but his face was blankly ignorant.

"Then how did you know I was leaving to-night?"

"One of the mess waiters told me.  I gave him a note to take round to
you, and he said you were going back to England by the Berlin train
to-night.  He'd heard it up at the Kommandanten-Haus, it appears,"--I
remembered that Franziska was walking out with one of the waiters at
the Casino.  "I came straight to the station.  I stopped only to wake
up the florist and get you a few flowers.  I'm going to bring them into
the carriage.  We've got lots of time...."

He whipped round so suddenly that he cannoned into a man who was
mooning up and down the platform after the manner of people waiting for
a train to start.  I saw that it was my neighbour in the
mustard-coloured overcoat.  With a muttered apology, Rudi raced down
the train and burst tempestuously into my compartment.

"Oh, beautiful Olivia," he exclaimed--that, by the way, was what he had
always called me--"if you only knew what a supreme disaster this is!
Here, take your flowers!  In the night that is bearing you away from me
they shall tell you of my despair and whisper very quietly in your ear,
perhaps, what I never had the courage to tell you myself!"

Spoken by Bill Bradley, or any other man of my own race, this flowery
speech would have sounded preposterous.  But as this charming, eager
boy--he was only twenty-two--handsome and gallant in his trim uniform,
uttered it, it rang so genuine that I was touched.

He gave me the roses which, nestling in their cincture of damp
maidenhair fern, filled the compartment with their fragrance.  I was
never to inhale the scent of roses again without thinking of poor Rudi
and that night at Schlatz station.

I buried my face in the blooms.  "They're adorable, my dear.  Every
time I see them during the night, they'll remind me of you.  But we
must give the poor darlings some water...."

I let down the wash-basin, filled it, and placed the bouquet there.
When I turned round I saw the boy with his hands outstretched towards
me.  He had flung aside his high-crowned uniform cap, and his crisp,
flaxen hair shone like fine gold under the light.  He took my two hands
in his and kissed them, then made me sit down beside him on the narrow
bed.

"What's happened?"

I shrugged my shoulders.  "There's been this fuss up at the Schloss
about the Englishman escaping..."

"Englishman, did you say?"

"Yes.  Didn't you know?"

Rudi shook his head.  "All we heard was that one of the prisoners got
out, and that this ass of an Ungemach had lost his job...."

"He's been retired from the Army!"

The boy stared at me in astonishment.  "Then you know more about it
than I do.  Poor devil!  Between ourselves, Olivia, the battalion
commander sent for all us officers to the orderly-room this afternoon
and forbade us to speak about the matter.  But, Um Gottes Willen,
what's it got to do with you?"

"It seems they object to an English subject living so close to the
prison."

"They?  Who's they?"

"A man called Grundt, Adolf Grundt.  Who is he, Rudi?"

My companion shook his head.  "Never heard of him.  Is he from the
Corps Command?"

"No.  He's a civilian."

Rudi's lip curled.  "A policeman, _was_?"

"He seems very important.  Dr. von Hentsch paid me six months salary
and advised me to go back to England at once, or the consequences might
be disagreeable."

The boy looked at me rather strangely, as I thought, and did not speak
for a moment.  Then he groaned aloud.  "What am I going to do without
my beautiful Olivia, will you tell me that?" he declaimed tragically.
"Only you have rendered my life endurable in this damned, dull hole.
It's enough to make a fellow want to blow out his brains.  And to think
that I'm stuck in this thrice-accursed village for another year at
least.  Unless..."

He broke off and looked up quickly.  A shadow fell between us and the
platform lights outside.  It was my neighbour of the sleeper passing
along the corridor to his berth.

"You're too hard on Schlatz," I said.  "I think it's a dear little
place.  And the people are charming."

Rudi made a face.  "You say that because you've never seen Berlin...."

The officers at Schlatz were always raving about Berlin.  They talked
incessantly of it as the zenith of all their ambitions, with its
theatres and restaurants, its dancing places, and its 'Weiber,' its
women.  The glitter of the Weltstadt dazzled them, middle-class
provincials as most of them were.  But with Rudi von Linz it was
different.  He was of good family, and had held a commission for
eighteen months in one of the regiments of Foot Guards in garrison in
the capital.  He had never told me the cause of his transfer to the
Line, and I had never asked him; but Sonia von Wiltsche confided to me
once that Master Rudi had lost more money than he could afford at
cart and had been banished to the infantry at Schlatz as a punishment.

There was a pause.  "I suppose," said Rudi slowly, "that you must go
straight through to London?"

I gave him a quick look; but his face told me nothing.

"I'm afraid so," I replied.

He nodded sombrely.  "I never have any luck.  Do you know what was in
that note I wrote you to-night?"

"Tell me...."

"It was to ask you to give me without fail your address in Berlin
before you went away."

"Why?"

He glanced towards the door, then, standing up, peeped cautiously into
the corridor.  To my surprise he shut the door before coming back to
the bed.

"My dear Rudi," I laughed, "are you sure it's quite proper?"

He jerked his head in the direction of the adjoining compartment.
"Solche Frechheit!  The fellow who has the berth next door was out
there in the corridor listening to every word we say."

The incident was to recur to me later.  But at the moment it made
little impression on my mind, for your average German bourgeois,
especially when travelling, is the most pestilentially inquisitive
creature alive.

Rudi glanced at his wrist.  "We have five minutes left.  Listen,
Olivia, I'm going to tell you a secret.  I've got to go up to Berlin on
duty to-morrow."

"Oh, Rudi!" I exclaimed.

He nodded glumly.  "I may be there for a week, and I meant to give you
such a good time.  I had it all planned out.  One day I was going to
take you to lunch at the Bristol--it's very chic and amusing there; and
afterwards drive you round and show you the Kaiser's Palace and all the
sights.  Then we'd have done a _th dansant_ at one or other of the
hotels, the Adlon or the Esplanade, and dined, perhaps, one night at
the Wintergarten on the terrace--that's the big music-hall, you know,
with a tremendous blue roof like the night-sky, all dotted with stars.
And, of course, we'd have had a grand bummel some evening round the
night restaurants, the Palais de Danse, the Mascotte, the Gala---I know
them every one...."

"My dear, it sounds entrancing!"

His eyes sought mine pleadingly.  "Can't we fix it?  I shall be in
Berlin by dinner-time to-morrow evening.  Why not stay over and dine
with me?"

I was silent for a little spell, thinking.  The prospect of being given
a whirl round Berlin by Rudi was certainly attractive.  It would be a
last pleasant remembrance to take back to the dreaded monotony of my
life at home.

"I might," I said at last.

With a sort of boyish glee he flung his arms about me.

"Olivia, you're a darling!"

"Behave yourself, Rudi, you're squashing my frock!" I reproved him.
"If I agree to stay over a day, you're not to tell a soul, do you hear?
And particularly not the von Hentsches.  They're ... they're rather
old-fashioned, you know, and they'd be horrified at the idea of my
going round Berlin with you alone."

Rudi began to laugh.  "They'd be worse than horrified if they knew that
you and I were going to bummel until daylight...."

I shook my head at him.  "Now, Rudi," I said, "I didn't promise
that...."

He caught my hands.  "Beautiful Olivia, you wouldn't be so unkind.  The
Palais de Danse doesn't get going until after midnight.  You shall see
how amusing it is.  You can easily stop over: what does one day matter?"

"And the disagreeable consequences that Dr. von Hentsch spoke of?"

"Unsinn!  Twenty-four hours won't make any difference.  The main thing
was for you to leave Schlatz...."

I drew my hands away.  It was hard to refuse Rudi anything.  "I shall
make no promises."  I glanced out of the window.  "We shall be starting
in another minute.  Hadn't you better be getting back to the platform?"

"Not until I know where we are to meet.  Where shall you put up in
Berlin?"

"At the Continental.  Do you know it?"

"Of course.  May I fetch you there at eight o'clock?"

I nodded.  The adventure began to please me.  It looked as though I
should have a full time in Berlin.  "I've registered my heavy luggage
through to London.  I shall have to come as I am.  Does it matter?"

"Not in the least.  In Berlin we are not so stiff as you are in
London."  He stood up.  "Beautiful Olivia, you don't know how happy
you've made me.  I shall be eating my heart out until I see you again."
He put his arms on my shoulders.  "Auf wiedersehen, my dear.  You
promise me it's 'auf wiedersehen'?"

"I promise," I said....

Yes, I let him kiss me.  After the strain of the past twenty-four hours
I yearned for sympathy; and, seeing him go, I felt suddenly oppressed
by the prospect which my journey unfolded.  Of course, I wasn't in love
with him: he was too young; besides, I had never fallen in love with
any man then.  But he was youthful and beautiful and compelling.  And I
gave him back his kiss.

Immediately thereon a harsh voice outside shouted, "Abfahren!"  Crying
"Auf wiedersehen!" the boy snatched up his cap and gloves and hurried
out.

Clanking heavily over the points, the Berlin train bore me away into
the Unknown....


As I was going to get up so early, it did not seem worth while
undressing.  But I had changed into the kimono which I had in my
suit-case and, propping up my silver mirror on the little folding
table, began to cream my face for the night.

I was wondering about this Floria von Pellegrini, who she was, and how
I should gain access to her.  She was an opera singer, Major Abbott had
said, and he had suggested that, if I called early, pretending to have
something to sell, I might succeed in being left alone in the salon
long enough to retrieve the envelope from the gramophone cabinet.

Well, the plan sounded all right.  But suppose it went wrong?  What if
the maid--Hedwig, wasn't that her name?--what if Hedwig demanded to see
what I was offering for sale and left me on the mat while she went to
submit it to her mistress?  Obviously, I should have to take some
article or other with me....

But what?  Wouldn't it have to be something rather luxurious to
interest an opera singer?  The only thing I could think of belonging to
me was my Manila shawl that Daddy gave me; and I shouldn't dream of
selling that.  Perhaps if I were to put a stiff price on it....  As my
fingers mechanically worked the skin-food into my face, I felt a little
tremor of excitement gain me.  The adventure was beginning to interest
me.  I was never able to withstand the lure of romance.  It must be in
the Dunbar blood.  Our family is one of those which have helped to lay
out the Empire, like a golf professional laying out a course, only
instead of putting down greens we have left graves.  Ancestors of mine
are buried all along the trail of Empire, from that Major Dunbar who
was killed with Braddock in America, to my father's elder brother, dead
of dysentery, whom Daddy buried at Wady Halfa, on the way up to Khartum
with Kitchener.  All we have to show for it are some swords on the
wall, a few trophies, and a line of medals in a glass case.  But,
though the last of our branch of the Dunbars is out of the Army List
now, I expect the old strain endures.

Daddy used to say that my character was Nature's attempt to compensate
her blunder in giving him daughters instead of sons.  I should have
been a soldier if I had been a boy; for I spent my childhood at
Aldershot, so brave, in those pre-war days, with scarlet and gold,
symbols of the blood and glory of Britain's fighting past.  I revelled
in the perpetual stir of the Lines, the rolling drums, the gay bugles,
the musical cavalry calls, the gallant din of Grand Reveille that, on
summer mornings, would pluck me, a little maid, from my bed, and at
night the skirling pipes of Daddy's Highlanders at Tattoo, and, in the
ensuing silence, the high notes of the Last Post wailing out of the
dark.  When I was not yarning with old MacTavish, Daddy's soldier
servant who had seen the square break at Tel-el-Kebir, I was browsing
among the books in the study, hunting adventure, always adventure.

And now, for the first time in my life, adventure, a Secret Service
adventure, had come my way.  As the train went roaring through the
night, a flutter of pride stirred me at the thought that Fate had made
me the comrade of my gallant little Major.  I had a curious feeling
that with me rode in escort dead-and-gone Dunbars who, in their day,
had set out on missions far lonelier and, as it seemed to me then, more
desperate, than that towards which the Berlin express was bearing me.

I wanted to prove myself worthy of the family record; but my heart sank
when I thought of that clubfooted man....

I wiped my face clean and put the mirror away.  I left my suit-case
unlocked against the morning, but I tucked the glass out of sight, as
was my custom when travelling; for once, in a Paris hotel, a silver
mirror which I had left exposed to view in a valise had been stolen.
Then, making sure that I had bolted the door, I got into bed and turned
out the light.

It was broad daylight when I awoke.  A knocking at the door aroused me.
I heard a key grate in the lock.  The attendant appeared with a tray.

"Donnerwetter," he remarked cheerfully, "the gndiges Frulein sleeps
sound.  I thought you were never going to hear me.  So, we reach Berlin
in thirty-five minutes, and I have made you a cup of coffee."

I looked out of the window.  The train was rushing through a dreary
region of sand and pine and water, the landscape bathed in the sickly
light of a clouded and unfriendly morning.  I drank up my coffee, and
it did me good.  I sprang out of bed and began to dress.

When I opened my suit-case to take out my toilet things, I found my
hand-glass lying on the top.  The discovery sent me instantly to the
table where I had left my purse with the money, my entire available
capital, which Dr. von Hentsch had given me.  The purse was as I had
left it, and the money intact.

But when I examined my suit-case more closely it was to discover that
everything in it was topsy-turvy.  Nothing appeared to be missing.  I
realised at once that some one must have visited my compartment in the
night and rifled my suit-case.  The attendant had unlocked my bolted
door from the outside; therefore, armed with the proper key, anybody
else could have gained admission.  And worn out as I was, I had slept
dreamlessly, heavily.  But who?  Why...?

With a horrid sense of misgiving I suddenly thought of my neighbour in
the next berth, the man in the yellow overcoat, whom Rudi had surprised
eaves-dropping....




57

I arrive in Berlin and score the first trick


I was fully alive to the gravity of my discovery.  Blankly I sat down
again upon the bed, the mirror in my hand, while ripple on ripple of
chill, nauseating fear swept over me.

Inexorably train rocked on Berlinwards.  Culverts roared thunderously
beneath our wheels: spick-and-span stations whizzed frantically past in
a dazzle of black and white.  A pale sun came out and peeped at its
reflection in the irrigation channels that gleamed like knives among
the low-lying fields.  Like the mists of morning melting on the
steaming plain, the fog which had hidden the truth from my eyes
suddenly seemed to lift, and I saw the peril of my position stand out
as clear-cut and hard as the telegraph posts that flashed by.

Whoever had broken into my berth, my neighbour or another, I knew what
he was after.  He was looking for the blue envelope, this mysterious
pledge of Major Abbott's honour which I had fondly imagined to be a
secret between my little man and me: that, or some indication of its
hiding-place.  Grundt's dramatic arrival, von Ungemach's disgrace, Dr.
von Hentsch's inexplicable surrender to his browbeating visitor--all
these things had told me that the Major was a prisoner of mark.  But,
within an hour of his escape, he had been recaptured.  Alive or dead,
he was back in custody almost before the racket of the alarm had died
away.

What had puzzled me all along was Grundt's precipitate arrival at
Schlatz.  This highly-placed official, before whom everybody trembled,
had come a long way: the grimy chauffeur asleep at the wheel, the dusty
car, showed as much--if from Berlin, as seemed likely, a motor journey
of many hours.  Why?  To scarify the wretched von Ungemach?  To root
about in the Kommandanten-Haus garden for traces of a fugitive no
longer at large?

Absurd.  Not Major Abbott, I realised it now, but the errand which had
brought him to Germany, was the important thing.  It was the mission,
not the man, that mattered.  If the news of the prisoner's brief dash
for liberty had brought Grundt post-haste to Schlatz, it was because
"der Stelze" was aware of the existence of the document which I had so
blithely undertaken to retrieve.

That Grundt did not know that the blue envelope was deposited in
Berlin, his rush to Schlatz and the raid on my suit-case indicated.
But he could scarcely have believed that Major Abbott had contrived to
retain possession of the document while incarcerated at the Schloss.
Might it not rather have been that, on learning of the prisoner's
escape, Grundt feared that the Englishman had used his little hour of
freedom, if not to communicate verbally to an accomplice the substance
of the document, at least to tell him where it was concealed?  As this
accomplice, I, the prisoner's fellow-countrywoman, alone, on the night
of the escape, in a house abutting on his place of custody, was, of
course, the most clearly-marked object of suspicion.  Hence Grundt's
cross-examination of me, hence his veiled threats, hence his demand
that I should return to England forthwith.

That he left nothing to chance, "der Stelze," the rifling of my luggage
showed; and I had the very definite notion that he would not let his
suspicions rest until he had seen me safe back to my own country.  If I
lingered in Berlin, I might expect to be shadowed.  This, I divined,
was the real meaning of Dr. von Hentsch's plain hint to me not to tarry
in Germany....

Throughout my life I have always tried to face facts as they are.  Now,
as I dressed, I faced these.  They terrified me.  If I were going to
carry out my promise to my brave little man--and, the worst of it was,
I knew I should have to--I might reasonably count on finding myself
confronted by this ruthless and sinister cripple.

There was a chance, a slight chance, but no more substantial, as it
seemed to my disturbed imagination, than a wisp of straw whirled into
the air by the passage of the train, that my mission might yet prove to
be as simple as, in my _navet_, I at first had figured it.  This
Floria von Pellegrini was a friend of Major Abbott's--had he not called
her by her Christian name?--and he had secreted the document in her
drawing-room presumably because it was the most unlikely place in which
Grundt would look for it.  Unless, of course, my little man had been
surprised and had thrust the envelope away in the first hiding-place
that occurred to him.  Anyway, Grundt clearly did not know where to
find the paper, so there was always the possibility that, could I but
elude him, I might fulfil my errand unimpeded.

But I had a presentiment--I think it must have subconsciously oppressed
me that evening when he challenged me in the garden--that I and the man
with the clubfoot were destined to meet again....


And so, weighed down with this dull foreboding, I came to Berlin.

My neighbour of the mustard-coloured overcoat--a hideous garment it
was, curry yellow, with a green stripe!--was in the corridor outside
his compartment when I left mine, such a commonplace German traveller,
with his pince-nez, his sage-green hat with a feather stuck in the
band, his umbrella, and his imitation leather suit-case, that I began
to ask myself whether, after all, I had not been mistaken.  In any
case, he paid not the slightest attention to me and, as soon as the
train had come to rest in the big, bare station, sprang smartly to the
ground and was quickly lost to view in the crowd on the platform.

Perhaps I was obsessed by my fears, but my first impression of Berlin
was unfavourable enough.  The station where I landed lay in a dreary
working-class section of the city and, even at that early hour--it was
not yet seven o'clock--its bleak and sordid hall seethed with swarms of
pallid, shabby workers, jostling their way, grim and silent, to and
from the trains.  These determined, unsmiling hordes depressed me,
fresh from the sleepy, pleasant atmosphere of Schlatz.  The
blue-bloused porter who went in search of the trunk I had registered
was friendly enough, but the policeman at the entrance, who thrust a
metal disc into my hand, screamed rudely at me: "Do you want a cab or
don't you?" when I asked him what the disc was for.

For me he typified Berlin as I was afterwards to know it, that
Schutzmann, squat and gross and obese, with a spiked helmet perched
above a purplish, irascible face, and a curved sword and a huge
revolver strapped about his vast blue middle.  He had little, angry
eyes, and seemed to bristle menace like one of those frightful images
of malevolent Japanese deities.  When at length my nice porter appeared
with the trunk, the policeman, for some reason not apparent to me--for
I found his clipped Berlin jargon almost unintelligible--rounded on the
inoffensive creature with a flood of squealing abuse.  The porter heard
him in submissive silence, then took me to my cab.

I was to learn that Berlin, like every other capital, possesses a
beauty of its own.  But as it revealed itself to me on that grey and
sunless morning in the uncompromising shabbiness of its northern
quarters, I found it a dour and soulless place, without charm, without
character, without identity.  Paris lingers in the memory, with its
first faint tang of burning wood, London with its strong reek of smoke;
but Berlin had not even an odour of its own to lend it individuality.

Discipline, that rigid Prussian discipline which so wonderingly I had
just seen in action at Schlatz, seemed to be the keynote of this hard,
clean city.  Everything struck me as being standardised: the broad,
asphalted streets, the gaunt tenement houses, the clanging trams, the
drab motor-buses, even the droves of meanly-dressed toilers hurrying in
two well-regulated streams along the pavements.  To my eyes one corner
of these straight, endless streets, laid out in parallels on the
American plan, was exactly like another, just as one man in his ugly,
ill-fitting clothes resembled his fellow.

      *      *      *      *      *

In the first alarm over my discovery in the train, my idea had been, on
arriving in Berlin, to drive straight to my friends, the Transomes, who
had an apartment in Viktoria-Strasse.  But Geoff Transome was one of
the secretaries at the American Embassy, and now that I had made up my
mind to see this thing through, it seemed scarcely fair to run the risk
of implicating him in an affair which might cause him unpleasantness in
his official capacity.  Not that Geoff would hesitate to come to my
aid, if needs be.  Though he liked Germans well enough, he had little
use for Prussian militarism; and when I used to see him on his leaves
in London, he would often rag about Prussian stiffness.  I had a notion
that I should find his easy-going, uncompromising Americanism a healthy
tonic after my experience of the Prussian military machine.  But it
must be after I had carried out my mission.  I would spend a jolly day
with him and Molly, who had been at Miss Fairfield's school with me,
until it was time to meet Rudi.

Accordingly, on leaving the station I had told the venerable old
gentleman in the glazed white top-hat, who piloted the little horse-cab
I had chartered, to drive me to the Continental.  But now, as we
clip-clopped at a leisurely trot over the asphalt, it suddenly occurred
to me that my inquisitive neighbour of the sleeping-car might well have
overheard me telling Rudi von Linz my address in Berlin.  In that
event, no need for him of the curry-hued overcoating to shadow me.  He
had only to go to the Continental and await me there.  And then I
thought of Kemper's.

On their rare visits to Berlin, the von Hentsches always stayed at
Kemper's Hotel in the Mauer-Strasse, an old-fashioned "family house,"
mainly patronised by the small Prussian nobility.  My dear Lucy Varley,
whose American tastes ran more naturally in the direction of the Adlon
or the Esplanade, had often told me laughingly about Kemper's, with its
aged servants, its mirrors and red plush, and its antiquated lift.
("_I can tell you, child, that in America the trees come up quicker
than that old elevator!_")

But generations of von Hentsches had made Kemper's their Berlin
headquarters, and so, to please her husband, she put up with its
manifold drawbacks.  In my dilemma Kemper's appeared to me as quiet
and, since the Herr Doktor was essentially frugal-minded, probably
cheap.  I knew that the mention of his name would ensure me a friendly
reception; but on reflection I decided it would be more prudent to say
nothing about him, in case of awkward inquiries.

I was about to give the cabman the address, when it struck me that,
were Grundt really interested in my movements, this infernal Prussian
system of cab-discs at the stations would enable him without great
difficulty to pick up my trail.  So I changed my mind and, plucking my
ancient jarvey by the sleeve, bade him stop the next disengaged
motor-cab he saw.

He pulled in to the kerb and stopped by the simple process of jamming
on his foot-brake, so that his unfortunate horse slithered with its
four feet outstretched on the slippery asphalt.

"What for?" the cabman demanded, turning round on his box to regard me
with astonishment.

"Because I'm in a hurry," I explained.

"Don't we go fast enough for you?" he asked.

"No," I told him.

On that he doffed his snowy topper which, with its curly brim, lent him
quite a raffish, Regency air, and scratched his grizzled poll.
"Merkwrdig!" he murmured.  "For fifteen years I've driven Hermine
here"--he indicated his wretched steed with his whip--"and no one's
ever complained before.  Want one of those stinking motors, do you?
You'll have to pay me what's shown on the clock, you know...."

I cut short the discussion by signalling myself to a passing taxi.  I
paid off my aged charioteer, who looked like Father Time beside the
smart young chauffeur, my luggage was transferred, and five minutes
later I was being conducted, with extreme deference, to my room at
Kemper's.

An elderly virgin, with blue veins in her nose, prepared a hot bath for
me in a dank and tomb-like chamber.  But the water was hot and the
towels were clean, and, after changing into a cool grey linen frock,
and thoroughly enjoying some delicious coffee and hot rolls in the
rather austere Speisesaal, I looked with a more cheerful eye upon
Berlin and the errand that had brought me there.  My spirits were
further raised by a little incident which seemed to show that fortune
was working on my side.

As I crossed the hotel vestibule after breakfast, I met the manager.
He bowed and said: "Perhaps the gndiges Frulein will have the
goodness to fill in the police form?"--this is the registration docket
which every hotel arrival in Germany has to complete.  I was completely
taken aback.  I had forgotten all about the so-called Anmeldungsschein
which, I realised, would immediately set the police on my track.  I was
wondering whether I dare give a false name when, to my utter relief,
the manager went on, "There is no hurry if the Gndige is pressed for
time.  It will do when the Frulein returns."

I breathed again.  I should have to stave off the filling in of the
form until the last possible moment before my departure for London, I
told myself.  Meanwhile, I was free to set out on my mission in the
full consciousness of having thrown my pursuers off the trail.  I felt
that I had scored the first trick.

The morning dullness had passed, and the sun was shining brightly when,
soon after nine o'clock I left Kemper's.  My Spanish shawl, wrapped up
in tissue paper, was under my arm.  At the entrance of the hotel I
paused, as an additional precaution, to survey the street, a discreet
thoroughfare of prim banks and stolid public buildings.  But my friend
of the train was nowhere visible and, as far as I could determine no
one followed me when presently I went the length of the street to
where, as the hall porter informed me an archway gave upon Unter den
Linden.

In the crowded avenue I felt safe.  My cleverness in outwitting
Grundt's emissary rather tickled my fancy and I was smiling to myself
as I took a taxi from the rank opposite the Bristol Hotel, and bade the
driver drive me to Hohenzollern-Allee, 305.




58

Hohenzollern-Allee, 305


The Hohenzollern-Allee was a brand-new street in a brand-new quarter of
Berlin.  A double row of brand-new trees lined it, and behind them
brand-new blocks of flats in an extraordinary jumble of architectural
styles, but each as bright and staring as the picture on a child's box
of bricks, succeeded one another until the Allee suddenly decided to
stop being the city, and frankly became the open country.

The effect of this metamorphosis was to cut off the three-hundreds in
their prime.  No. 305, as far as I could judge, was one of the last of
the houses.  Still careful to cover up my tracks, I dismissed the cab a
few blocks before my destination and, keeping a keen watch about me,
did not proceed on my way until the taxi was out of sight.

But the appearance of the street reassured me.  In the bright sunshine
it ran its length to where the brown fields swallowed it up, as quiet
and deserted as you may find any suburban thoroughfare on a week-day
morning.  A chauffeur washing his car, and a soldier servant in canvas
slops beating a uniform in a front garden, were the only human beings
in sight.  With rising confidence I came to my goal.

A warm red roof and timbered front, on which two elongated seraphim
were depicted, elegantly upholding a scroll inscribed with some
appropriate German trope, gave a not unpleasing suggestion of old
Nuremberg to the architecture of No. 305.  But this artistic grouping
was promptly arrested by the pompous entrance hall panelled with
glittering mirrors, which reflected a positive orgy of marble,
crushed-strawberry carpet, and gilt.

The automatic lift bore me to the third floor where, the concierge told
me, Frau von Pellegrini occupied the left-hand apartment.  A plump
blonde, as natty in her dainty cap and apron and short black skirt, as
any soubrette of French farce, opened to my ring.  This, I told myself,
must be Hedwig....

"Nicht zu Haus!" she announced pertly in answer to my inquiry.  "What
was it, please?"

The augury was excellent, I decided.  Nothing suited me better than to
find the lady from home.  If only I could gain admission to the
drawing-room....

"I have a shawl to sell," I exclaimed, "a Spanish shawl...."  And,
shaking it from its paper, I held it up for the girl to see.

She cooed her admiration.  "Gott, ist das reizend...!"  Then, taking
the shawl from my hands, she draped it about her, turning this way and
that to catch her reflection in a long mirror which hung on the wall
behind.  At last, with a sigh she handed the shawl back to me.  Now
that she had placed me as a humble suppliant, her manner became at once
familiar.

"She's out riding, my little one.  And she may not be back for an hour
or more.  D'you want to leave it?"

"Oh," said I, "I couldn't do that!"

"Just as you like.  Only I handle all Madame's money affairs, you may
as well know.  _Also_..."  She made as if to shut the door.

I knew what she meant.  My talks with Franziska, who had been in
service in one of the rich patrician families of Hamburg, had taught me
something of Continental servants and their ways.  My gold piece was in
Hedwig's hand before she could carry out her intention.  "If I get my
price from Madame, there'll be another twenty marks for you," I said.
"But I can't leave the shawl, for I need the money at once.  Couldn't I
come in and wait?"

With a gratified smile the maid stowed my tip in her purse.  "One has
to live, nicht wahr?" she remarked, with an air half apologetic.  "And
it's little enough I get out of Madame, even when she remembers to pay
me my wages.  If it weren't for her gentlemen friends, here and
there....  And it's not an easy place, you know.  She's a proper
handful, you can take it from me.  Temperament, that's her trouble.
You know what these artistes are."  She sighed.  "Gott, if I were only
as beautiful as she is!  Or rich!  It comes to the same thing.  You can
only afford to be temperamental if you're one of the two, and that's a
fact!"  With a gesture of the head she beckoned me in.  "Quietly!" she
enjoined, a finger to her lips.

She closed the front door gently, and led the way through the hall,
across a soft green carpet which deadened all sound, to a pair of white
sliding doors, with the upper panels of glass curtained in green silk.
Her hushed air intrigued me.  But then I reflected that probably her
mistress was still in bed and asleep.  No doubt the statement that she
had gone out riding was an excuse to put off inconvenient callers....

The girl slid back one side of the white doors, and a long, dim room
appeared.  Closed shutters darkened the bright sunshine of the street,
and curtains of grass-green silk filtered the light softly upon gilt
furniture of the formal French sort, a long, black piano, and sundry
laurel wreaths, tied up with ribbons, that hung round the walls.  The
air was very faintly scented.  I thrilled to the realisation that I was
in Floria von Pellegrini's drawing-room, and yes! there in a corner,
between a rack of opera scores and a Buhl console, stood a leggy
contraption of dark mahogany, a bogus Sheraton affair, the gramophone,
no less!

I had reached my objective at last!

Hedwig was at the windows, opening the curtains, throwing back the
shutters.  Her movements were swift and quiet.  The room was flooded
with light.  I looked about me.  Clearly, green was the favourite
colour of the lady of temperament.  The walls were washed in a neutral
tone of it, somewhere between verdigris and apple, but the paint-work
of doors and windows was grass-green like the curtains, and of the same
hue was the thick pile carpet which covered the entire floor with, here
and there, an Oriental rug spread out.  There was a broad, green divan
piled high with enormous, gaudy cushions, emerald, orange and gold; and
pale green shades, of Chinese shape and design, screened the lights.
After nightfall, with the green curtains drawn, and the Chinese lamps
spilling a soft green radiance, I could imagine the room intimate and
charming.  But, bathed as it was in the dazzling sunshine, its air of
exotic luxury, like its subtle, clinging perfume, struck stalely, as it
were, upon the senses, and in the glory of the summer morning the
effect was tawdry, even as the cluster of strangely-striped purple
orchids, that stood in a crystal vase upon the piano, seemed tawdry by
contrast with the tall basket of white roses that neighboured them.

"_So!_" said Hedwig, as she turned to go, "wait there a little till
Madame comes!  And, hren Sie, whatever you do, don't stir from this
room or make any noise!  You've got to keep still as a mouse, d'you
understand?"

Her manner was strangely impressive awed almost.  Once more she put a
finger to her lips, the door slid to silently, and I was alone....

The moment for action had arrived.  My heart was thumping with
excitement, but I was resolved to do nothing to jeopardise the
miraculous good fortune which had so far accompanied me.  The maid
might come back.  I glanced at my watch.  I would give myself two
minutes to obviate this possibility.  In the meantime, I reconnoitred
the position.

In the wall opposite to where the gramophone stood guarding its secret
a door was set.  That door worried me.  Obviously, it communicated with
the interior of the apartment: with Frau von Pellegrini's bedroom, as
like as not.  I crossed to this door and listened.  Not a sound.
Longingly I regarded the dulled silver handle.  The apartment was sunk
in silence.  Dare I try the door?  The risk, I decided, was too great.
I consulted my watch.  My two minutes were up.  Taking my courage in
both hands, I approached the gramophone.

It was of the familiar cabinet type, with the revolving disc and the
sound-box above, and below a cupboard with three shelves, one above the
other, to hold the records.  I dropped to my knees before the cabinet
and, lifting out the records stacked in an untidy pile on the topmost
shelf, swiftly explored the sides and back of the niche with my
fingers.  Nothing!  I repeated the process with the second shelf.
Again the same negative result!

Remained one shelf, the third and last, cluttered up, like the others,
with an untidy pile of dusty discs.  As I gathered them together, I was
conscious of a wild hope that the envelope might not be there, for that
would mean that my friend the Major had forestalled me and was alive
and at liberty.  For myself, too, I was secretly praying that my
mission might thus prematurely end.  Obsessed as I was, by a dull
premonition of evil, I had the sensation that hitherto my undertaking
had run all too smoothly, and I dreaded what the future might bring
forth.

I had the records in my hand, and was in the act of depositing them
upon the carpet at my feet when, to my intense alarm, I heard a
movement in the adjoining room.  There was a muffled thud and then a
stealthy, padded footfall as of some one in slippers moving about on a
soft carpet.  I could guess what those quiet sounds signified.  The
temperamental Floria had left her bed and was getting up.  Any second
now I might expect to be interrupted.

But, having advanced thus far, I made up my mind, at whatever risk, to
go through with the job.  I put down the records and plunged my hand
into the cabinet.  The narrow shelf cramped my fingers and, as I
groped, I distinctly heard, above the thudding of my heart in my ears,
that stealthy footfall in the adjoining room.  But now the footsteps
were crossing the floor towards the door at my back.

And then my fingers slipped on some glazed surface, on something that
rustled and crackled at the touch, and I drew out a long blue envelope.

Without noticing more than that it was sealed and unaddressed, I thrust
the envelope down the front of my frock, crammed the records back on
their shelf, and even as, very slowly and quietly, the door in the wall
swung back, sprang for the green divan where I had put down my
belongings.  Too late I observed, with a sense of dire dismay, that in
my haste I had omitted to close the doors of the cabinet.

The divan occupied a corner beside one of the two windows of the salon,
and was so placed that the door in opening hid the intruder from my
view.  As the door was pushed deliberately inward, I took the shawl
from its paper and stood up, intending to place myself between the door
and the gramophone, in the hope of screening the evidence of my
carelessness until I should have the opportunity of rectifying it.  But
I remained rooted to the spot, for there, in the doorway, instead of
the woman I had expected to see, a fat young man in a dressing-gown was
standing.




59

Enter the Pellegrini


For a full minute he remained there in the doorway, blinking at me out
of little, puffed-up eyes, that were like currants sunk in a suet
pudding.  It was apparent that he had only just awakened from sleep,
for his hair was all tousled, and the lower part of a purple
crepe-de-chine sleeping suit projected below his dressing-gown, a
flaming affair of green and orange flowered silk with wide sleeves.
His bare feet were thrust into a pair of scarlet Turkish slippers.

Presently he groaned aloud and pressed his fingers to his temples.
With some disgust I observed that he wore a gold chain bangle about his
right wrist.  "Lord," he said in German, "my head!"  Then he came into
the room and, going to a side table, poured himself out a glass of
mineral water from a bottle that stood on a tray, and drank it off.  He
took a cigarette from a silver box on the piano, lit it, blew out a
cloud of smoke, and turned to me.

"What are you doing here?" he demanded, and promptly closed his eyes,
as though he had forgotten his question.

All my life I have abominated two things in a man: fat and a monocle.
In both respects the creature in the gorgeous dressing-gown fell under
my inhibition.  He was that object of ignominy, a fat, _young_ man, not
more than twenty-five at the outside, sleek as a firkin of butter, and
as full of curves as a Cubist drawing.  But for all the grotesqueness
of his avoirdupois, there was nothing loutish about him: on the
contrary, he bore himself with a certain air of distinction marked by
an utter absence of self-consciousness most unusual in the German male.
I had a feeling that he represented a type; but in what walk of life I
could not determine.

I remained silent, and on that he opened his eyes, made a grimace, and
his monocle dangled, swinging, from its string.  Without his eyeglass
he looked less vapid; but he had, below a small blond moustache, a
loose and sensual mouth, and a tip-tilted nose lent his face a horribly
gross, snouting expression.  This, I told myself, must be one of the
"gentleman friends" I had heard of from Hedwig.

"Where's the Pellegrini?" the young man demanded.

"Out riding, the maid said."

"_So!_"  He dropped down upon the couch.  His eye fell upon those
tell-tale doors of the gramophone cabinet.  "Hullo, who's been playing
the gramophone?"

I went over and closed the doors.  "I was just looking over the
records," I explained.

Roguishly he wagged his head.  "Don't you ever play the gramophone in
this house!  I gave the Pellegrini that machine, and she's never opened
it.  She hates tinned music, our Floria, and what she hates, she won't
have.  She hates me, sometimes...."  He grinned expansively, as though
to ask, "What do you think of that?"  When he smiled, his face, pink
and round and shining, creased itself into innumerable little mountains
of fat, from which the sun struck high lights, like peaks in a
landscape of lard.

"You're not German!" he observed suddenly.

He caught me unawares, and, not knowing whether to contradict him or
not, I murmured rather feebly: "What makes you say that?"

"Because our German women are big and strong, and _na_..."--his plump
hands outlined a rotund gesture--"you're too thin, like an
Englishwoman.  You're English, that's what you are."  He did not give
me the chance to deny it, but went on immediately: "London Kolossal!"
He broke into passable English.  "Many times I haf been there.  I know
your Ritz, your Saffoy.  I haf been to the Der-r-by, to Ascot.  Chic,
hein, Donnerwetter?  Fine horses and lovely ladies: funny, how they go
always together!  Your English girls are nice, too!  I had, oh, a
colossal success with the English misses.  They found me very
attractive.  Do you, also, find me attractive?"

He turned the most engaging leer upon me.  If I had been less nervous,
I should have felt inclined to laugh.  But, having secured the blue
envelope, I was on fire to get away.  I wanted to tell him that he
looked like a performing pig in that monstrous dressing-gown of his;
but I mastered my feelings sufficiently to give him the answer he
undoubtedly expected.

With perfect gravity he nodded.  "Yes, all women tell me this.  They
find me unwiderstehlich--how do you say that in English...?"

"Irresistible?" I suggested, but without enthusiasm.

"Irresistible, that's the word.  It is a great bother to me that I am
so irresistible.  I am not to blame.  But it makes our Floria very
angry sometimes, and then she hates me.  Pfui Deibel!"  He passed his
hand tenderly over the back of his head.

While he was speaking, I was conscious that he was mustering me out of
his small, dull eyes.  His scrutiny made me uncomfortable.  I seized
upon the lull in his flow of talk to make a determined effort to break
away.

"I'm afraid I must be going," I said.  "Will you tell Frau von
Pellegrini that I'll call another time?"

"Don't be in such a hurry like this," he replied in his quaint English.
"What do you want with her?  Is she going to hear you sing?"

"No," I told him, "I've brought a shawl to show her.  I thought she
might buy it...."

I had approached the divan to get my gloves and things.  The young man
caught my arm.  "A shawl?  Is that it in your hand?"  He forced me down
beside him.  "Put it on and I shall tell you how I like it!"

To save argument I did as I was bid.  "Entzckend!" exclaimed the fat
youth.  "With your black hair you are like Carmen!"

I whipped off the shawl and wrapped it up again.  "And now I really
must be going," I said.

"And leave me all alone?  You wouldn't be so cruel.  Such pains in the
head I haf this morning!  I was so dronk like a monkey last night.  You
must keep me company a little longer already.  The Pellegrini will be
back in a minute...."

"I really must go," I repeated, and tried to stand up.

But his grip on my arm tightened.  His wide nostrils twitched and his
eyes glittered horribly.

"Don't you want to be nice to me?" he said rather thickly.  "Come on,
give me a little kiss!"

I tore my arm away and sprang to my feet.  I tried to be calm, but I
was angry, and frightened too.  He jumped up and, darting to the door
into the hall, locked it and put the key in his pocket.

"What a fire!" he exclaimed.  "What a spirit!  Na, I like it so.  What
a pretty thing you are, my dear!"

So saying, he came prancing across the floor at me, his loose, wet lips
pursed up in a fatuous and evil smile.

"Please unlock the door and let me go!" I told him.  But he only
laughed and made a grab at me.  I eluded him and shrank back.  But all
the time he was driving me into the corner where the divan stood.

And then without warning he sprang at me.  I was afraid to cry out; but
I dashed my two clenched fists into that flabby and leering face.  He
imprisoned my hands and slobbered over them.  Shuddering at the
contact, I tried in vain to tear them free.  His snouting face was
pressing into mine, while, sick with disgust and horror, I strained
away from him, when, without warning, the handle of the locked door was
rattled sharply, there was the rapid patter of feet outside, and the
next moment Hedwig burst in upon us from the bedroom.

"Highness, Highness," she cried, "the gndige Frau!"

From the promptness of her intervention it was clear to me that
Frulein Hedwig had been listening at the keyhole.  I looked in
amazement from her to the fat youth whose face betrayed symptoms of the
liveliest alarm.  She had called him "Hoheit"--and "Hoheit" in German
signifies a Prince of one of the ruling families.

But before his Highness could move, there came a furious rattling of
the door-knob, and immediately thereon, from the bedroom, a tall, slim
figure in a riding-habit swept down wrathfully upon us.

The moment I set eyes on Floria von Pellegrini I understood why she had
chosen green as the colour scheme of her apartment.  This woman was the
perfect red-blonde.  Her hair, or as much of it as appeared from under
the brim of her hard black riding-hat, flamed like the heart of a fire,
a deep, rich, natural auburn, and she had the creamy, lustrous skin and
emerald-green eyes of the type.  She was tall and lissom, with a figure
of exquisite moulding, a gorgeous, warm creature whose vivid beauty
glowed like the brilliant plumage of some brilliant sub-tropical bird.

My relief at her timely intrusion was so immense that I suddenly
perceived the humour of the situation.  It was, in truth, preposterous.
The pair of us were breathing hard like a couple of wrestlers, I with
my hat over one eye and my hair coming down; my fat companion, a
grotesque object in his gaudy wrapper, pouting like a naughty child,
with a scarlet face which, I was delighted to see, bore the mark of my
knuckles.  The shawl lay on the carpet between us, where it had fallen
in the struggle.

The Pellegrini was white with anger.

"So," she cried furiously, "you'd bring your women here, would you?
You wouldn't come riding with me, oh no!  You were tired: you'd sleep a
little longer!  And the instant my back is turned....  What are you
doing here?"

Shrilly she rounded on Hedwig, who was standing there with her mouth
open.

"I was going to explain to the gndige Frau," faltered the maid.  She
pointed to me.  "This person brought a shawl for the gndige Frau to
see...."  She gathered up the shawl from the ground.  "I put her in
here to wait.  His Highness knows nothing about her...."

The Pellegrini flung me a glittering look.  "Is this true?"

But now the Prince stepped forward.  "Send Hedwig away, and I'll
explain just what happened," he said ingratiatingly.

"Get out of here!"  The Pellegrini snapped out the order over her
shoulder, her eyes travelling from the fat man to me.  Hedwig thrust
the shawl into my hands and fled away through the bedroom.

With a meaning glance at me, the Prince laid his hand gingerly on the
Pellegrini's sleeve.  "Will Flo-Flo be patient and let her Karlchen
tell her about the naughty trick he played on her?" he said in a flutey
voice.

Angrily she shook his hand away.  "More lies, I suppose," she
exclaimed, and stamped her foot.  At once the fat youth was on his
dignity.  "I beg you to remember, Floria, that we are not alone!"

She plucked off her hat and flung it with her riding-switch upon the
divan.  Her hair was glorious and very simply dressed.  "I am listening
to your Highness," she observed coldly.

He patted her shoulder.  "Come now, don't be cross with Karlchen."  He
flung me an imploring glance.  "It was just a joke to make you jealous.
I heard you in the hall and locked the door, and ... and..." he fumbled
for his words--"na, as I say, it was all a trick.  We ... we"--he made
an encouraging sign--"we planned it between us.  She ... she
disarranged her hair on purpose, nicht wahr?" His little eyes, small
and furtive, like an elephant's, appealed to me.

Floria threw me the briefest of glances.  "Well...?"

But, Prince or no Prince, I was determined he should get no support
from me.

"All I know," said I stoutly, "is that this gentleman locked the door
and tried to kiss me.  And now, if you'll allow me, I'm going."  On
that I picked up my belongings, and began to set my hat to rights in
the mirror over the divan.  In the glass I saw the venomous look that
came into the Prince's eyes.

"A-ah!"  The exclamation that broke from the Pellegrini's lips was like
a hiss.  "I might have known that no woman was safe from you."  She was
pacing up and down the floor.  "But in my own house, under the eyes of
my own maid...."  She burst into tears and began to sob with rage.
"You ... you ... in your position, you never think of me.  You
humiliate ... me.  Oh, it's infamous!"

The Prince snapped his fingers at me.  "Go away!"  His fat face was
vindictive.  He unlocked the door into the hall and flung it wide.  As
I passed out, Hedwig came running through the vestibule, one hand on
her heart, her face as white as paper.

"Grundt!" she gasped.




60

I call on Mr. Bale and recognise a familiar object


I was thunderstruck.

They had followed me after all, then, and, having seen me safely inside
the flat, had waited while Grundt was fetched.  By this time,
doubtless, the house was surrounded.  And I, who had deemed myself so
clever in eluding the tracker, I should be taken red-handed, with the
blue envelope on me: under my frock I could feel the stiff paper
against my skin.

The alarm my face must have revealed was nothing to the effect of the
announcement on the Prince.  I turned to find him staring in terror at
the maid, his mouth open, and his flabby cheeks quivering like jelly.

I looked at Floria.  At Hedwig's cry she had whirled about to face the
door.  Her rage had left her on the instant, and she stood there, with
the tears yet glistening on her lashes, tense and watchful.  Wariness
was in every line of her beautiful body, and her eyes were as sparks of
green fire.  There was something in her pose that made me think of a
panther.

She acted promptly.  Plucking the girl by the arm across the
threshold--I had already stepped back within the room--she shut the
door.  "Where is he?" she demanded in an imperative whisper.

Hedwig made a frightened movement of her head towards the hall.  "In
the dining-room!"

"You fool!  Did you let him know I was at home?"

"He didn't give me the chance to speak.  When I answered the bell, he
stepped inside the hall and said he must see you at once..."

Floria frowned and looked inquiringly at the Prince.  "I'll have to
receive him," she said.

In a voice squeaky with fright, the other burst out frantically: "You
can't!  I forbid it, do you understand?  It'll be my ruin, my ruin, do
you hear me?  You know that I'm absent without leave..."

"And whose fault is that?" was the almost savage retort.  "Did I press
you to stay?  Didn't I implore you to go back to Spandau last night?"

"If he finds me here, I'm finished," the plump youth wailed.  He was
gibbering.  "His Majesty won't overlook it again.  You know what he is.
I shall be banished to the colonies, to ... to Tsingtau, or Swakopmund,
or some such ghastly hole.  Grundt mustn't find me here, I tell you.
Send him away: tell him anything you like; but don't let him in!"

She knit her smooth white brow and shrugged her shoulders.  "What's the
use?  He won't be put off like that.  This man knows everything that's
going on.  If he's here, it means that he's come after you.  You'll
have to face it, Karlchen.  You'd better let me handle him, though..."

Abruptly she ceased, for at that moment we all heard a dull, clumping
step outside.  Some one with a heavy limp was coming through the hall.

Seeing that they had apparently forgotten all about my existence, I had
been edging, as unostentatiously as possible, towards the bedroom door.
A little flicker of hope was burning up within me.  It seemed
impossible that the man with the clubfoot should have come to the flat
except in pursuit of me.  Yet what if, after all, he was merely in
search of the delinquent Prince?  In that case my fears were
groundless.  I had not been shadowed, the house would not be guarded,
and if only I could avoid being seen by Grundt, I might yet get away.
My idea was to slip through the bedroom into the hall and make a dart
for the front door while Grundt was in the salon.  It was a fighting
chance; but it was the only chance I had and I meant to take it.

The inexorable footsteps halted.  An imploring whisper cut across the
pregnant silence.  "Floria, you'll have to hide me..."

With a look she silenced the ignoble, gaudy figure: she had taken full
command of the situation now.  A single, imperative knock fell upon the
door.  She signed to Hedwig to open.

As the maid went forward, the three of them had their backs to me.  The
bedroom door was ajar.  Noiselessly I stepped within.  I had to leave
the door as it was: I dared not shut it.

In the bedroom it was cool and dim; for shutters and curtains were yet
closed.  As I tiptoed over the velvety carpet I was conscious of a
four-poster bed looming up, pompous and golden, and a three-part mirror
above a dressing-table threw back a glitter of silver and crystal.  The
door into the hall was half open.  I posted myself there and waited;
for to reach the front door I must pass the salon, and I would not
venture forth until I knew that Grundt was safely in the room with the
door shut.

There was a creak of hinges and immediately thereon the patter of a
light step in the passage.  Hedwig must have retired to her kitchen.
Then, so close that it seemed to speak in my ear, I heard the grating
voice which, I sometimes fancy, will haunt my memory, like the vestige
of an evil dream, until my dying day.

Grundt was speaking from the threshold and his tone was raging.  "Herr
Gott," he thundered, "am I to be kept kicking my heels in the
ante-chamber like a dunning tradesman?  The maid has told you, I
observe, that I wished to see you immediately.  May I ask, then..."

The end of the sentence was smothered by a sort of gruff growl.  I
guessed that he had recognised Fiona's visitor.  "Your Highness, my
respects!"  The compliment was ruthlessly perfunctory: the voice
snarling and mocking.  "Your Highness has doubtless an adequate
explanation for your absence from duty?"

Fiona's clear contralto broke in.  "Herr Doktor, the Prince is
indisposed..."

Grundt did not let her finish.  "My remarks were addressed to His
Highness," he reproved her icily.

In a whining voice the Prince took up the cue.  "Unfortunately, I am
far from well.  Otherwise, I should have returned to barracks
yesterday.  But I shall explain everything fully to my Commanding
Officer.  Count Westfried knows my wretched state of health.  Rest
assured, Herr Doktor, I shall make it all right with the Colonel..."

Grundt cleared his throat.  "I am aware," he rasped out, "that Colonel
Westfried's social ambitions, or perhaps I should say, those of the
Countess, his wife, lead him to place the most liberal interpretation
upon Your Highness's conception of your military duties.  I would point
out, however, that on this occasion any excuse Your Highness has to
offer will have to be made in the first instance to the Minister of the
Royal Household."

The Prince's gasp was clearly audible.  I could picture the wretched
youth collapsing like a pricked balloon.  "The Minister of the Royal
Household!" he repeated in a dying voice.

"Since you omitted the formality of applying for leave," the relentless
indictment proceeded, "your Adjutant, in the absence of the good Count
Westfried, who had been summoned to a conference at the War Office,
became alarmed and telephoned up to the Colonel.  Count Westfried
requested the Berlin authorities to investigate discreetly.  The matter
was referred to the Minister of the Royal Household, who communicated
with me.  Doubtless the Supreme War Lord, my Imperial Master, who, as
Your Highness knows, is now on his Norwegian cruise, will be suitably
edified to receive a telegram informing His Majesty that Prince
Karl-Albrecht of Traubheim-Zwickau, absent without leave, has been
discovered in his..."--the mocking inflection of the voice was
emphasised--"na, let us say, _en dshabille_ in the boudoir of..."

"Um Gottes Willen, Grundt," Floria exclaimed earnestly, "you're not
going to bring this silly escapade to the Emperor's ears?"

"What I hear," was the sombre retort, "His Majesty also hears!  But we
waste time.  I have other things to think about.  Your Highness will
have the goodness..."

"I ... I throw myself upon your mercy, Herr Doktor," cried the Prince,
shrill with agitation.  "I know the immense influence you wield.  In
the absence of His Majesty you can hush this thing up, nicht wahr?  I
am sure you can.  Oblige me in this and ... and you'll not find me
ungrateful, I promise you.  We've ... we've a very chic decoration at
the Court of Traubheim-Zwickau, the Order of the Portcullis.  Very
distinguished, really..."

"The same, I think, as Count Westfried wears?" Grundt remarked drily.

"Yes, yes.  Precisely.  A green ... a green ribbon.  It looks quite
delightful across a white shirt-front.  I was about to say, lieber Herr
Doktor, that if I were to say a word to Papa, I'm sure the Duke
would..."

The harsh voice stemmed his excitable gush.

"Old Clubfoot, as they call me, is not to be bribed.  His Highness,
your father, would tell you that.  I accept no ribands, Prince.  I
bestow them."

But it struck me that Grundt's manner had become perceptibly less
hostile.

There was a movement in the room.  I heard the jingle of spurs, and
Floria's voice in a caressing undertone: "No scandal, Grundt, I beg!
Leave him to me, and I'll see that he goes back to his regiment without
delay.  If you report this business, there'll be a black mark against
me at police headquarters, and we don't want that, do we?  Nicht wahr,
you'll leave this to me?"

There was a pause.  Then Grundt, gruffly: "Have it your own way!"

An awful panic seized on me, for she promptly called out: "Karlchen, go
and get dressed at once!"  Softly I edged round the door and peered
into the hall.  It was deserted, but the salon door stood wide.  If
Grundt now took his leave, and the Prince came into the bedroom, I
should be trapped.  I waited, trembling, on the threshold.  I heard the
Prince's ponderous tread as he crossed the drawing-room, and a rasping
whisper from Grundt:

"Hurry up and get rid of the fool, Floria!  I want to speak to you
about the English spy, Abbott!"

And then, abruptly, the salon door was shut.


I don't know how I got out of the house.

Desperately curious though I was to hear what Grundt had to tell Floria
about my little Major, I dared not neglect my one chance of escape.  I
remember reminding myself to close the front door softly after me, but
thereafter my recollections are a confused impression of flights of
carpeted stairs that never seemed to end, of the enormous relief with
which, as I cowered, breathless, in the pink and gold entrance hall, I
discovered the Hohenzollern-Allee to be as placid and deserted as when
I left it; of a line of taxis on a tiny Platz, where a fountain played
in the sunlight.  I took the first cab on the rank and bade the driver
put me down at the corner of Unter den Linden and the
Friedrich-Strasse.  From there, as I had ascertained before setting
out, from the map in the lobby at Kemper's, it was a step to the
Tauben-Strasse.  I meant to lose no time in passing on the blue
envelope to Mr. Joseph Bale.

As we rolled smoothly along over the shining asphalt of new streets,
past natty apartment houses, where every balcony blazed with flowers, I
took stock of the situation.  It was not easy to sort out the facts.

In the first place, why had Grundt come to the flat?  In quest of the
Prince or of me?  By the tone of his voice he had appeared surprised at
finding the Prince there: on the other hand, if I were his quarry, why
had he not immediately asked for me, ransacked the apartment until he
had run me to earth?

The answer, I felt sure, was that Grundt, not knowing where the blue
envelope was hidden, did not connect the flat with the missing
document.  Then what had brought him to the Hohenzollern-Allee?  The
Schlatz business, I was certain.  His remark to Floria showed that.
Then what was the woman's rle in the affair?  She and Grundt were
obviously old-standing acquaintances: but Abbott was a friend of hers
too.  A lover, perhaps?

And then, in a revealing flash, something that Abbott had said that
night in the study of the Kommandanten-Haus came back to me.  He had
spoken of having been "let down" by a woman, and of his "ghastly
folly."  Might not this "ghastly folly" be that, while on a secret
mission to Germany, he had become Floria's lover, and that she had
betrayed him to Grundt?  Was not this the explanation of the Major's
strange remark that he had left his honour behind him in Berlin?  The
hypothesis would account for the hiding-place of the blue envelope, at
the same time supplying the link between Grundt and Floria.  If Grundt
had travelled from Schlatz by car, he could not have arrived in Berlin
much before I had.  Clearly he had gone straight to the
Hohenzollern-Allee to inform his accomplice of what had occurred at
Schlatz.

But if Floria had denounced the Englishman, how was it that the blue
envelope had not been found?  The most superficial search of the
apartment would have revealed it.  The question defeated me.  I only
knew that, though Grundt was apparently aware of the existence of this
missive, he was, for some reason or other, not looking for it in
Floria's flat.

What did the envelope lying in my bosom contain?  Grundt knew.  Always
my thoughts came back to him.  Who was this man to whom all paid such
deference, the pugnacious little Judge alike with Floria's fatuous
princeling?  What post did he fill, and what was this immense influence
of his, of which the Prince had spoken, which Dr. von Hentsch had found
himself "unable to withstand"?  I remembered Grundt's outburst in the
garden when, with rolling eyes and arms dramatically uplifted, he had
raved about the powerful enemies he made in following his goal...

To make powerful enemies argues the possession of power.  And power was
draped like a cloak about this ungainly cripple.  He had called the
Emperor his master, and I had not spent six months in Germany without
perceiving that I was in an absolute monarchy in which the ruler's
world was law.  What if the contents of the blue envelope concerned the
Emperor...?

The thought appalled me.  As we plunged into the seething traffic of
the Potsdamer Platz, the docile throngs of people, shepherded by the
bristling police at the crossings, or pressing along the pavements,
gave me a terrified feeling of isolation.  These rushing, determined
hordes seemed to dwarf me, to scale me down to that dream-like state of
negation of which Gerontius speaks.  I pictured to myself the man with
the clubfoot as the latent force behind the swarming hordes, a
resolute, grim figure hovering halfway between heights my puny
experience could not soar to, and depths my imagination could not
plumb.  I longed for England and my home.

It was a quarter past ten by my watch.  I made up my mind that, the
envelope handed over, I would abandon my dinner with Rudi and take that
noonday train...


Like many of the cross-streets of the Friedrich-Strasse, the
Tauben-Strasse looked dingy and vaguely disreputable.  One or two new
office buildings and some plate-glass shop fronts did nothing to
obliterate the palpable fact that here the far-famed night-life of
Berlin's main artery overflowed.  There was an "Art Cabaret," whatever
that might be, with a huge electric sign as nakedly hideous as such
things are by daylight, a dreadful restaurant made to represent Hansel
and Gretel's Zuckerhauschen, with a papier-mch witch peeping
perpetually out of the window, and a whole flight of mean little cafs,
whose dirty lace curtains, discreetly drawn, lent them a faintly
scabrous air.

No. 97 was a tall and shabby house half-way along the street, and, as a
brass plate on the doorpost below set forth, Mr. Joseph Bale's
"Agentur" was situated on the fourth floor.  There was no lift, and the
staircase, permeated with a faint cooking odour, as of cabbage fried in
grease, wound aloft into a black silence broken only by a melancholy
hurdy-gurdy which, in the inner courtyard, was grinding out "Donna 
mobile."

The door of Mr. Bale's office, marked by an enamel plate bearing his
name, stood ajar.  I found myself in a long and sunless ante-room, hung
with theatre posters, where a handful of people, men and women of all
ages, with the rather obvious appearance of stage folk of the humbler
sort, stood aimlessly about, or sat on a bench running round the walls,
gossiping in undertones.  At the far end of the room, besides a rack of
hats and coats a long counter barred the access to a glass door bearing
the painted inscription: _Herr Direktor Bale.  Kein Zutritt_.

I looked around for some one to take in my name.  On the other side of
the counter lounged a Jewish-looking youth in a shiny blue suit, who
was picking his teeth abstractedly, while a fat and florid woman in a
picture hat poured what seemed to be a very long and earnest story into
his ear.  I pushed my way through to the counter, where I came upon a
thin and rather dirty-looking young man, with an enormous shock of
hair, who clasped a letter, and a much-painted female with a
visiting-card, prancing about, impatiently waiting for the florid woman
to end her tale.

I had no time to spare, I realised, if I wanted to catch that train.
My experience with Hedwig had taught me something.  Propping my parcel
and parasol against the counter, I opened my purse and took out a
five-mark piece.  But I had yet to catch young Israel's eye: the florid
female was still in the full flow of her narrative.

I glanced casually round.  There was a poster of Little Tich under the
clock, I remember, and one of Saharet, the dancer, close by.  On the
bench next to the door a man in a straw hat was gazing intently at me
over the top of a newspaper he was affecting to read.  His stare
embarrassed me, and I turned my eyes away.

It was then that I remarked, hanging from the rack on the wall, a
mustard-coloured overcoat.




61

The Caf Zur Nelke


There was no mistaking that garment and, in further identification, on
the hook above it I recognised the sage-green hat, with its jaunty
feather, which my neighbour on the journey to Berlin had sported.

The owner of the overcoat was nowhere visible in the ante-chamber, and
I concluded that he was closeted with Bale.  I did not linger to ask
myself what he wanted with the Herr Direktor: I just made straight for
the door.  It seemed to me, as I went out, that the man with the
newspaper, who had stared so hard at me before, made some remark in an
undertone.  But I did not wait to find out whether he were addressing
me.

Once outside the office door, however, I ran swiftly downstairs.  As I
went I thought I heard a step, hurried yet oddly cautious, coming after
me.  That quiet footfall made me desperate; for I had no plan, only the
urgent instinct to shake myself free from this stealthy, relentless
pursuit.  Now to my horror I realised that the trackers were still at
my heels.

The step gained on me, and I had not reached the bottom flight before,
looking over my shoulder, I saw a man hurrying down in my wake.
Realising at a glance that I could not shake him off, I slowed down, so
as not to arouse his suspicions if my fears were groundless, and leaned
back against the grimy wall to let him pass.  The sad notes of the
barrel-organ floated flutily out of the depths of that sombre house.
Now it was playing the Old Hundred, and the wheezing melody brought, to
my mind a sudden, irrelevant memory of Calverley, nimblest of
rhymsters, and a tranquil Cambridge quad.

My unknown pursuer swung sharply round the bend of the stairs.  Below
me, at the foot of the last flight, the entrance hall was a funnel of
gloom opening at the end into a panel of dazzling sunlight enclosed
within the two tall wings of the street door, the one shut, the other
folded back against the wall.  My heart seemed to miss a beat as I saw
how, at the sight of me, that vague figure on the stairs above
slackened pace.  I recognised the man in the straw hat who had stared
at me in Bale's office.

I shrank back against the wall as he stopped before me and, speaking in
a sort of breathless undertone, said, "Bale's double-crossed us.  I
tried to warn you when you came in, but you wouldn't heed me.  You
seemed to scent it out for yourself, though, didn't you?  Gad, you've
got a fine flair!"  He smiled at me.

I gazed at him in wonder.  _He spoke in English_.

He spoke our language like an Englishman, and an Englishman of breeding
at that.  But he was pallid and hungry-looking; shabbily dressed, too,
like all the others I had seen kicking their heels in Bale's agency:
and any Latin race might have claimed his crisp, black hair, dark
rather fiery blue eyes, long-lashed, and straight, proud nose.

His smile was bright and kind, and I liked it.  My heart was banging
against my ribs, but something about this quiet stranger comforted me
immeasurably.  It was not merely the thrill of meeting a
fellow-countryman in such a dilemma as mine.  It was some indefinite,
reassuring quality about him, perhaps the self-confident, faintly
arrogant timbre of his speaking voice, perhaps a sort of lurking
twinkle in the cobalt of his eye.

He took instant charge of the situation.  "Come on," he said quickly.
"This house ain't healthy for either of us..."  He caught my arm and
began to hurry me down the last remaining flight.  "I don't believe
that any one spotted you upstairs except me," he said, "and I was
looking out for you.  Lucky for you that you arrived when you did.
There's a plain-clothes man with Bale now.  Trailing you, of course.
Another minute, and he'd have had them all on the _qui vive_..."

By this we were at the street door, past which streamed the traffic of
the Tauben-Strasse.  I paused an instant to take breath; my heart was
beating so fast.  My companion glanced at his watch.  "We must have a
talk," he observed thoughtfully, "but first I want to take a look round
here.  There's a caf next door to this, the first door on the left on
leaving the house, the Caf zur Nelke it's called.  Suppose you pop in
there for a moment?  Ask for Frulein Ottilie, and say you're waiting
for Max.  Never mind what it looks like.  It's the only place about
here where we can be sure of not being interrupted.  Why, what's the
matter?"

I had drawn back in horror behind the wing of the door.  At the kerb
outside a taxi had drawn up.  With infinite labour a burly figure was
getting out backwards.  I knew that vast back, that monstrous boot.

"Der Stelze!" I murmured aghast.

At the words my companion's eyes snapped, and on the instant he was all
watchfulness.  But he never lost his jaunty air, and even in my terror
I remember thinking that this man must have an iron nerve.  "So that's
old Clubfoot, eh?" he remarked, as though to himself.  Then I felt my
arm grasped firmly, and I was thrust behind the wing of the door set
back against the wall.  I was numb with fright, and from an immense
distance as it seemed to me, I heard my unknown friend's sharp whisper:
"The moment the coast is clear nip into the caf!"  The rapid patter of
his feet along the hall died away.

The upper panel of the door that sheltered me was fitted with a grille
of heavy iron lattice-work covered by a grimy glass shutter that might
be opened, when the doors were shut, to air the house.  The triangular
recess in which, between wall and door, I was squeezed, was pitch-dark,
and for this reason I surmised that while, through the glass shutter
and the lattice beyond it, I commanded a view of the entrance hall
towards the staircase, I ran little risk of being seen myself.

Presently, on the other side of my hiding-place, my straining ears
caught the pant of laboured breathing, the tap of a stick, and the thud
of a heavy boot on the flags.  Then Grundt emerged into my field of
view.  The sunshine gleamed on that immense back moulded in the black
alpaca jacket, as he lurched painfully forward towards the stairs.  Two
vague men in bowlers were with him: one passed within a few inches of
where I lurked behind the door, and I had an impression of a grim,
bloodless face, an enormous red moustache.

I waited until, from my niche behind the door, I had seen the trio
disappear round the bend of the stairs.  Then I darted out into the
street.  The next moment I was entering one of the sordid little cafs
I had noticed as I walked along from the Friedrich-Strasse.  Lace
curtains yellowing on the glass door and the single window, broad and
long like a shop front, and, half-way up, hangings of faded red baize
to keep out winter draughts, effectually screened the Caf zur Nelke
from the curiosity of the street.  The traffic drummed faintly upon the
quiet within.  On the walls, above a red plush bench that ran on either
side, nymphs, obese and pinkly nude, looking as though they had escaped
from the hoardings of a country fair, pelted one another with handfuls
of the carnations which gave the caf its name.

Small tables spread with white cloths stood in front of the bench.  A
red stuff curtain, embroidered with yellow arabesques, divided the caf
into two, and from the other side of the hanging the sound of some one
picking out a tune with one finger on a cracked piano was audible.  Low
of ceiling and airless, the room reeked of dust and stale perfume,
cigar-smoke and beer.

There was no one in the place as I entered but a fat woman with a
prodigious bust crammed into a high-collared silk blouse, and a mass of
very bright yellow hair piled up on her head.  On the stroke of the
bell that rang as the door opened she rose up to meet me.

Her face was bloated and cruel, and she had the eyes of a cod.  With
every manifestation of extreme distrust she mustered me.  "Sie
wnschen?" she said in a beery voice.  I asked for Frulein Ottilie.

"Ottilie!" the woman called, and, still eyeing me suspiciously,
returned to her table.  Abruptly the piano ceased, and a girl came in
from the back room.

She was much younger than the other, but her skin had the same puffy,
dead-white texture.  Under a mask of paint her face was emaciated and
wan.  She appeared astonished to see me there.

"I've come to meet Max," I said.  "He told me to wait here for him..."

"Max?"  She glanced at me quickly.  "Max is in the pen."

"In the pen?"

"Na, in Moabit, then..."

"Moabit?"

"D'you mean to say you've never heard of Moabit gaol?"

"I think there's some mistake," I told her.  "I've only just left the
Max I mean.  He was going to meet me here..."

Her eyes, deep-sunk, and oh, so haggard, were drinking in every detail
of my appearance.

"There are so many Maxes," she observed reflectively.  "What does this
one do?"

"I think he's an actor..."

Her face lit up at once.  Her smile made me realise how young she
really was.  "Ach, _der_!"  She giggled.  "I thought you meant Blonde
Lotte's man.  They've put him away for six months."  She rubbed her
first finger and thumb together and raised them to her nose as though
she were taking snuff.  "You know...?"

I didn't.  I suppose my face showed it, for she added:
"Snow-peddling..."

"Snow-peddling?"

"I thought everybody knew what snow was," she remarked contemptuously.
"Cocaine, if you like.  Smart ladies like you have been here inquiring
for him, so naturally I thought..."  She broke off and gave me a
challenging look.  "So you're a friend of 'The Count,' _was_?  That's
what the girls call him here, you know.  Well, I suppose you'd better
sit down!"

So saying, she dragged the curtain back.  A frowsy room, heavy with the
reek of cheap perfume and powder, was disclosed.  Like the other it was
set with small tables, and the electric lights were on, for the window
was heavily curtained.

Two girls, painted like my companion, and dressed in the same vaguely
provocative style, as we deemed it in those days, very low-cut blouses
and black skirts to the knee, were there.  One, a little brunette with
lively, dark eyes, was playing patience at a table: the other, a
big-boned, animal-looking creature, had one massive leg cocked over the
other and was darning a hole in her stocking.  It was a disarmingly
domestic scene; but somehow the place had an unspeakably obscene
atmosphere that made my gorge rise.

"A friend of 'The Count's'," Frulein Ottilie introduced me as she drew
up a chair.  The other two girls stared at me as though I were a wild
beast.  The formal bow, however, wherewith they acknowledged the
presentation would not have disgraced a vicar's wife.  The fat woman
bustled in from the front.

"The Frulein will take a little something while she's waiting, nicht
wahr?" she said, her dull eyes alight with cupidity.  I told her I
wanted nothing.  Her mouth set like a rat-trap.  "It's the custom of
the house," she announced.  I said I would have some coffee.  "And will
not the Frulein offer something to these ladies as well?" she
persisted.  I told her to take their orders.  Ottilie chose stout: the
patience player, whom they addressed as Lenchen, promptly demanded
beer: while the girl who was darning her stocking--her name was
Hermine--declared in the most refined manner imaginable that she would
"fancy" a little glass of "Porto."  Scratching herself thoughtfully,
she explained her preference by expatiating with disingenuous candour
on the disadvantages of stout as it affected her digestive processes.

The fat woman brought the drinks and retired to the front room with the
bottle of stout she had opened for herself.  The three girls plied me
with questions about "The Count."  I concealed my ignorance as best I
could.  I told them he was well, that, as far as I knew, he had not yet
found an engagement.

He seemed to be extremely popular with them all.  Ottilie said he was a
"famoser Kerl"; Lenchen, engrossed with her patience, murmured that she
adored his "romantic Italian appearance"; while Hermine, sipping her
port, declared that he was a "flotter Kavalier," and free with his
money when he had any.

Those three poor creatures displayed the most inordinate interest in my
clothes.  They fingered the material of my frock, demanding to know
what it cost: they cooed their admiration for my silk stockings--from
Fifth Avenue, they were, a present from my dear Lucy Varley: they made
me take off my hat and show them my hair.  Their curiosity left no
portion of my attire to the imagination: in short, I felt like a
traveller who arrives unexpectedly at a kraal in the heart of the
African bush.

This sort of thing having lasted for the best part of an hour, I began
to wonder what had become of my young man from next door.  It was
half-past eleven by my watch.  Twice already the glasses had been
replenished; but now they were empty again, and the fat woman was
hovering meaningly about my table.

I was feeling seriously alarmed.  What could be keeping my unknown
friend?  I could not remain indefinitely in the caf; yet what was I to
do?  I still had the blue envelope.  Abbott had given me the name of
the branch of the War Office for which he worked: M.I.5, wasn't, it?
There was yet time to collect my suit-case and catch that noonday
train, that was, if I dared go back to Kemper's.  But what if the caf
were watched?

My mind tormented by these questions, I asked for my bill.  The fat
woman brought it.  It was preposterously high, something over sixty
marks, more than 3.  But I knew it would be useless to dispute the
reckoning in a place like that.

And then I discovered that my purse was gone...

It must have been stolen from me in that nondescript throng in Bale's
ante-room, for I remembered putting it back in the pocket of my
overcoat after getting out the tip for Bale's clerk.  It was a stunning
blow.  The purse contained not only all my money, but also my ticket to
London.  No chance of catching that train now: I had not the price of a
'bus fare on me; and there was my bill at the hotel to settle.

The realisation made me sick with fear.  The fat woman was surveying me
in a grim and forbidding silence.  I told her I had lost my purse.  I
seemed to detect a hint of sympathy in Frulein Ottilie's weary eyes;
but the other girls exchanged a malicious glance and sniggered.
"_So?_" remarked the fat woman incredulously, in her beery voice.
Imperiously her bloated hand tapped the bill as it lay on the table.
"And my money?"

I thought of the Transomes.  I should have to ring up Molly.  What
should I say to explain my presence in this disreputable place?

"Have you the telephone?" I asked.

"Bitte schn..."  The woman pushed open a door at the back of the caf,
disclosing a passage where there was a wall instrument.  While I looked
up Molly's number, she stood in the doorway, a silent and implacable
sentinel.

A man's voice answered my call in German: a butler, the cold, suave
intonation suggested.  "The gndige Frau is away," he said.

This was a facer.  I gasped, and asked unsteadily: "Is Herr Transome
there?"

"Herr Transome has gone away with the gndige Frau," came back the
smooth answer.  "The mother of the gndige Frau has died suddenly in
Switzerland.  Who is this speaking, please?"

But I hung up the receiver and turned away.  Of what use was it to give
my name?  If Molly, not expecting me before Friday, had written to
Schlatz to put me off, her letter must have arrived after I had left.
What on earth was I to do?

I found myself face to face with the fat woman.  Her leaden-hued
features were clouded with anger.  She gripped my arm and shook me.
"Na, and what about my bill, my little one?"

"I have no money," I faltered.  "My friends are away.  If you would let
me wait a little until Herr Max comes...?"

She burst into a sort of shrill snort.  "That beggarly mummer!  I'll
have my money from you, my fine lady, and I'll have it now..."  She
flung me back against the door, and called stridently down the passage:
"Hans!"

A man in his shirt-sleeves, with great ears bulging out from under a
cloth cap, appeared instantly from the end of the corridor.  I fell
back before him into the caf.  Some one had dragged the curtain across
again, shutting out the heartening bourdon of the adjacent
Friedrich-Strasse.  I was trapped in that evil, airless room, alone
with these painted women and this man who, with narrow crafty eyes
smouldering menace out of a livid and lecherous face, was advancing on
me.

"_Also_," screeched the harridan, arms akimbo, "the young lady runs up
a bill for 63 marks, 50 pfennigs, and hasn't the money to pay for it!"

With a lithe and noiseless gait the man came at me.  The three girls
scattered at his approach.  He moved so swiftly that his hand was on my
shoulder before I could avoid him.

"No money, _was_?"  He pawed my arm.  "But these pretty clothes will
fetch something, my dear..."

Hermine cackled shrilly.  "You should see her underthings.  Fine silk!
And she says she can't pay for our drinks!  Why don't you strip the
haughty slut, Hanschen?"

He chuckled.  "A good idea!  Come and hold her, girls!"

Ottilie did not move; but the fat woman and the other two swept down on
me in a body.

Then the door-bell clanged, and the young man I was so anxiously
expecting came swiftly through the curtain.




62

Nigel Druce


My new-found friend was not the one to let the grass grow under his
feet, as my old Nana used to say.  With the same swift presence of mind
which had saved me once already that morning, he now grabbed the bully
by the collar, swung him round and sent him reeling backwards.  Despite
my upbringing among men, the sight of violence has always sickened me;
but this was done so tranquilly, with a flick of the wrist, as it were,
that the hard thud which sounded the contact of the German's head with
the wall gave me only a thrill of elation.

The young man wasted no words on the bully.  "Get out!" he said.  The
other hesitated: he seemed half-stunned, and no wonder.

"Don't let him bounce you, Hans," the harpy screeched.  "Make him brass
up what his tart owes and take her to hell out of this..."  "For the
love of God, Count, watch out for his knife!"--I caught Frulein
Ottilie's frightened whisper.

But the young man appeared to be completely at his ease.  He had placed
himself in front of me, and was regarding Hans with a singularly
detached air.  The German evaded that steady blue eye.  He picked up
his cap, which had fallen off.  "Settle it yourself!" he growled at the
fat woman.  He paused to fling his assailant a vindictive look.  "And
you, watch out!  I'll get you for this!"  On that, with his curious,
cat-like gait, he slouched off down the passage.  A door banged.

"Exit the First Murderer," remarked the young man, with a laugh.  The
smile was still on his face as he turned to the woman.  "The bill!" he
said.  She pointed to the table.  He glanced at the slip of paper and
gave a good-humoured laugh.  Then, as any German might--he was thorough
in all things, I was to discover--he produced a little leather purse
and flung down a ten-mark gold piece.  He turned to me.  "Come on!" he
said in German.

"No, you don't!" screamed the woman, and placed herself between us and
the front part of the caf.  "My bill's 63 marks and 50 pfennigs, and
I'm going to have my money..."

"Nee, nee, Frau Hulda," retorted the young man pleasantly.  "You know
I've paid you already more than twice what those few glasses of sudden
death are worth.  What d'you take me for, a bumpkin from the back of
Pomerania, or what?"

He spoke German with amazing fluency, the same rough Berlin jargon that
the policeman had used.  It struck me then that he acted, as well as
looked, the part of the sort of seedy theatre tout one would expect to
find in a place like that.  I had met Germans with hair as dark as his:
if he had not revealed himself to me by his English, I should certainly
have taken him for a native Berliner.

"You dirty bilker!" squealed Frau Hulda.  "Pay what you-owe me, or I'll
send for the police!"

But he ignored her.  He had taken something from his pocket and handed
it to me.  It was a veil--some of us still wore veils in
1914--close-meshed.  "You left it behind," he said meaningly, "so I
brought it along."

I never wore a veil.  But I knew what this one was for, and marvelled
that he should have thought of it.  It was grey, too: he had even found
time to notice the colour of my frock.  I had yet to learn that he
never overlooked the smallest detail.  He helped me fasten the veil
about my hat and pull it down over my face.

"Pay me my bill," stormed Frau Hulda, hoarse with fury, "pay me my
bill, or I'll hand the pair of you over to the police!"

He smiled his bright smile at her and shook his head.  "You _will_ have
your fun!  You'll be the death of me, die Olle.  The police, indeed!
Why, I know enough about you to send you to the pen for a couple of
years..."

"It's a lie," she cackled.  "The police have got nothing on me!"

"Possibly.  But that's not saying they wouldn't like to.  What about
that farmer who lost his wallet here last week?  What about the dope
merchants who drop round after dark, Otto the Fox, and Black Lola, and
all that lot?  What about..."

Frau Hulda's face was livid.  She pointed a trembling finger at the
door.  "Take yourself off my premises before I do you a mischief!" she
gasped huskily.

"Unless you insist on us remaining for lunch?" was the imperturbable
reply.  "Meine Damen..."  He lifted his straw hat and began to shepherd
me towards the entrance.  "Knowledge is power," he remarked to me
humorously, under his breath.

He must have read in my face my reluctance to venture forth in Berlin
once more, for he whispered softly in English: "Quite safe now!"
Frulein Ottilie held the door for us, her sad eyes fixed on my
companion.  He gave her an encouraging smile.

His hand restrained me for an instant, while his keen glance swept the
street up and down.  "All serene!" he announced cheerfully.

Together we stepped out into the noonday turmoil of the capital.


For me the street was peopled with terrors, and I scrutinised every
man's feet; but my escort strolled along unconcernedly.  At a leisurely
pace he led to the corner of the Friedrich-Strasse, where we turned
north, in the direction of Unter den Linden.  "Awkward that!" he
remarked, with a reminiscent wag of the head as we went along.  "A
nasty piece of goods is Frau Hulda.  But I blame myself.  It never
occurred to me that you hadn't any money."

I told him of my misfortune.  "Bad luck!" was his laconic comment.
"But," he went on, "unhappily, in this case money is not the first
consideration."  Without explaining his enigmatic remark, he added: "I
suppose you're sure the purse was stolen?"

"I think there's no doubt about it," I said.

"As long as old Clubfoot and his merry men didn't light on that ticket
to London!" he answered crisply.  "That would have told them, plain
enough, that you'd called, wouldn't it?  As it is, you weren't in the
place long enough for Izzy--that's Bale's clerk--to remember you in all
that crowd..."

As we sauntered up the noisy street, with the heat rising in quivering
waves from the asphalt, I mustered my companion unobtrusively.  Quiet;
dark; very bright blue eyes: this, of course, must be the man about
whom Vivian Abbott had questioned me, when he inquired so persistently
if I had not seen anything of another Englishman at Schlatz.  And in
some strange way the impassive individual at my side seemed to have
been warned of my coming: had he not said he had been on the look-out
for me at Bale's?

"Fit-looking," Abbott had called him, and now that I examined my
companion more closely, I discerned a certain alert and wiry air about
him.  Assuredly the way he had dealt with the bully suggested that he
was trained to the last ounce.  I had a notion that the Major had
mentioned a name; but for the moment I could not bring it to mind.

A dry chuckle from the stolid figure at my side broke in upon my
reflections.  "So that was the celebrated Dr. Grundt, eh?" he remarked
musingly.  "Gosh, what a man!  I don't know what he was saying back
there in Bale's room, but you could hear his voice all over the office.
He was chattering like an angry baboon..."

"You went back?" I asked, incredulous.

He laughed.  "You bet I did.  I've never seen the famous Clubfoot in
the flesh before--the flesh is the word, isn't it?--and I wanted to
feast my eyes on him.  There wasn't any risk, really.  He doesn't know
me..."--his face was for a moment anxious--"at least not by sight, as
far as I'm aware, and, as I've been hanging round Bale's for the past
week, pestering them for work, it might have looked fishy if I'd
disappeared just then.  I thought I'd better wait till Grundt had
finished with Bale.  That's what kept me so long.  When they came out
together, I tackled old Bale for a job again.  My hat, he was wild!"
He broke off, shaking with laughter.  "He asked old Clubfoot's
permission to kick me out!" he added weakly.  His mirth was so
infectious that I found myself laughing with him.

Just below the juncture of the Friedrich-Strasse with the broad and
seething avenue of Unter den Linden, we turned into a great arcade.
Here the hum of the traffic was behind us and the voices and feet of
the strollers, as they drifted past shop windows a-glitter with all
manner of rubbishy Berlin "souvenirs," photographs on plush, plaster
busts of the Kaiser and what not, rang hollow on the clean mosaic
flooring under the high-domed roof.

"And what now?" I asked.

My companion turned to me with a whimsical grin.  "I thought we'd go to
the wax-works," he announced cheerfully.

"_The wax-works?_"

He nodded, smiling into my astonished face.  "We've got to exchange
credentials, and we don't want to be disturbed.  That's why I thought
of the Panoptikum, Berlin's Madame Tussaud's.  I'm rather proud of that
inspiration, do you know?  No Berliner ever dreams of setting foot
inside the Panoptikum: it's the happy hunting ground of the hayseed.
Grundt wouldn't think of looking for you there in a thousand years.
They've got a restaurant of sorts where we can have a bite to eat, and
over lunch you shall give me news of a friend of mine."  The blue eyes
sought mine.  "I think you must have seen, or, at any rate, heard from
him lately, haven't you?"

It was the first question he had asked me.

"Yes," said I.


I shall always look back upon that as one of the strangest interviews
of my life.  We sat at a marble-topped table in a corner of a cheerless
refreshment-room, which might have been transplanted bodily from the
Crystal Palace of my childhood days, from the glass-encoffined
sandwiches and aspidistra on the bar to the barmaid, elderly and
mittened, humped up over her knitting behind the coffee urn.

In our nostrils was the familiar wax-works smell, that strange blended
odour of melted wax and size and old clothes.  Before our eyes, in the
broad gallery from which the restaurant opened off, rows of sad, still
figures, in the garb of all ages up to the fashion of a decade past,
had the air of frowning their resentment at our intrusion.

Surrounded by the heavily-bewhiskered rulers of the brand-new German
Empire, old Bismarck, in a dusty white tunic, with yellow facings, and
enormous jack boots, fixed me with a waxen glare until I felt inclined
to turn my back upon him, and near by, in her glass casket, the
Sleeping Beauty slumbered so quietly that I could hear the whirr of the
ingenious clockwork which imparted a realistic rise and fall to her
opulent bosom.

At this, the lunch hour, the Panoptikum was all but deserted.  About us
drooped leaden the embarrassing silence of such places, as though all
this pallid company of princes, statesmen, soldiers, scientists, and
criminals, had suddenly broken off their conversation on our arrival.
The melancholy stillness was fended only by the rustle of rare feet, or
the occasional reverberation of a child's clear voice.

My companion seemed delighted by the sureness of his judgment.  He
rippled with high spirits.  While the single dispirited waiter, with
splay boots that looked as if they had been put through a mangle,
hobbled off to fetch the Wiener Schnitzels and the bottle of Moselle we
had ordered, the young man made ribald comments on the martially
hirsute appearance of the illustrious personages figuring in "The
Proclamation of the German Empire," the large group facing us.

But I found it hard to smile with him.  I was wondering whether I
should be justified in handing over to him my little Major's precious
letter.  "You look too solemn," my companion rallied me in an
undertone.  "We've got to appear like ordinary trippers, you know, or
some one may remember us.  The waiter will clear off to have his lunch
presently, I expect, and then we can talk.  Let's see if I can't make
you laugh.  Do you know that touching ballad of the English lower
classes: 'To Mother in the Chamber of Horrors'?"

I shook my head, smiling in spite of myself.

He began to declaim:

  "Every Saturday night at eight
    We likes to drown our sorrers,
  We all goes down to the Waxworks
    And sits in the Chamber of 'orrers.
  There's a lovely himage of Mother there,
    Is it like the old 'un?  Rather!
  It shows the old girl as she was
    The night she strangled Father!"


He reeled off this nonsense with such an air of mock sentiment, with
such a perfect imitation of the Cockney manner, that I had to laugh.
The waiter brought our food.  No one else came into the
refreshment-room, and presently, the waiter having disappeared by a
door behind the bar, the aged Hebe folded up her knitting and squeaked
away after him.  We were alone.  Then the young man said:

"Well, have you got it?"  His voice vibrated with eagerness.

I knew what he was alluding to, but I thought it prudent to affect
ignorance.

"The report," he went on.  "The paper that Abbott gave you!"

Seeing that I still held back, he added quickly: "Quite right to be
cautious.  Let's see if I can give you a lead.  In the first place you
should know my name.  I am..."

"Wait," I checked him.  "I believe I know it, but I've forgotten.  Tell
me your initials!"

"N.D.," he answered.

"Now I've got it," said I triumphantly.  "Your name is Nigel ... Nigel
Drew!"

"Druce," he corrected.

"That's it..."

"And you're Olivia Dunbar!"

"Yes!"

"In the Service, of course?"

"The Secret Service, do you mean?"

He nodded.

"No," I said.  "Are you?"

His affirmative nod was almost imperceptible.  "And Abbott," he
demanded, with almost fierce intensity, "what's happened to him?"

I felt myself pale under the eager questioning of those bright blue
eyes.  I had the sudden intuition that these two men were friends.  It
came back to me that Abbott had spoken of the other by his Christian
name.  "Nigel never missed a date in his life," he had said.

My companion misinterpreted my hesitation.  "Let me help you out.
Abbott came to Berlin on 5th July to fetch a certain, let us say,
envelope, which he was to hand on to Bale.  Abbott disappeared, and
Bale never received the envelope.  That much, at least, is certain.
Abbott was due back in London on the 8th.  When he did not appear, I
came out to try and discover what had become of him..."

"He was expecting you at Schlatz," I put in.

"I know.  But my instructions went astray.  Chivied about from pillar
to post as I've been, the letter from Headquarters reached me only this
morning.  To think I should have been at Schlatz three days ago to put
you wise to the details of Abbott's plan to escape, and leave with you
money for the poor old chap!  In the circumstances the only thing I
could do was to go straight to Bale's and try and head Abbott off.  But
instead of Abbott, you turned up..."

"But how did you recognise me?"

"By the description in the letter from Headquarters.  It was quite
flattering, I assure you."  He grinned and added, with a little bow:
"But not flattering enough!"

"But I know nobody in the Secret Service," I protested, greatly
mystified.  "How could they send you my description?"

He shrugged his shoulders.  "Our old man is full of surprises, Miss
Dunbar.  But I'm dying to hear about Abbott.  Where is he?  Still at
Schlatz, I suppose?  Knowing the old boy as I do, the one certain thing
is that he's still in gaol, or he'd have been here himself..."

He broke off, looking to me for my answer.  I could not speak.  There
was a lump in my throat, and my eyes filled with tears.  But there was
no need for me to say more.  He guessed the truth at once.  I was
surprised to see how, on my silence, the keen face grew hard, the blue
eyes cloudy: I had yet to learn that, in the Secret Service, there are
casualties of peace as well as of war.

"They got him, eh?"

He turned away and gazed out moodily over the array of waxen puppets.
"Poor old Vivie," he said at last.  "What a dear good chap he was!
And, oh, my dear, he was the bravest of the brave!  But foolhardy too.
I told him so often enough; but Lord, he would never listen to me..."
His voice trailed away.

"You were great friends?" I queried.

He nodded.  "Vivian Abbott stood by me at a time when what I most
wanted in the world was a faithful friend."

A tear ran down my cheek and splashed on the marble table.  I had a
fleeting picture of my little Major, as he had confronted me that night
in the study at Schlatz, casual almost, yet oddly watchful.  So strong
was my impression of him that he seemed to be standing there by my
chair, contemplating us with that spry air of his and faintly amused
smile...

Druce's thin, brown hand touched mine.  "Tell me about it," he said.
And so, in that drab, cool place, under Bismarck's sombre stare, I told
my story.




63

A council of war about a council of war


One of the rarest of human powers is the art of compelling confidence.
Those few people who possess this gift seemed to be endowed with a
magnetic force which attracts sympathy without effort, and immediately
creates an atmosphere of intimacy.  So it was with Nigel Druce.  I
could see that he made friends easily: indeed, when I look upon my
first meeting with him that morning, I have the impression that we were
never strangers to one another, he and I.

Unconsciously, I must have been drawn to him from the outset.  At any
rate, it appeared to me the natural thing to tell him the whole story.
I omitted nothing, from the Major's escape two nights before, down to
my adventure that morning in Floria von Pellegrini's apartment.  When I
had done he remained lost in thought, his eyes fixed on the table, his
chin propped up on his hand.

A subtle change had come over him.  When, at the finish of my
narrative, my eyes sought his face, I found the blue eyes unsmiling,
the lean countenance stern and even haggard.  Gone was that
imperturbable, faintly bantering manner which I had seen him flaunt
like a panache at the Caf zur Nelke.  Now I was aware of a desperately
unhappy air in him, a haunted, hunted, forlorn sort of mien which--I
don't know why--made my heart ache.  I felt I wanted to help him.

"The Pellegrini, eh?" he said, breaking silence at length.  "I've heard
of her, but only as the mistress of Prince Karl, never as an agent.
Poor old Vivie!  I knew there was a woman in the background.  He told
me in London about some marvellous creature he had met abroad: he was
ruining himself for her, too, spending every cent he'd got.  I had no
idea she was in Berlin.  He always was a wild devil.  But what madness
can have possessed him to go to that woman's flat with the report on
him!  By the way, have you got that blue letter with you?"

I nodded and put my hand to my frock.  The next instant Druce's hand
fastened on my wrist like a clamp, staying me.  A loutish pair of
lovers, hand in hand, peasants in their Sunday best of rusty black,
grasping enormous umbrellas, came round the corner of the Versailles
group.  They gaped at Bismarck, at the old Grand Duke of Baden calling,
with sword uplifted, for three "Hochs" for the newly-proclaimed
Emperor; they gaped at us; and, gaping still, meandered off along the
gallery, leaving us once more under the stern eyes of our waxen
sentinels.

"Now," said Druce quickly.  I drew forth the envelope and gave it to
him.  For an instant he held it in his hands, turning it over to
scrutinise it back and front, then thrust it into the inside pocket of
his shabby jacket.

The waiter shambled up with a dish of fruit and changed our plates.
When he had gone: "Did Vivian--did Abbott tell you where they arrested
him?" Druce asked.

"No," I replied, "but you must remember how little time he had to tell
me anything.  I assumed it was at this woman's flat as he had hidden
the envelope there."

My companion shook his head.  "Like all Germans, old Clubfoot is
thorough.  If he had searched the flat, he'd have found the report all
right.  The fact that he didn't look for it at the Pellegrini's means
that he didn't know Abbott had been there.  Yet from what you overheard
at the Hohenzollern-Allee this morning, it's obvious that Grundt and
the fair Floria are in this together.  Do you know what I think?  The
Pellegrini, like other women of her type, may be working for the German
Secret Service; but I believe she kept her affair with Vivian Abbott
dark, even, or I might say, particularly, from Clubfoot, for fear it
should reach the ears of the Prince.  It's quite apparent to me that
Vivian, who was always a harum-scarum sort of chap where women were
concerned, had arranged to spend the night at the Hohenzollern-Allee.
Grundt used this woman as the decoy; but she, on her side, took
devilish good care that, if Abbott was to be nabbed, it would not be at
her apartment.  What poor old Vivie told you about having left his
honour behind in Berlin seems to bear out my theory, don't you think?"

I nodded.  "Yes.  But how did Clubfoot know that Major Abbott was
coming to Berlin?"

Druce's mouth set in a grim line.  "We have Bale to thank for that.
You can't insure against the risk of double-crossing: that's the
trouble about our game.  Bale's a Galician Jew, naturalised British.
Until just the other day, he has been regarded as perfectly reliable.
But Grundt got hold of him--money or threats, it's always the one thing
or the other--and made him squeal.  The only fortunate part of the
whole of this business, except for your most gallant intervention, is
that Clubfoot didn't squeeze the truth out of Bale until after Abbott
had arrived in Berlin: otherwise, it would have been the simplest thing
in the world to have shadowed our poor friend and pinched him with the
goods on him."  He broke off as the waiter appeared with the coffee.
"Well," he remarked bluntly, when we were once more alone, "old
Clubfoot has bagged his man."  He tapped his pocket.  "But we, thanks
to you, we've got the report..."

"You mean you think that Major Abbott is ... dead?" I asked.

He nodded, lips pursed up.  "Grundt would never have left Schlatz if
Vivie were still alive."

"Why not?"

He paused.  "This is how I see it.  Abbott didn't have the report on
him when he was arrested.  This may have led Clubfoot to believe that,
by clapping the poor old boy into solitary confinement at Schlatz, he
had headed him off.  Grundt didn't guess the truth until he heard that
his man had escaped, and that, instead of legging it while the going
was good, he'd hung about an hour or more in your garden.  Clubfoot
then realised that, after all, Abbott must have collected that report
before his arrest, and managed to secrete it somewhere; that, prevented
from fetching it himself--he had no money, as we know--he was trying to
pass word of the hiding-place to a confederate.  This confederate, in a
community as small as Schlatz, was most likely to be you.  Grundt
intended to make sure.  So he had you sent away from Schlatz, meaning
to have you shadowed to see whether you would lead him to where the
report was concealed..."

"Before you say any more," I put in, "there's one thing I wish you'd
tell me.  Who and what is this man they call Clubfoot, who can dictate
to a high official like Dr. von Hentsch, and have a Guardsman struck
off the active list?"

"Ah," said Druce, "I was waiting for that question.  And in answering
it, Miss Dunbar, I'm going to treat you as one of us.  Listen!"  He
pushed away his coffee cup and leaned across the table towards me.  "A
fortnight ago I arrived in Germany to look for Vivian Abbott.  I
volunteered for the job, because he was my friend.  It was pretty much
of a forlorn hope, and the old man--the Chief, you know--didn't want me
to go: I think he guessed he could wipe poor Vivie off the slate.  I've
been in this country often enough before, but the moment I crossed the
frontier on this trip I seemed to sniff something queer, something
thundery, about the atmosphere.  I'm fairly intuitive, and I hadn't
been an hour in Berlin before I had the sensation of being under a kind
of latent surveillance, like a man in the jungle who feels that unseen
eyes are watching him from behind every bush.  Mind you, my 'cover,' as
we call it in this game of ours, was flawless, or so we thought.  I had
a perfectly good business pretext for visiting Berlin: proper
credentials, regular line of talk, suite at the Adlon, everything O.K.
But, when I started to look up our resident agents--you know, the
Secret Service people who collect information for us in Berlin in the
ordinary way ... whew!"

He paused and, with a distracted gesture, ran his fingers through his
crisp, dark hair.  "My dear, they were in a panic.  Gibbering, that's
the only word for it.  Most of them simply shut their doors on me; and
those whom I contrived to see wouldn't talk, all except one that is,
and he was drunk, who let on that Bale had blabbed.  Our old man must
have suspected something of the kind, for I was expressly cautioned
against revealing my identity to Bale.  Without being actually
molested, I was conscious of being shadowed.  Inquisitive strangers
tried to get into talk with me at the hotel: I moved to the Atlantic;
and in my absence my luggage was rifled.  I changed my hotel again, my
identity, my appearance, even; but it was no good.  Some secret force,
skilfully concealed but immensely powerful, blocked me at every turn.
One after the other, I was driven from every position until at last I
took refuge in this underworld of prostitutes and dope-peddlers, where
you saw me to-day.  For the time being I seem to have eluded the chase,
but..."--he shook his head sagely--"Oh, I'm wise to it now.  The moment
I entered Germany the net was let down behind me; as I shall very
quickly discover when I try to get out again..."

His voice died away, as though his thoughts had wandered off along the
dark road his words opened up.  "Not until this morning," he went on
presently, "when the man himself appeared on the scene--I've never set
eyes on him before, well as I know him by repute--and I heard your
story, did I realise who was behind this stubborn effort to defeat my
mission.  Now I can understand, as I never understood before, for
Headquarters kept me completely in the dark, the importance of this
document"--his hand brushed his pocket--"for which poor Vivian Abbott
gave his life.  The fact that Clubfoot is in charge means that the one
man that matters in this country is vitally interested in the recovery
of this report.  That man is..."

He checked himself suddenly, his eyes bright with suspicion, for at
that moment a heavy footstep rang along the gallery.  A policeman with
spiked helmet, sabre and revolver all complete, was advancing smartly
towards us between the double line of waxen figures.  I felt a chill
premonition of evil.

My companion sat like an image, watching the policeman approach.  His
right hand, I observed, was thrust inside his coat just above the
pocket where that precious letter lay.

From the near distance in the recesses of the Panoptikum a noisy
electric piano began to jangle out a military march very rapidly.
Instinctively, the iron-shod boots fell into step.  Now the intruder
was almost level with where we sat looking along the gallery from our
table in the refreshment-room.  Druce's right hand moved ever so
slightly: there was the dull glint of metal between palm and waistcoat,
and I saw that he was grasping a pistol.

And then I breathed again.  Without so much as deigning to glance at
us, the intruder went straight on and disappeared from view at the end
of the gallery.  Druce withdrew his hand from his pocket, and waved it
towards where, somewhere out of sight, the busy piano hammered out its
trills and shakes.  "It's only the Schtzmann on duty at the kinema,"
he explained.  "They have a show in the afternoons for the kids."

I uttered a sigh of relief.  "About Clubfoot," I said.  "I believe I
know what you mean.  He spoke to me of his Imperial master, as he
called him."

"Clubfoot is the Kaiser's man of confidence," rejoined my companion
sombrely, "the head of the Emperor's personal secret service.  When
Clubfoot speaks, it is the Emperor speaking: when Clubfoot strikes, the
whole German autocracy is behind the blow.  You've been long enough in
this country to have seen something of the working of German
discipline: can you wonder, then, at the man's power?  At least the
official espionage and counter-espionage services, like the secret
police, are controlled by responsible Ministers.  But Clubfoot is a law
unto himself, responsible to none but his master, this wretched
mountebank who is the greatest existing menace to the world's peace...."

His mouth was bitter as, with a quick, nervous movement, he scratched a
match and lighted a crumpled cigarette which he dredged up from a
pocket of his shabby jacket.

"Clubfoot always works in the dark," he went on.  "That's part of his
strength.  The vast majority of Germans have never heard of him.  In
his real capacity he has no official status; but in the Ministry of
Education List you will find the name of Dr. Adolf Grundt, Inspector of
secondary schools.  His rare public appearances at the Palace are
explained by the fiction that he occupies himself with certain
charities in which the Emperor is interested.  The service he directs
is a branch of the famous Section Seven of the Prussian Police, the
Political Section, you know...."

"He's in the police, then?"

"Only nominally.  'G' branch, of which he's the head, takes its orders
from the Palace.  No one but Kaiser Bill himself, they say, dares
interfere with old Clubfoot...."

"The Prince certainly seemed terrified of him," I put in.

"He would be.  Grundt wants nothing, you see, nothing except power,
that is.  He's the most powerful figure in modern Germany, and quite
the most unscrupulous.  The most feared and hated, too, for his spies
are everywhere: at Court, in the Army, in the Ministries, as well as in
the underworld.  Indeed, he's better known in the 'Kaschemmen,' as they
call the thieves' kitchens here, than in the salons, for his work takes
him into strange places, by all accounts, and he's not particular about
soiling his hands.  Ministers, Court officials, generals, crooks,
they're all scared to death of him as he lurks in the shadow ready to
pounce, and none can say who'll be the next victim.  They call him 'The
Crouching Beast'..."

I shuddered.  "What a dreadful name!  But it suits him...."

"So I've been told.  I've heard tales about him, at the Caf zur Nelke
and elsewhere...."  He broke off, his eyes clouded.  "Well, my dear,"
he concluded, "there's old Clubfoot's portrait for you.  And you can
take it from me, he's out to do his damnedest to prevent this paper
from ever reaching its destination."

I thought of Grundt as he had confronted me in the garden of the
Kommandanten-Haus, hirsute, vital and compelling.  I shivered and tried
to put him from my mind.

"This report," I questioned, "do you know what it is?"

"Not definitely," said Druce, "but I've a pretty good idea.  I've been
putting two and two together since we've been sitting here."  He
contemplated me with a whimsical air.  "Has it occurred to you that we
are on the verge of a European war?" he asked suddenly.

My strange talk with the postman came back to me.  "Of course I know
about this trouble between Austria and Servia," I answered.  "But
surely the Powers will patch it up?"

He sniffed resentfully.  "If they're allowed to!  Austria, strongly
backed by Germany, has made up her mind to twist the Serbians' tail so
devilish hard that they'll lose all taste for the sort of agitation
against the Habsburg Monarchy that led to the murder of the Archduke.
Austria can do it, too, if Russia will let her.  That's where the
danger of war comes in.  One can't say yet that Germany intends to
provoke war.  But she's out to humiliate Russia and Russia's ally,
France.  If Russia stands up to Austria and Germany, it'll be war...."

You, who read this, are wise after the event.  But at the time I was
not greatly impressed.  In those days one was always meeting people who
talked darkly about the danger to European peace.  As a matter of fact,
a succession of war scares had made most people at home apathetic.
After all, to our generation the peace of Europe was not a very
tangible thing.  It was one of those abstract conceptions like the
British Constitution which one took for granted.  And for the moment I
was far more interested in my own position than in the general
situation in Europe.

"On 5th July," Druce went on, "exactly a week after the Archduke's
assassination, the Austro-Hungarian Ambassador in Berlin lunched with
the Kaiser at Potsdam, and handed over an autograph letter from old
Francis Joseph.  Immediately after luncheon, in the Potsdam Sabbath
calm, all the heads of the German war machine, the Prussian War
Minister, the Chief of the Emperor's Military Cabinet, and bigwigs from
the Great General Staff and the Admiralty, met the Kaiser in council.
It's morally certain that the punitive measures which Vienna is
planning against Servia, and their possible outcome, were discussed.
In other words, this meeting was a council of war.  It took place, as
I've said, on 5th July...."

He paused significantly and held me with his eye.  "On the morning of
that day Vivian Abbott arrived in Berlin!"

"Then the report in your pocket...?"

He nodded.  "Look here.  If Austria goes for Servia, there's a good
chance of a general flare-up.  Our German friends leave nothing to
chance.  Since they're backing their Austrian ally to the limit,
they've got to reckon with the possibility of mobilisation.  Now
mobilisation consists of a whole series of graduated preliminaries,
each involving a mass of preparations.  If we assume that Austria's
plan for action against Servia is cut and dried, we may take it that
Germany is losing no time about synchronising the different stages of
her mobilisation with the progressive steps of the Austrian programme.
When I tell you that success in war largely depends on the speed with
which mobilisation takes place, you will realise the importance of the
report of a meeting at which its time-table is discussed.  That at the
Potsdam meeting it was not only discussed, but also decided upon, is
shown by the fact that two days later the Emperor left Germany on his
annual Norwegian cruise...."

Like most women, politics have always bored me.  And I never knew
anything about foreign affairs.

"I don't see what it's got to do with England," I said carelessly.
"Austria is perfectly justified in punishing the Servians for that
horrible murder...."

"It's got this to do with us," my companion retorted.  "If Russia
supports Servia, France is bound to be drawn in.  In that case, we can
hardly stand aloof...."

I laughed.  "I don't see why not.  We're an island, thank God.  If
Germany and the rest of them do go to war, it can't affect England...."

"Germany has a Fleet," said Druce quietly.  "If she mobilises her Army,
she mobilises her Fleet at the same time.  Before that happens, we've
got to know where we stand.  That's why we're vitally interested in
this Potsdam meeting.  That's why Clubfoot is making every effort to
prevent this report from reaching London.  And that's why"--he gave me
one of his bright smiles--"we've got to get you out of this country
quick!"

This realm of high politics into which he had led me filled me with
awe.  His sketch of Clubfoot, combined with all I had already
undergone, seemed to blunt in me every instinct save that of
self-preservation.  Now that I had got rid of the blue envelope, my one
desire was to return to my native shores with all possible speed.  I
yearned for the staid monotony of Purley and St. Mary Axe with the
eagerness of the hunted outlaw heading for sanctuary.  Selfish, I know;
but fear makes us selfish.

"I'm all for the idea," I replied promptly.  "I've had quite enough of
Germany, thank you.  I shall take the first train back to England, as
soon as I can get money from home, that is...."

The grave air with which he shook his head made me vaguely uneasy.  "I
can let you have what money you want," he said.  "But believe me, it's
not going to be as easy as that.  With luck you might get as far as the
frontier by train.  But you'd never cross it; not by train, at any
rate, or even by motor-car, for the matter of that.  I don't think you
realise how serious this is.  The fact that Grundt in person is after
this report shows that it must have emanated, in the first instance,
from some member of the Kaiser's immediate entourage, if not from His
Nibs himself; it wouldn't be the first leak in that quarter, by any
manner of means.  Unless Grundt is convinced in his own mind that you
are not implicated in this affair, and until he has ascertained just
why you didn't travel on to London this morning--for, of course, he
knows you haven't gone--and what exactly you have been doing with
yourself all day, you'll not get out of Germany by any ordinary
channel.  He'll see to that.  By this time Clubfoot's net is spread;
and you can take it from me, my dear, it don't let much through its
meshes...."

His words, spoken without any dramatic emphasis, brought back my fears
with a rush.  But I made a last effort to battle with them.  "I can't
help thinking you exaggerate the difficulties," I replied, as stoutly
as I might.  "It's not as though I'd broken the law.  If anyone tries
to stop me, I shall go to the Embassy..."

He gave a dry laugh.  "My dear Miss Dunbar!  I don't want to scare you,
but you've got to get this right.  I'm a properly accredited secret
agent, as much a salaried servant of the Crown as our Ambassador over
there in the Wilhelm-Strasse.  But he wouldn't lift a finger to help
me.  He's not allowed to.  It's one of the rules of the game.  When
we're on the job, my dear, we're the untouchables, pariahs, with every
man's hand against us.  And now that fate has made you one of us,
you've got to get used to the fact that you're a pariah, too!"

"But I'm not one of you..." I protested in alarm.

"Clubfoot thinks you are: it amounts to the same thing...."

"But what am I going to do?  I've got no money, and the friends I was
going to stay with have gone to Switzerland.  Even if you lend me money
I can't remain in Berlin.  I haven't registered at my hotel yet; but as
soon as I do, I shall have the police on my track...."

"You're not going to remain in Berlin," was the calm rejoinder.
"You're coming away with me.  But I've got to make certain arrangements
which will take time.  And we can't leave before dark, anyway.  What
had you intended to do if we hadn't met?"

"I was going to dine with a friend of mine, one of the officers from
Schlatz.  He was to fetch me at the Continental at eight o'clock--and
afterwards show me round some of the night restaurants.  Of course,
that's all off now...."

"Nothing of the kind," cried Druce.  "You will most certainly dine with
your friend.  In this country uniform is the most perfect guarantee of
respectability.  No one will say a word to you as long as you are
accompanied by an officer.  But you won't be able to go bummeling....
Stop a minute!"  He paused doubtfully.  "An officer isn't allowed to
visit these night places in uniform"--once more I was impressed by his
extraordinary grasp of detail.  "Your friend is bound to be in plain
clothes.  Tell me, what's his regiment?"

"At present he's in the infantry, the 56th Regiment.  But he's really
in the Foot Guards...."

Druce rubbed his hands delightedly.  "A Guardsman, eh?  Then in mufti
he'll look the part every bit as much as though he were in uniform.
What do you say?  Am I right?"

I laughed, thinking of Rudi's elegant waist and stiff, angular
movements.  "I dare say you are...."

"You bet I am," was the gay rejoinder.  "You dine with your Guardee, my
dear.  But after dinner you must make an excuse and slip away.  And
you'll have to dissuade your young man from driving you home."  He
smiled at me.  "It won't be so easy, I expect, but I must leave that to
you.  For you're not going back to the hotel, d'you see?  You can tell
them at Kemper's that you're leaving by the evening train, and pay your
bill before you go out to dinner.  And, oh yes, send your luggage--you
have only a suit-case, I think you said?--up to the cloakroom at the
Friedrich-Strasse station by the boots this afternoon, and let him
bring you back the ticket.  We'll pick up your case on the way out..."

"But how are we going?" I asked.

"By car.  We shall have to make a latish start, for I've a terrible lot
to do before we leave.  I shan't be ready much before eleven, I
expect--better say half-past.  That'll give you plenty of time to get
through dinner and shake your friend.  Where are you dining, by the
way?"

I shook my head blankly.  He knit his brow.

"Awkward.  Know this town at all?"

"Only what I've seen of it to-day."

"We can't have you losing yourself.  And taxis are so easily traced.
Unless we met right in the centre.  You'll dine somewhere central, I
expect?"

"Herr von Linz said something about the Wintergarten...."

"That's central enough: just by the Friedrich-Strasse station.  If you
had to walk, I suppose you could find your way back from there to your
hotel, couldn't you?"

"Oh yes...."

"Then we'll make it Kemper's.  The Mauer-Strasse is quiet at that time
of night, and we're not likely to be observed.  It won't give anything
away if you take a taxi back there, as long as your young man don't
come with you.  But it's just as well to have a rendezvous that you can
reach on foot, if needs be.  Kemper's then, at 11.30: I'll be outside
with a car.  Wait!  You'll want money for your hotel bill...."  He
handed me a hundred mark note from his purse.  "If I were you, I'd be
at the Continental a little ahead of time--they've a lounge where you
can wait--so that your officer pal won't need to ask for you at the
desk.  One never knows: if Clubfoot's busy bees were buzzing around for
you there this morning, it might be awkward, don't you know?  And I
think I'd wear that unusually hideous veil, at any rate until you're
clear of the Continental.  Was there anything else?"

There was, and it was worrying me terribly.  "They'll make me register
before I leave the hotel," I said.  "I can't give my real name, can I?"

He rubbed his nose reflectively.  "No, I don't suppose you can.  There
isn't any very great risk, really, for the hotels send in these forms
to the police only once a day, in the mornings, and by the time yours
goes in to-morrow, we shall be over the hills and far away.  But
there's always a chance of the police making a round of the hotels
looking up the names of the latest arrivals.  Is your dressing-case
labelled or marked with your initials?

"No...."

"Good.  Your German sounds A1 to me, but just in case you've a touch of
accent, I should take a foreign name, I think.  Anything but English,
anyway.  What about being a German Swiss?  That would explain any
unusual intonation, besides being eminently dull and respectable.
Let's see: how would Maria ... Maria Hbel from, say, Zurich, do?"

"Anything you like," I agreed forlornly, for this registration business
frightened me.

His hand pressed mine softly under the table: he had a gentle way with
him in everything he did.  "You've been splendid up till now," he said.
"Be brave a little longer!  I'm ever so glad I met you, my dear.  It's
going to make a lot of difference having a partner.  The loneliness has
been the worst part up till now.  Buck up!  You and I together are
going to put rings round old Clubfoot...."

The pressure of that firm, strong hand steadied me.  Again I was
conscious of the desire to help him.  His blue eyes smiled into mine.
They were shining now as though he were elated at the prospect of
beating our terrible adversary on his own ground.  Slowly my confidence
flowed back.  This strange young man's undaunted assurance seemed to
protect me like a shield.  I felt that Nigel Druce would see us through.

"A bold face now," he counselled, "and we'll have you home in two
ticks.  Kemper's is only just around the corner from here.  Hold up
your head, and remember there are three million people besides
ourselves in this city!"

He rapped with a coin upon the marble slab of the table.  "Kellner,
zahlen!"




64

At Schippke's


It was ten minutes to eight when my cab deposited me beneath the glass
awning of the Hotel Continental, which loomed large in a short, quiet
street behind Unter den Linden.  I felt rested and refreshed: my
nerves, too, were relaxed, for the afternoon had passed off without the
slightest incident.

From the wax-works Nigel Druce had driven me back in a taxi to
Kemper's, where I slipped out of my clothes, and lay down on the bed in
my room, meaning to rest for a couple of hours.  I must have fallen
asleep, however, for when I next caught sight of the time it was past
six.

The nap did me good.  By the time I had had a bath and a cup of tea,
put on the change of linen I had laid out and got into the tailor-made
in which I had travelled from Schlatz, I found myself prepared to look
on the best side of what was proving to be at any rate an exciting and
romantic adventure.  And when, my suit-case despatched to the station,
and my bill paid, they brought me the police form to fill up, I signed
myself Maria Hbel, Spinster, twenty-three, from Zurich, with all the
aplomb of the practised adventuress.  From the indifferent air with
which the woman in the office laid my form away with the others, I felt
certain that, up to that moment, at any rate, no one had come inquiring
after me at the hotel.

My short drive along the Linden to my rendezvous with Rudi went far to
restore my mind to normalcy, to use the word with which, a few years
later, a prophet arisen in the West was to enrich our English tongue.
The evening was serene and warm.  Behind the leafy green of the
Tiergarten, under the high arch of the Brandenburg Gate, the western
sky was softly purple and all tremulous with the first stars, and along
the wide avenue the limes were fragrant beneath their powdering of
summer dust.

Over hotel and caf the house-fronts, one by one, were quietly bursting
into radiance, with lettering picked out in electric lights, red and
white and green, or with signs that flashed and spun and zig-zagged
rhythmically, flaming up to die and flame again, their effulgence yet
paled by the sunset after-glow.

After the day's toil the city was starting on its nightly pleasure
round.  The cafs were thronged.  Each had its serried ranks of
habitus grouped about small tables overflowing upon the sidewalk, each
had its windows folded back wide to reveal further phalanxes of placid
burgesses under the lights within, and waiters, clamouring and
perspiring, darting to and fro.  There was laughter in the air,
laughter and the murmur of light-hearted voices that rose on the still
evening from the crowds sauntering along the broad pavements and
mingled with an accompaniment of lively sounds, the clanging of bells
where the trams thumped ponderously across the avenue, the staccato
squawk of motor-horns, the brisk clip-clopping of the little horse
cabs, and the smooth whirr of the electric droschkes over the shining
asphalt roadway.

It was as though the approach of night had wrought a fairy change in
the city which had seemed to me so harsh and inhospitable in the garish
light of day.  Before the spontaneous gaiety of the street, my picture
of Clubfoot, crouched behind these peaceable, good-humoured throngs,
began to recede into the distance and, as I drove along, I asked myself
whether I had not been unduly alarmist.

Amid the lights and laughter of the summer night, the story of Vivian
Abbott was hard to credit.  After all, I mused, I knew nothing of Nigel
Druce.  He might be one of those scaremongers who were always prating
of the German menace.  What if he had lied to me?  If Grundt were
right, and the little Major just a vulgar criminal, might not the blue
envelope contain some proof of the crime?  In that event Nigel Druce
would be merely Abbott's accomplice.  Yet he had honest eyes....

The sight of Rudi carried me still farther along the road back to my
old life of undisturbed peace.  I had not been with him five minutes
before it seemed to me that I had never left Schlatz.  I had only just
taken a seat at one of the small tables in the spacious hall of the
Continental facing the swing-door, when he appeared.

Rather to my surprise, for I remembered what Druce had said, he was in
uniform.  Directly he caught sight of me, he rushed forward and fairly
fell upon my hand.  "Most beautiful Olivia," he cried, as he kissed it,
"the sight of you is the crowning joy of a most auspicious day.  Gott,
what a rush it's been!  I'm dying for a drink.  In your honour I shall
be English and drink the whisky-soda."  He snapped his fingers at a
waiter hovering near.  "Zwei whisky-soda!" he ordered.

"If you make me drink whisky," I said laughing, "people will take me
for one of those strong-minded Englishwomen you disapprove of so
violently.  I don't want anything: I've just had tea."

He changed the order and, hitching up his sword, dropped into the chair
at my side.  "My dear, how sweet of you to have stayed!  I'm so
delighted that you're going to dine with me to-night.  I've got
glorious news to celebrate...."

"Oh, Rudi," I said, "am I allowed to know?"

"It's not official yet, but it's as good as settled.  I'm going back to
the Foot Guards...."

"My dear, how wonderful!"

"I should say so," he proclaimed triumphantly.  "No more Schlatz for
me, that dead-and-alive nest you're so fond of, no more ghastly
Kaffee-Klatsches, no more bridge at a mark a hundred...."  He was
radiant.

"However did you manage it?" I asked him.

He wagged his head knowingly.  "Well, I had a tip that a sort of
relation of mine was going to get command of my old regiment: at
present he's commanding one of our battalions at Spandau.  I put in for
leave to come up and tackle him.  Ever since I arrived at four o'clock
I've been on his track.  At last I got him on the telephone, and I
think it's going to be all right.  I'm seeing him later in the evening.
That's why I'm still in uniform: officially, plain clothes are
forbidden, you know."  He looked at me doubtfully.  "It means that I
can't take you bummeling.  These night restaurants, you see, are out of
bounds to us in uniform...."

He seemed quite relieved when I told him that I had decided to make it
an early evening, anyway: it was plain that he was absorbed with the
prospect of his rehabilitation.

"Well," he observed philosophically, "it'll have to be for another
time.  You'll be in Berlin again, I expect.  Now about dinner: d'you
mind very much if we dine at Schippke's?"

"I'm entirely in your hands," I told him laughingly.  "What is
Schippke's?"

"It's a restaurant near the War School," he explained.  "Not
frightfully fashionable, you know, but they've got a band and it's
amusing at times.  Mostly officers and little ladies, if you understand
me.  But outwardly quite respectable.  And the food's good.  This
Colonel of mine is attending a regimental dinner in a private room
there to-night and I'm to see him afterwards.  It was the only time he
could give me as he's going on leave in the morning...."  He took his
drink from the salver the waiter presented.  "Prost!"  He drained the
glass at a draught.  "Brr!" he exclaimed, as he brushed his fine yellow
moustache with his handkerchief.  "No wonder the English are so tough!"
He flung the waiter a coin.  "Come on, proud Albion, let's get to
Schippke's before the lads have drunk up all the champagne!"


At the first glance I decided that Schippke's was going to be great
fun.  It was the kind of place no tourist ever discovers, and
infinitely more characteristic of Berlin life, I surmised, than the
terrace of the Wintergarten or similar cosmopolitan resorts.  In the
entrance hall a grim and richly moustachioed beldame hung up my tweed
travelling coat cheek by jowl with an extraordinary assemblage of
military millinery suspended on hooks round the walls.  There were
lines of swords and caps and spiked helmets, and I noticed a wonderful
Hussar dolman, edged with astrakhan and laced with gold, and a gleaming
Cuirassier helmet.

While Rudi saw about a table I looked in upon the restaurant.  It was a
long room, white-panelled, filled with noise and tobacco smoke and the
smell of food.  At one end was a band that seemed all brass and
cymbals, and in the centre of the floor a table piled high with viands
in tiers, Strassburg patties, pots of caviar, faggots of asparagus,
melons, boxes of peaches.

Our entrance drew all glances to the door.  At almost every table I
recognised the officer type, though many of the diners, notably those
dining _tte--tte_ with ladies, were in plain clothes.  There was no
mistaking the evidence, however, of the close-cropped heads and the
monocles, above all, of the band of deep sunburn ending abruptly on a
level with the eyes.

There were many salutations as we entered, a formal bow for me, a
friendly hand-wave, a lifted glass, for my companion.  Rudi seemed to
be known to almost everybody at Schippke's, from the Viennese _matre
d'hotel_, who greeted him like a long-lost son, to a young Guardsman
with a vinous air, who rose up from a party of men as we passed, and
shouted: "Kinder, Rudi's back.  Now it can start!" which obscure remark
was uproariously applauded by his friends.

There was a sort of holiday atmosphere about the place which was most
infectious.  The band scarcely took a rest: everybody seemed to be
drinking champagne and talking to everybody else; and presently I found
myself raising my glass with Rudi to different people who insisted on
toasting us from adjacent tables.  Rudi ordered a marvellous dinner.
The caviar was of the freshest: the blue trout broiled to a turn: the
chicken _en casserole_ deliciously tender.  The champagne glasses at
Schippke's were capacious; and by the time we had reached the chicken,
Rudi, despite my protest, was ordering a second bottle of Pommery.
Perhaps I didn't protest very hard.  I was so happy for a spell that
evening that I believe I actually forgot the imminent ordeal of that
long motor journey into the unknown.  Rudi was excellent company.  He
knew stories about almost everyone in the room, particularly the
"little ladies," and he kept making me laugh.  All this time the
restaurant was filling up.  With every fresh arrival new tables were
squeezed in until we were all sitting elbow to elbow.

The band had been playing old German airs--soldier songs they were,
Rudi explained--and people were singing to the music, when suddenly
there were cries of "Nein, Nein," a hubbub of voices and laughter.

"What's happening?" I said, looking up from my peach.

Rudi chuckled.  "It's rather funny.  The band was playing 'Reserve hat
Ruh'! that's the song the Reservists sing when they're released from
their annual service with the colours, and the fellows won't have it."

"Why not?" I demanded.

The boy sipped his champagne thoughtfully.  "Well," he remarked
reflectively, "there's a lot of talk about war just now.  Of course, if
we go to war, the Reservists who are doing their training will be kept
on.  So, you see..."

"But surely you don't think that there's any real danger of war, do
you?"

"Not if Russia behaves sensibly...."

"And if she doesn't?"

He shrugged his shoulders and did not reply.

"I see," said I.  "Then that was what your friend meant just now when
he called out to you, 'Now it can start!'"

Rudi flushed up.  "Nobody pays any attention to old Kurt's nonsense,"
he answered evasively.

"The people who stopped the band from playing that Reservist song
didn't seem to think the chances of war nonsense," I put in.

"You're right," said the boy solemnly.  "There's a limit to Germany's
patience, Olivia, as your dear French friends will find out if they go
on trying to push Russia into war over these dirty Servians.  Germany
stands encircled with foes"--his voice became animated--"but if needs
be, we shan't be afraid to hack our way through.  Our good German sword
is sharp, as you English and French may discover sooner than you think.
There's no nonsense about that, at any rate...."

He spoke with such heat, with a challenging air so foreign to his
customary easy-going nature, that I stared.  "My dear Rudi, nobody
wants to go to war with you..." I was beginning to say, when a great
shouting interrupted me.  All over the restaurant people were standing
up and crying out a name.  In a flash Rudi was on his feet, waving his
napkin and yelling with the rest: "Prince Eugene, give us the Hymn of
Prince Eugene!"

There was a moment's lull and then, with a roll of drums, the band
swept noisily into crashing martial music.  From group to group the
song was taken up.  The whole company chanted the words, keeping time
by pounding the tables with their fists, with bottles, with anything
that came handy, until the glasses jingled.  "_Prinz Eugen, der edle
Ritter..._" they roared: the rest of the words escaped me in the din.

Rudi's voice was in my ear.  He was shouting to make himself heard.
"It's the song of Prince Eugene, the Austrian General, who captured
Belgrade from the Turks," he explained, and added: "Perhaps the
Austrians are going to take Belgrade again, to punish these rascally
Serbs."

The song ended in a crescendo of cheers.  The band stopped and people
resumed their seats.  An officer in uniform remained on his feet, a
stout man with a purple face, his tunic unbuttoned at the throat, who
swayed as he stood.  In stentorian tones he was declaiming:

  "Jeder Schuss ein, Russ,
    Jeder Stoss ein, Franzos,
  Jeder Tritt ein, Brit...."[1]


The whole restaurant broke into hand-clapping and laughter.  Someone
pulled the officer down into his chair and the band broke into
"Puppchen," the popular song of the day.  Rudi laughed happily.
"Infantry, obviously," he remarked drily.  "The trouble about these
Line fellows is that they can't hold their liquor.  But though the
man's drunk, he speaks the truth.  We Germans are ready, Olivia, and..."

But I scarcely heard him.

Floria von Pellegrini had just come into the restaurant.



[1] "A Russian with every shot,
      A Frenchman with every thrust,
    A Briton with every kick."




65

I escape from twin perils to meet with disaster


The Pellegrini certainly knew the value of an effective entrance.
Every other woman in the place had an escort; but she came alone.  As
she paused upon the threshold to gaze upon that animated scene, she
looked superb.  She was in _dcollet_, as though she had been to the
Opera--I remembered noticing that Burian, the great Wagnerian tenor,
was billed to sing Siegfried that night--her exquisite figure moulded
in an ivory satin frock, quite plain but marvellously draped, with a
bodice that left her gleaming shoulders bare.  Her gorgeous hair was
loosely gathered up to lie in a thick coil upon her shapely neck, and
looped up to show her small and beautifully-moulded ears to which a
pair of emerald ear-rings, each a small but marvellously fine cabuchon
stone, the only jewellery she displayed, drew the eye.

Her appearance sent the waiters scurrying in all directions.  Hector,
the _matre d'hotel_, with his old-fashioned mutton-chop whiskers, was
before her in an instant, bowing low.  But for the moment she ignored
him, disdainfully surveying the room, while a sort of suppressed murmur
ran from table to table.

Her curious green eyes were veiled in sullen arrogance.  With a sort of
dreadful fascination I watched her gaze slowly traverse the restaurant.
Now she was looking at us; but her eyes passed me by.  They rested for
a moment on Rudi, who was staring at her through his eye-glass with
unabashed admiration, as was, incidentally, every other man in the
place; and I reminded myself that, in the Pellegrini's profession, it
is men, not women, that matter.

My thoughts went back to Vivian Abbott.  So this was the woman who had
betrayed him.  She looked spoilt, luxury-loving, but not vile, as a
woman who sells her lover must be.  Indeed, in her shimmering white
frock, she had almost a virginal air.  With her entrancing colouring;
her coquettish nose, the nostrils rather wide; her eager mouth, pretty
as a cupid's, but a thought too heavy; her ravishing form, she was a
splendid and alluring creature.  I could understand any man falling in
love with her.

Amid a buzz of comment they conducted her to a table apparently
reserved for her on the far side of the room.  Rudi was talking
excitedly in my ear, a string of scandal...  "...the best-gowned woman
in Germany ... von Dagen, of the Pasewalker Cuirassiers, shot himself
over her ... ruined half a dozen men besides ... now with Prince
Karl-Albrecht...."

But I paid scant attention.  I was trying to grapple with the situation
with which the Pellegrini's unexpected appearance had confronted me.
She had only caught a glimpse of me at the flat; and could I avoid
meeting her face to face, could I but slip away before the restaurant
began to empty, I might yet pass unrecognised.  The Prince was the
danger: he, I felt sure, would know me again.  Since she was alone, it
looked as if he might join her.

I roused myself from my reverie to find a tall officer in uniform
bowing before me.  He was, I think, the thinnest man I have ever seen,
a regular bodkin of a figure, buttoned into a bright blue tunic,
skin-tight and wasp-waisted.  Rudi was on his feet, murmuring a
name--Baron von Something-or-other.

The Baron smiled at me most ingratiatingly out of a perfectly vacuous
face.  "If the gndiges Frulein will have the extraordinary goodness
to put up with my company for a little..." he drawled in a ridiculously
affected voice.  "The Colonel is asking for our friend.  Du, Rudi," he
went on, addressing the boy and ogling me most desperately the while,
"you needn't hurry back.  If I hadn't drunk so much champagne"--he
swayed a little as he spoke, and sat down rather abruptly--"I should
speak English with this most lovely lady.  But ach je!  I can think of
only one word"--he grinned at me expansively--"Meexed Peeckles!"

Rudi laughed and clapped him on the shoulder.  "Miss Dunbar speaks
German as well as you do, Helmuth."  He turned to me.  "You don't mind
my rushing off?  The Colonel won't keep me long.  Helmuth will look
after you, won't you, old man....?"

I had been watching the Pellegrini.  Her unexpected appearance had
brought back to my mind with horrifying vividness that old familiar
terror of mine, a vision of the clubfooted man, lowering somewhere out
of sight behind this scene of gaiety, with its brilliant uniforms,
pretty women, laughter, music.  A knot of men pressed about her table.
It seemed a good moment to slip away.  I glanced at my watch: a quarter
to eleven.  Three-quarters of an hour to my rendezvous outside
Kemper's.  What on earth was I to do with myself in the meantime?  But
it was dangerous to stay....

"If you don't mind, Rudi," I said, "I think I'll be going now...."

He swung round aghast.  "Olivia, not yet!"

"I've got one or two things to see to.  And ... and my head's aching
rather.  I'll find my way back to the hotel all right.  There's no need
for you to come...."

"But at least I'm going to see you home," he cried.  "Wait there for
me!  I shan't be five minutes...."

"Really, I can go quite well by myself," I protested.

"I won't hear of it," he flashed back.  "I'd rather put old Westfried
off...."

"Don't be absurd," I told him.  "Of course you must see your
Colonel...."

With an obstinate look on his face he dropped into his chair.  "I'll
get my bill and come with you," he announced.

"I won't hear of any such thing," I told him.  "Go to the Colonel at
once, Rudi!"

"Not unless you promise to wait for me!"

The Baron suddenly emitted a loud groan.  "I am more drunk than I
thought," he announced solemnly.  "The English Miss is frightened of
me."  He shook his head forlornly.  "And everybody has drunk more than
I have.  The Adjutant is at least a bottle ahead...."

I could not help laughing, he was so desperately in earnest.  "It's
nothing to do with you," I assured him.  "It's only that I'm tired and
I've a long journey before me to-morrow."

"Give me five minutes, Olivia," Rudi pleaded.  "It's our last night
together.  Heaven knows when I shall see you again!"

"'Maid Joan departs and never more returns!'" declaimed the Baron
lugubriously--I recognised the quotation: it is from Schiller's
'Jungfrau von Orleans,' and hardworked at that.  "Stay, most beautiful
lady, and"--his eyes brightened--"we'll have a bottle at Rudi's
expense...."

A plump officer, round as a ball, bustled up.  "Mensch," he squeaked at
Rudi in the nasal tones the Prussian Guardsman affects, "have you taken
leave of your senses?  The old man's hunting for you everywhere.  You'd
better make haste if you want to see him.  He's just leaving...."

I had risen from my chair, for I was determined to get away.  But it
was no easy matter, penned in as we were by tables.

"You'll wait a minute, Olivia?" Rudi begged.

"Of course she'll wait," cried the Baron.  "We'll take care of the
Gndige in your absence, mein Junge!"

Rudi flung me an imploring glance and hurried off.

I wavered; and on the instant was lost.  The Baron stood up and gravely
presented his plump friend.  "I really I must be going," I declared.
But the pair of them barred my passage, waving me back into my seat.

"Um Gottes Willen," the fat man ejaculated, "you wouldn't leave our
Rudi in the lurch, on this night of all nights, when he's coming back
to us!  Be patient a little, meine Gndige: he won't be long.  Colonel
Westfried has a train to catch...."

Colonel Westfried?  The name sounded familiar: surely I had heard it
quite recently?

The Baron had got his bottle of champagne.  He was solemnly filling up
three glasses, spilling a good deal of wine on the tablecloth in the
operation.  "We will now drink," he gravely announced, "to the so
lovely ladies of Old England.  Meexed Peeckles, goddam!"  He forced a
glass into my hand and clinked his glass with mine, while his companion
followed suit.

At any other time I might have laughed, he was so charmingly absurd in
his intoxicated state.  But the presence of that woman oppressed me: I
was on fire to be off.  I put my lips to my glass, set it down upon the
table and stood up.  The Baron and the other stared at me in dismay.
It was then I became aware that, from the far end of the restaurant a
stream of officers in uniform, noisy and flushed with wine, were slowly
forging their way down the restaurant between the closely packed tables.

A spate of blue tunics eddied about us.  Suddenly I saw my two
companions simultaneously spring to their feet and stand stiffly at
attention.  The crowd divided; and I found myself face to face with
Floria von Pellegrini's friend, the Prince.  All too late, I then
remembered in what circumstances I had heard Colonel Westfried's name.
Westfried, of course, was Prince Karl's Commanding Officer, of whom
Grundt had spoken so contemptuously at the Pellegrini's flat.

The Prince was smoking a large cigar and laughing uproariously, his
suety face from heavy drinking more pallid than ever and beaded with
moisture.  Like the rest, he was in uniform, with a cross dangling from
a riband about his neck and a row of medals glittering on the breast of
the bright blue tunic into which his gross and flabby torso was crammed
as tightly as a sausage in its skin.  A slim Hussar officer, gorgeous
in scarlet and gold, with a saturnine face, held him by the arm and
recounted some facetious story to which the Prince was listening
abstractedly, while those little pig eyes of his fluttered from table
to table, now to bestow condescending recognition upon an acquaintance,
now to linger suggestively upon a woman in a brazen and lecherous stare.

Hedged in as I was, I could not flee.  As they fell back on either side
before him, the officers eddying about our table formed a lane which
led directly to where I stood between the Baron and his portly friend.
Beyond our immediate vicinity the life of the restaurant proceeded as
usual: with its military _clientle_ I imagine that princes were
three-a-penny at Schippke's.  But I was caught up in this torrent of
Guardsmen, and I wished that the ground might open and swallow me up,
or that I might take a header and disappear among the outer fringe of
tables where the cheery buzz of chaff and laughter, the constant
to-and-fro of the diners, contrasted with the sudden chilling hush, the
line of stiffening backs, among the blue tunics surrounding me.

He recognised me instantly, as I had felt it in my bones he would.  I
saw his eyebrows go up, a pink hand grope for his monocle.  With a curt
gesture he silenced his companion and came straight up to me.

It seemed to me that every drop of blood had drained away from my face.
Was this denunciation?  I glanced desperately across the restaurant to
where the Pellegrini had her table.  But the seething crowd obscured
her from my view.

Screwing his glass in his eye, the Prince tittered shrilly:
"Donnerwetter, die kleine Englnderin!"

He paused and looked interrogatively from one to the other of the two
officers flanking me.

I was aware that the Baron was nudging me and whispering something
behind his hand.  "Knix machen," he muttered hoarsely.  "Knix machen!"
and, to illustrate his meaning, sublimely oblivious of the fact that
some fifty people were watching him intently, he dropped a most elegant
curtsey.  I bobbed hastily.  The Prince burst into a peal of throaty
laughter.  "Kolossal!" he gurgled.  "You should be in the ballet,
Baron!  One of these days we'll put you in a frilly skirt and see if
you can shake a leg as gracefully as this poor von Hlsen used to...."

This was a joke, and His Highness glanced round the circle for
approbation.  Everybody roared, and there were murmurs of deferential
delight--"Ausgezeichnet!"--"Ein vorzglicher Witz!"--"Hoheit sind
unglaublich komisch!"  I should have been better able to appreciate
Prince Karl's peculiar form of humour had I known then, as I was to
discover later, that, at a house-party at Prince Frstenberg's some
years before, Field-Marshal Count Hlsen-Hasler, in a ballet skirt and
with his face painted, had dropped dead in the presence of the Emperor
while giving his famous imitation of a ballet dancer.

Expectantly the Prince pursed up his thick, wet lips, and his small
eyes gimleted into mine.  He turned to my companion.  "Well, Baron," he
said jovially, "aren't you going to present the lady?"

The Baron swayed slightly and steadied himself by gripping the edge of
the table.  "His..."--he swallowed with an effort--"His Highness Prince
Karl-Albrecht of Traubheim-Zwickau," he announced very formally.  He
waved a hand airily in my direction.  "Mees ... Meexed Peeckles!"  He
smiled seraphically and gently collapsed into his chair.

The Prince shrieked with laughter.  "Man, you're drunk!" he chortled.

"Not drunk, Hoheit," replied the Baron with dignity, "not drunk, only
forgetful.  Herr von Linz, with whom the gndiges Frulein is dining,
told me her name, but it has escaped me with the rest of my
English...."  He struggled to his feet.

"Then," said His Highness, with a significant glance round the circle,
"I must find out the name for myself!"

On that the Hussar officer fell back discreetly, and the eddy of blue
tunics began to move forward again, carrying with it the Baron and his
friend.  Prince Karl motioned me to a chair and took one himself.  What
was I to do?  I sat down.

He placed his soft, plump hand over mine.  "Na," he remarked
confidentially, "die kleine Englnderin is a friend of our Rudi, _was_?
So that's why you were so cruel to me this morning!  All day long I've
been wondering what the reason could be...."

I was beginning to feel easier in my mind.  For some reason or other
the Prince appeared to be unaware of Clubfoot's interest in me.  It was
not much after eleven o'clock.  If I could get rid of the Prince before
Rudi came back, all would be well.

He grunted and mopped his shining face with a handkerchief as fine as a
woman's, and embroidered with a large coronet.  "Verflucht," he
muttered thickly, "you've quite bewitched me with your great big eyes
and your pitch-black hair.  Do you know that ever since this morning
I've done nothing else but think about you, you ... you sweet little
morsel..."  The snouting nose was thrust forward at me.  The sweet
little morsel repressed an inclination to laugh.  I stand five feet
eight in my stockings, and I weighed then, as I weigh still, about one
hundred and forty pounds in my birthday suit.  But as he suddenly bent
down I caught a glimpse of his eyes, and the mirth died in me.  His
gross and horrible lips fumbled for my hand.  I snatched it away.

"Such maidenly modesty," he chuckled, "and yet what fire!  I tell you
what, little woman, you and I must meet again.  I've decided to
overlook your foolishness of this morning: you were, of course, unaware
of my rank.  You shall come out and have a little supper with me
somewhere quietly, to-morrow or the next day..."  He produced a gold
pencil and pushed up the cuff of his tunic.  "Just give me your name
and telephone number," he said, with pencil poised.  "I'll ring you up
in the morning, and tell you when and where...."

I had been thinking swiftly.  Time pressed, for Rudi might return any
minute now.  I could see only one possible means of shedding this
preposterous clown.  "I suppose Your Highness knows that Frau von
Pellegrini is sitting over there?" I observed gently.

He whipped round like a shot rabbit.  "Um Gottes Willen, where?"

The Pellegrini was not to be discerned in that crowd; but I indicated
the direction of her table.  The Prince scrambled to his feet.  "Herr
Je," he murmured, "I'd forgotten I'd told her to meet me here.  She'll
make a fearful scene if she catches us together again.  Ring me up at
the Htel Atlantic, Kleine: I'm staying there for a few days.  O Gott,
O Gott...!"

He bounced off, his fat face awry with an expression of utter dismay.
I let him get clear, then stood up swiftly and made for the door.  It
had proved easier than I had ever dared to imagine.  Looking neither to
left nor right, I passed out into the lobby, where I gave the attendant
the ticket for my travelling coat.  It was twenty minutes past eleven.
I had not a moment to lose.

The bearded lady in charge of the cloak-room helped me into my
overcoat.  I gave her a mark, and was turning to go when the door of
the telephone-box on one side of the lobby opened suddenly, and the
Pellegrini came out.

The passage-way was narrow and thronged with people collecting their
hats and coats.  To reach the street door I had to brush past the
woman.  Pulling down my veil, I sought to slip by; but it was too late.
Her emerald eyes seemed to flame as they fell on me.  With a resolute
air, she put herself in my path.

"I want a word with you," she said; but for all her bold front, her
voice shook a little as though some strong emotion gripped her.  I
sought to appear collected.

"There's some mistake," I rejoined, making another attempt to pass, "I
don't know you!"

She cast a slow, sidelong glance about her out of her oddly lambent
eyes.  There was a wariness in her whole mien that filled me with an
obscure dread.  "No mistake, Frulein Dunbar," she rapped back in a
hurried undertone, and emphasised my name.  "You will hear what I have
to say or face the consequences."  The green eyes were menacing.
"Bitte...."  She indicated a door that stood ajar a little way along
the vestibule.  "We shan't be disturbed there...."

I made a final effort to shake her off.  "I tell you I don't know you.
And, anyway, I can't wait now.  I..."

Scathingly her voice broke into mine.  "You little fool, d'you know who
rang me up just now?  It was Grundt...."  She was quick to see the fear
which must have shown in my face, for she added brusquely: "Now will
you listen to _me_?  Or shall it be to him?"

Half-dazed with apprehension, I allowed her to shepherd me into a
little office where she clicked on the light.  I saw a roll-top desk,
some chairs, a stack of files, a calendar.  She motioned to me to shut
the door, leaning against the desk, incessantly twining and untwining
her long white fingers.

"I've one word of advice to give you, meine Kleine," she said as I
faced her.  "Go back to your own country at once!"  I noticed the
drawling Viennese lilt to her speech.  I took my courage in both hands
and tried to brazen it out.

"Of course, I remember you now," I said as easily as my thumping heart
would let me.  "I didn't recognise you without your hat.  You're Frau
von Pellegrini, aren't you?  I brought you a shawl to see this morning.
I want to assure you that I was in no way to blame for the very
unpleasant incident that occurred at your flat.  It's not my fault if
your friends try to kiss me...."

She cut me short with a gesture.  "Why did you come to my apartment?"
she demanded, with angry brusqueness.

Her insolence touched up my Highland blood.  "Not to be insulted by
your friends, anyway!" I retorted.

She stamped her foot.  "No evasions!  Answer me!  Why did you come?"

I had foreseen this question.  "To try and sell my shawl...."

Her gaze swept me up and down, contemptuous.  "Are you so poor, then?"

"I'd lost my purse with my ticket to London in it...."

She looked up eagerly.  "Is this true?"  Then doubt reappeared in her
face.  "Who gave you my name?" she demanded quickly.  She bent forward,
and again I saw the nameless fear that lurked in the green pools of her
eyes.  "It was Abbott, niet?"

I caught hold of myself, prepared to meet the danger.  "Who?" I asked,
and sought to make the question sound indifferent.

"You were at Schlatz when the Englishman got away," she said, and her
lips trembled.  "He sent you to me, nicht wahr?"  Her voice rose to a
shrill whisper.  "It was Abbott who sent you, wasn't it?  Answer me,
can't you?"  She caught my wrist.

I shook myself free.  "I was at Schlatz when some prisoner escaped," I
told her, "but whether he was English or German, I can't say, for I
never saw him or spoke with him...."

She was watching me narrowly.  "Is this true?" she asked again, and
this time her voice was soft as with some immense relief.

"Certainly," I lied stoutly.

"Then who gave you my name?"

I was prepared for this, too.  "The chambermaid at the hotel.  I asked
her if she knew of any fashionable actress who might buy a shawl, and
she mentioned you...."

"So...?"  The exclamation was like a sigh of contentment.  She opened
her purse, a beautiful thing of green, gold and platinum chain-work,
set in alternating stripes, with an emerald clasp, and took out a
handful of notes.  She thrust the money in my hand.  "Listen to me,
Kleine!  What you've got to do is to get out of this city as fast as
you can and never come back.  If you value your safety, you'll make a
point of leaving Berlin without a moment's delay, now, this very night.
And if you're wise you'll say nothing to anyone about your adventure at
Schlatz, or about seeing me.  You can take the money," she added,
observing that I had laid the roll of notes upon the desk.  "I have
plenty more.  Or, if it isn't enough....?"

She broke off, and then, seeing that I made no move, with a nervous
laugh she stuffed the wad back in her purse.  "As you will.  But
remember, I speak for your own good.  Grundt suspects you, and whom
Clubfoot suspects..."  She checked herself: there was terror in the
glance she gave me.  "Oh, this man appals me," she wailed, distraught,
of a sudden, with fear.  "You look kind-hearted, Frulein.  Promise me
that you'll go away at once and say nothing...."

"You may rely on me," I answered coldly; for I could not forget that it
was this creature who had sent my poor little Major to his death.  Then
I walked out of the office and left her there.  As I hurried through
the lobby to the street, I had a glimpse of the Prince hovering
nervously about the threshold of the restaurant.

It was 11.35.  I walked until I was clear of the lighted approach to
Schippke's, then hailed a passing taxi.

      *      *      *      *      *

The Mauer-Strasse lay quiet and deserted, its asphalt roadway shining
in the dim light of the street lamps like a dark river flowing under
the stars.  As we rattled down the street, I saw that in front of
Kemper's a ruby gleam spilled a pool of blood athwart the kerb.  A
closed car was there, its tail-lamp towards us.  I stopped my cab a few
yards from the hotel, paid it off, and hastened towards the car.  As I
drew near I discerned a shape immobile in the driving-seat.  "Here I
am!" I cried softly.

The figure at the steering-wheel did not move, but at that moment a
shadow seemed to detach itself from the gloom under the house walls.  A
short, square-shouldered man, with a large moustache, stepped up to me.
He laid a finger to his bowler.  "Frulein Dunbar?" he said politely in
German.

His matter-of-fact tone disarmed me: I took him to be a messenger from
Druce.  "Yes," I said.  Then I started, for two other men had appeared
noiselessly at my elbow.

"We are the police," said the first man.  "You must come with us to
Headquarters."

I sprang back.  "The police?" I repeated.  "Why?  What have I done?"

"False registration," was the curt reply, as the speaker flung open the
car door.  "Get in with her, you two: I'll sit next to Fritze...."

They hustled me into the car, and we were whirled away over the
gleaming asphalt.




66

The Crouching Beast


If there be any courage in my composition, it is of that common brand
which asserts itself only when confronted with the inevitable.  And
there was something essentially finite about the two large and stolid
plainclothes men who bore me company as the limousine sped quickly
through the streets.

In the first shock of my arrest I was angry rather than scared.  Angry
with myself for having walked thus blindly into the trap.  I suppose my
good fortune in emerging unscathed from the unexpected encounters of
the evening threw me off my guard.

An endless chain of arc lamps shining milkily among a central avenue of
trees, a blaze of light from the pavements told me that we were
crossing Unter den Linden.  On the farther side we seemed to be
immersed at once in a network of dim streets.  As we glided along I
tried to review my position.

What exactly had Grundt against me?  Definitely, only this tiresome
business of the false registration.  He knew, of course, that I had
spent the day in Berlin; but--for the present, anyhow--he could have no
evidence that I could see as to how I had passed the time.

From Druce's account of what had taken place after my flight from
Bale's, it was pretty obvious that my brief appearance there had not
been discovered.  What about my trip to the Hohenzollern-Allee?  Here,
too, it seemed to me, the scales were depressed in my favour.  The
Prince was clearly ignorant of the Abbott business and of my part in
it: otherwise, on running into me at Schippke's that unsavoury young
man would have lost no time in handing me over to the authorities.  Yet
Clubfoot had certainly gone to the Hohenzollern-Allee to tell the
Pellegrini what had happened at Schlatz.  I could only suppose that the
Prince had left the flat without seeing Grundt again, for, if he had
heard Clubfoot's story, he would most assuredly have mentioned my visit.

As for the Pellegrini, I could not believe it was she who had betrayed
me.  The fact that she had left her lover in ignorance of Clubfoot's
suspicions of me, and the state of terror in which I had seen her that
night, were abundant corroboration of Druce's theory that she had kept
her affair with Abbott a secret from Grundt.  Her manner had shown me
that she was racked with anxiety lest Clubfoot should learn the truth,
namely, that, on the evening of that fateful 5th of July, Abbott had
been in her apartment, and that she was desirous, above all things, of
getting rid of me, the only person who could give her away.  I imagined
I could rely on her to keep her princeling quiet.  As long as these two
held their tongues, Clubfoot could have no suspicion that I had been to
the flat.

And Druce.  What had become of him?  I had seen no car in the
Mauer-Strasse other than the one which was now bearing me towards a
fate unknown.  Yet Druce was not the sort of man to leave a friend in
the lurch.  Couldn't he have stayed to warn me?

I felt a faint stirring of my old misgivings.  He had recovered the
blue envelope: I was of no further use to him now.  Might he not be
glad to be quit of an embarrassing accomplice?  He might even have sent
word to the police ... but I could not believe that of him.  And yet it
was he who had fixed the rendezvous: he--the thought made my cheeks
flame--who had suggested that I register in a false name....

The stopping of the car put an abrupt end to my fruitless searchings.
The rays of a street-lamp, falling through the glass, picked out the
foliage of a box-hedge.  A gate creaked, and the car, moving forward,
swung round the short curve of a gravelled drive and drew up outside a
low porch.  In the glow from the head-lamps I was aware of a dark
house, with gables overhanging like a Swiss chalet, that rose above it.

I had expected to be taken to some large public building, a Berlin
equivalent of Scotland Yard, not to a suburban villa, as this seemed to
be.  I hung back as one of my companions in the car stepped out and
held the door expectantly.  "Bitte, schn!" he said politely.

The front door was already unlatched.  It brought us into a nondescript
lobby, where a stained-glass lantern, pendant from a chain, striped
with bars of sparse-coloured light a great stove, white and pompous as
any tomb, and some dusty antlers forlornly impaled upon the walls.
Here they kept me while the man who had ridden on the box tiptoed away
with creaking boots, presumably to give notice of our arrival.  An
oppressive stillness rested over all; and my companions conversed in
hoarse whispers, as though fearful to break the spell.  I felt myself
borne down by a presentiment of evil.

After a little wait a door, gaping suddenly, rent a bright rift in the
gloom at the lobby's end.  The man with the creaky boots stood and
beckoned.  As they thrust me forward I caught a glimpse behind him of a
sort of cubby-hole, with desk and typewriter, and a second door beyond.
This the messenger, without knocking, opened, disclosing an inner
portal, sheathed in baize, which swung inward at his push.

The room into which, at his silent bidding, I passed was dark save for
a blur of light thrown downward by a reading-lamp on a desk in the
centre.  The desk, a massive roll-top affair, backed on the door, and
of the lamp nothing but the glass shade, gleaming like a great green
eye, was discernible.  Its reflected light, spread about the room,
glinted on one side upon book-shelves tiered to the ceiling, and on the
other was lost in a band of starry night-sky which, above a dark mass
of foliage, hung like a drop-scene between the two wings of a tall
casement window folded back against curtains.  Somewhere in the
distance a dog barked, and the thumping of the city trams was faint in
the room.  The rest was stealthy silence.

The door by which I had entered sighed as it was softly shut.  I
realised that my guards had remained outside.  I glanced cautiously
about me.  It seemed incredible that they should have left me there
alone with that open window inviting escape.  Buoyed up with sudden
hope, I took a step forward, and then my heart suddenly seemed to stop
beating.  For, as the further side of the desk came into view, I became
aware that a man was sitting there: I could see the top of his head on
a line with the green lamp-shade, a mass of stiff bristles, iron-grey.
No need to look twice: I knew at the first glance who it was, just as I
had known by instinct to whose house they brought me, just as I
recognised the raucous voice that now fended the eerie stillness.

"I should not try the window, Miss Dunbar," it said.  "The night air of
Berlin is not healthy...."

And on that the massive form of Grundt rose up from behind the desk.

Once more I was impressed by the man's tremendous personality.  He
radiated authority.  The room was spacious, high of ceiling, too, but
he seemed to fill it like a procession.  He was smiling, as though in
welcome, but the cruel, yellow fangs his parted lips unbared robbed his
smile of all kindliness, and the hard glitter of his eyes belied any
friendly intention.  For the rest, his features were blankly
impassive--deliberately impassive, it seemed to me--as though he wished
by sheer will-power to bludgeon me into submission before unfolding
what was in his mind.

He indicated a chair near the desk.  "Bitte...."  The tone was formally
polite; but he was watching me from under his shaggy ape-like eyebrows
as I crossed the room.  As I sat down I saw his hand move to the lamp,
which he manipulated so that my face was in its indirect radiance.  His
features remained in shadow.

By this I was almost distracted with fear.  And yet the issue before me
was perfectly plain.  I had to find a reasonable explanation, if not a
valid excuse, for that false registration.  Irrelevant ideas floated
aimlessly through my mind like straws whirled about the head of a
drowning man.  Vainly even as he might, I snatched at them, and found
them, even as he, unavailing when in my grasp.  I tried to collect my
thoughts; but they seemed to flee me in wild confusion under the
baleful, unrevealing scrutiny of the man at the desk.

Yet when at length he spoke his tone was not unfriendly:

"Two days ago at Schlatz," he said, in his grating voice, "Dr. von
Hentsch gave you a piece of advice.  Do you remember?"

I tried to say something; but the words would not come.  He took my
silence for obstinacy, for he went on, though in the same level tones:
"It would be foolish on your part to attempt to hide anything from me,
Frulein.  And you have been sufficiently foolish already...."  He
picked up a pair of horn spectacles which lay on the large and littered
desk, and adjusted them on his nose.  Then, taking a file from the top
of a pile of similar folders, he opened it and consulted one of the
papers it contained.

"At Kemper's Hotel, in the Mauer-Strasse, this evening, you registered
in the false name of ... um ... Maria Hbel," he resumed.  He held
forth a slip.  "You will not deny that this is in your handwriting, I
presume?"  And without waiting for me to reply, he spread out his
enormous hairy hands before him and went on:

"False registration is a very serious offence in Prussia.  Punishable
by imprisonment under the Penal Code.  Our German prisons are not
pleasant places, Frulein Dunbar.  Our methods are not dictated to
sentimental Ministers by dithyrambic playwrights.  We make gaol so
damnably uncomfortable that no prisoner ever wants to get back.
Corporal punishment, I believe, is still in force for unruly prisoners.
For women as well as for men."  His shoulders shook in a spasm of
silent mirth.  "And you are a very unruly person.  Jawohl...."  He
paused.  "I don't think ... I _don't_ think you'd care about the
Frauen-Gefngniss, my dear."  He swung round unexpectedly, his great
eyebrows drawn together in a frown.  "But it's where you'd be at this
moment if, out of deference to the good Dr. von Hentsch, I had not had
you brought here.  Now," he demanded, suddenly stern, "what's the
meaning of all this nonsense?"

I had only one weapon to my hand, a woman's weapon, and I used it.
After all men were all alike; and it was not the first time I had had
to wheedle myself out of a scrape.  Besides, under the paternal tone he
adopted with me, I seemed to discern a sort of sympathetic interest:
well, perhaps sympathetic is not quite the word; benevolently
appraising, let me say, as though, not too critically, he were summing
me up.  I was foolish enough to imagine it showed that he was not
entirely insensible to the other sex.

Dulcie used to say I had no heart because I would not encourage poor
Bill Bradley.  I never was sentimental, anyway; and that was why, I
suppose, I discovered for myself at Schlatz that sentimentality is the
strong suit with all German men.  The Prince had described me as a
"sweet little morsel"; and I resolved to play up to the rle.  So I
gave Dr. Grundt a soulful look and, playing with my handkerchief, said
rather sniffily: "It was very silly of me, I know.  But I promised Dr.
von Hentsch to go straight back to London; and I didn't want him to
know I'd stopped in Berlin...."

Clubfoot grunted.  "So?  And why did you stay in Berlin, may I ask?"

I dabbed my eyes.  "A friend of mine was coming up from Schaltz this
afternoon.  I'd promised to dine with him...."

The big man clicked chidingly with his tongue: you know, the noise that
Nursie makes to a naughty child.

"Very foolish.  Who was this friend?"

"One of the officers from Schlatz...."

He laughed drily.  "So I imagined.  What's his name?"

I hesitated.  "It won't get him into trouble, will it?"

"A Prussian officer would know better than to make himself accessory to
a falsification of documents...."

"Must I give the name?"

"Certainly, if you wish me to verify your story."

"It was Lieutenant Linz," I said.

He made a note on a block.  "And where did you dine?"

"At Schippke's...."

I spoke without thinking.  Not that I could have avoided answering the
question!  But I felt I had blundered when I saw his hand, playing with
the pencil, suddenly become motionless, though the expression on his
face never changed.  He knew, I remembered then, that the Pellegrini
was at Schippke's: he had telephoned her there.  Never mind, I could
count on the fair Floria not to give me away....

He made another note and ripped the sheet from the block.  He must have
rung some concealed bell, for the door opened without warning.  The
messenger was the man with the bloodless face and huge, tawny moustache
who had accompanied him that morning to Bale's.  He took the slip
without speaking and disappeared.

There was a little silence in the room.  Clubfoot's hairy hand dipped
into a cigar-box on the desk.  I have never seen the simple operation
of lighting a cigar performed with such an air of ferocity.  It was an
enormous cigar, and there was something tigerish about the way his
strong teeth fastened upon it and bit off the end which he spat,
disgustingly, far into the room.  He emitted a deep grunt of
satisfaction as, having lit up, he lolled back in his chair and blew a
cloud of smoke into the air.

"So you wanted to dine with your officer friend, eh?" he remarked, and
with a thrill of hope I noticed that his tone was quite jocular.
"Well, well, perhaps there's some excuse for you.  Splendid young men,
our Prussian lieutenants, nicht wahr, Frulein?"

I murmured I thought they were very nice.

"And so the Herr Leutnant took you to Schippke's, did he, the dog!" he
observed waggishly.  "A young German girl would not dine alone there
with a man.  Liebes Frulein, aren't you a little unconventional?"

"Herr von Linz is a gentleman," I rejoined.  "Besides, we are used to
our liberty in England...."

He smiled his grim smile.  "Evidently...."  With a thoughtful air he
shook the ash from his cigar into the waste-paper basket.  "Some of
your compatriots are inclined to be promiscuous in the choice of their
gentlemen friends.  Only to-day I heard of a young English girl being
seen here in Berlin in company with a notorious criminal at one of the
lowest haunts in the city, the resort of thieves and..."

He broke off as, without warning, the door facing him opened.  A stout
woman, with a pasty face, stood irresolute on the threshold.
Clubfoot's hot and savage eyes seemed to burn holes right through me as
he looked at me and from me to the door.

"Don't stand there like a fool!" he roared at the woman.  "Come in,
verdammt, and tell me if this is the girl you saw this morning!"

The woman closed the door behind her gingerly, and stepped into the
circle of light.

It was Frau Hulda from the Caf zur Nelke.

She had donned her finery for the street; a hard straw hat, a blue
feather boa, a short black jacket.  Her thin lips were pressed
together, her shifty eyes round with apprehension.

"Is this the girl?" snapped Grundt.

She nodded impressively.  "Jawohl...."

"You're sure...?"

Her glance swept me, contemptuous, from head to foot.

"I'd know her anywhere.  We wondered what she was doing in the caf in
her fine clothes with that low-down actor.  I said to the ladies who
work with me, after she and her feller had gone: 'Girls,' I said, 'as
God is my judge,' I said, 'she's...'"

But Grundt had heaved himself up and hobbled across to the window.
"Bartsch!" he called out into the night.

A voice spoke back: "Herr Doktor?"

"Stay beneath the window and keep your eyes open, verstanden?"

"Ist gut, Herr Doktor!"

Clubfoot slammed the window and turned about.  He pointed at me with a
commanding gesture.

"Search her!" he said to the woman.

I sprang forward, my every instinct in revolt.  "I won't have it,..." I
cried.

"Another word from you," rasped Grundt, rounding on me savagely, "and
I'll do it myself!"  He swung round to Frau Hulda.  "You've been in
gaol.  You know how it's done.  And don't overlook the linings!"

He limped cumbrously from the room.




67

The photograph


When I set out to write my story, I meant to put down each successive
phase of my adventure just as it happened.  But the feeling of nausea
which brought me nigh to fainting, as that evil harpy laid her damp and
pudgy hands on me, comes over me again now, more than four years after,
in the country peace of this dear land of ours, and I cannot bring
myself to think, much less to write, of that sickening ordeal...


And then Clubfoot was back again, leaning on his stick.  Frau Hulda had
stood away from me at last, and I was cowering back, as far away from
her as I could get, against the wall beside the window.  Grim and
silent, he surveyed us.

"Also ... nichts?" he said at length.

A servile smile spread over the woman's uneasy features.  "Nichts,
Herr!"

The misshapen boot thumped the floor as he took a pace towards the
desk.  "Get out!" he barked over his shoulder.

Frau Hulda cringed.  "If I might make so bold as to trouble the Herr
for my little expenses!  I took a droschke, so as not to keep the Herr
waiting.  And there's the fare back...."  She paused, expectant.

With a snarl he turned on her.  "Expenses, is it, you old hag?  Madame
must have her carriage, must she?  She shall have her carriage, too,
zum Donnerwetter, a beautiful green carriage, with a little cell all to
herself and the door locked, so that she can't fall out...."  He
chuckled unpleasantly and roared, "Hansemann!"  The pasty-faced man
appeared.  "Ring up the Tiergarten police station and tell them to
prepare the pink suite for the Frau Grfin...."

With a wailing cry the woman plumped down on her knees and held up her
hands in entreaty.  "Ach nein," she gibbered.  "Ich bitt' Sie, Herr..."

"Let them send for her at once,"--Clubfoot seemed to roll the order
upon his tongue, as though savouring an unusual dainty--"and telephone
to the Alexander-Platz: my compliments to the officer in charge, and he
should send the flying squad immediately to raid the Caf zur Nelke.
They know it at police headquarters: it's the Animier-Kneipe in the
Tauben-Strasse.  Take the slut away!"

The man grabbed Frau Hulda by the shoulders and ran her, blubbering and
lamenting, from the room.  Clubfoot dropped into his chair with a heavy
grunt.  "And now," he remarked, as he began to hunt among the papers
that littered the desk, "you and I will have a little talk, liebes
Frulein."  He glanced up from his search.  "But won't you sit down?"
He pointed to the chair beside him.

I had not moved from my place beside the window.  I was paralysed by
the disaster which had overtaken me.  Seeing that I remained still,
Grundt barked sharply: "Sit down!"  I obeyed.

He started to rummage among his papers again.  "I like spirit, jawohl,"
he observed reflectively, as though thinking aloud.  "But too much
spirit is a bad thing.  An arrogant spirit must be tamed.  Na ja, we
have our little methods.  So...!"  He disentangled a file from a pile
of folders and, spreading out his large right hand upon it, considered
me tentatively, while his fingers drummed on the drab cover.  He puffed
once or twice at his cigar, then said: "You've given me a great deal of
trouble to-day, liebes Frulein.  I'll pay you the compliment of
admitting that for quite a while I lost all track of you.  I won't deny
that luck was on your side.  If you'd gone to the Hotel Continental as
was, I understand, your original intention..."  He broke off.  "Not
that your change of plan would have made any difference if the triple
sheepshead whose duty it was to ... na,"--he grinned impishly--"to
escort you, shall we say, to Berlin, had carried out his
instructions...."

My nerve was coming back to me.  I began to realise how savagely angry
the indignity I had suffered at the hands of that disgusting woman had
made me.  I would not let this overbearing cripple frighten me....

"I changed my hotel," I replied cuttingly, "because I object to being
shadowed.  Particularly, when there's no reason for it...."

"No reason?"  Grundt's tone was mild as milk.  "Have you forgotten our
talk in the garden at Schlatz?"

I shrugged my shoulders.  "I can't help it if you won't believe I had
nothing to do with this English prisoner of yours...."

"Have I ever said I disbelieved you?"

"Your actions show that you do!"

He held up his great hand.  "Erlauben Sie!  You were a young girl,
unprotected, coming to Berlin.  If I accepted your assurance that you
had had nothing to do with the English criminal, Abbott, I had reasons
for thinking that there were others who would be less credulous than I,
associates of this man, accomplices.  It was my duty, mein Frulein, to
see that you did not fall into evil company."  He wagged his head
ponderously.  "I fear I have reached you too late...."

His voice was soft and purring.  He made me think of a great cat
playing with a mouse.  But this time I did not deceive myself.  In a
minute he would show his claws, and then, God help me!  But what and
how much did he know?  And what surprise was he waiting to spring on me?

The file under his hand held the secret, whatever it was, I felt
certain.  He was opening the folder now.  A photograph lay on top of
the papers it contained.  Grundt took the photo, glanced at it for an
instant, then placed it, tantalisingly, face downwards on the desk.

"To spare you useless denials," said Clubfoot, "I will tell you what
happened this morning.  You called at Frau Hulda's cosy little caf in
the Tauben-Strasse and asked for an individual who calls himself Max
Held, but who is also known by the nickname of 'The Count.'  This man
was seen no later than this morning in an office he frequents next door
to the caf, the office of a man..."--he shot me a glance out of the
corner of his eyes--"named Bale.  Bale claims to be a theatre agent.
But the police suspect him of being a receiver of stolen goods.  Do you
begin to see the connection?"

"I can't say I do," I retorted, affecting an indifference I was far
from feeling.

"Na, schn!  Let me take my story--your story--a stage further.  At the
caf you ask for Max.  He is not there.  You wait for him.  There's a
little trouble about the bill as you have lost your purse.  But then
Max appears.  He pays the reckoning, and you go off together.  These
are proved facts.  You're"--he cackled his dry laugh--"you're not going
to deny them, I trust?"

I was speechless.  With a smirk Grundt picked up the photograph he had
taken from the file, glanced at it briefly and handed it to me.  "Here
you are...."

It was one of those grim rogues'-gallery portraits seen on handbills
outside police-stations, in three parts, the full face, and the side
face, viewed from the left and the right.  At first glimpse my spirits
soared, for I thought I was looking at the likeness of some German
criminal whose identity Nigel Druce had assumed, perhaps of that Max,
the drug-seller, of whom Ottilie at the caf had spoken, who was in
Moabit gaol.  As a portrait it was crude, as all such photographs are,
flat and unlifelike; but when I looked closer I saw that the face was
the face of Nigel Druce.  His mien was haggard and bitter and
miserable; but the eyes, still proud, still uncowed, were unmistakable.
It was obviously a police photograph--a reference number was scratched
on the plate at the foot: I wondered why Druce had not told me that he
had been in the hands of the German police.

Clubfoot chuckled.  "Well," he said jovially, "do you recognise your
beau chevalier?  Scotland Yard isn't so well equipped for this sort of
work as we are; but Frau Hulda declares it's an excellent likeness...."

"Scotland Yard?" I repeated dully.

Grundt turned the photograph over.  His forefinger stubbed at a
time-stamp encircled with an inscription: "C.I.D., New Scotland Yard."
Below it was an undecipherable scrawl in German.

"Come, come!"--Clubfoot's strident voice broke in upon my
stupefaction--"You're not going to pretend you didn't know that your
Max Held was an Englishman?  But perhaps he didn't enlighten you as to
his career.  Here...!"

He dipped into the folder and drew out a sheaf of newspaper cuttings
pasted on to sheets of paper.  There were headlines: "Country House
Theft: Officer Charged": "The Bandon Chase Robbery: Defence Opened":
"Twelve Months for an Army Officer: Judge's Scathing Address": and
columns of print that swam, as I tried to read, before my eyes.  But a
name stood out, the name of the prisoner.  It was Nigel Marston-Gore.

Grundt took the cuttings from my lifeless hands.  "You needn't read all
that.  If you follow the newspapers at all, you must remember the case.
This fellow what's-his-name--na, verdammt, these English names are
beyond me--stole a gold cup from the collection of his host, Sir ...
Sir ... nanu, read it for yourself..."  His broad nail underlined a
name: Sir Charles Whirter.  "A nice scandal for the British Army!" he
went on.  "But they cashiered him.  See...."  He turned over the sheets
until he had found the cutting he wanted.  He handed it to me.  The
words zigzagged this way and that as I tried, blindly, to piece
together their meaning: "_The 'London Gazette' announces ... conviction
by the civil power ... dismissed His Majesty's service_."

I sat there staring stupidly at the cutting.  I was vaguely aware of
Clubfoot rustling the papers as he replaced them in the file.  His
harsh voice sounded through the quiet room: "This scoundrel, Abbott, to
abuse the confidence of a charming young girl!  It was he who put you
in touch with this English gaol-bird, nicht wahr?  He told you where
the paper was hidden; and you recovered it and gave it to his
accomplice.  That was the way of it, _was_?"

He drew my gaze.  I looked up to find his hard, fierce face eagerly
thrust forward, his eyes glittering behind the big spectacles, his
strong hands clutching the arm of his chair, as though he were about to
spring at me and claw the truth from my throat.  Then came an
interruption.  Hansemann's pallid countenance appeared in the doorway.
He displayed a slip of paper.

Grundt swung round to face the intruder.  Anger blazed in his face.
"Get out!" he ordered savagely.  "And don't interrupt me again!"

The man wavered and held up the slip.

"Not now," roared Clubfoot.  "Spter..."

But before Hansemann could withdraw he was rudely elbowed aside, and
Rudi von Linz stormed into the room.




68

In which I am unpleasantly reminded of an unimportant personage


"Olivia," the boy exclaimed breathlessly, "I came the moment I received
your message...."

"I'm glad you're here, Rudi," I said.  "But I sent you no message...."

"Strange!  They brought word to me at Schippke's that you had
telephoned for me to come on immediately to this address.  It was most
urgent, they said.  But what's happened?  How did you get here?"  The
charming face was full of solicitude: as the result of Frau Hulda's
mauling, I suppose I did look a bit ruffled.  Seeing that I made no
reply, he glared provocatively at Clubfoot.  "Has this fellow been
annoying you?  And what have you done with the..."

Behind the desk Grundt, as motionless, as grotesquely forbidding as one
of those strange island images of the Pacific, was contemplating the
intruder in a silence more oppressive than the airless summer night.
The very atmosphere seemed impregnated with the menace of that black
and icy stare.  But now he spoke, and his bass growl struck terror into
my heart.  "Who are you?" he demanded, bending his bushy eyebrows at
the young officer.  "And what the devil do you mean by forcing my door?"

The boy stiffened to attention and, clicking his heels, outlined a
perfunctory bow.  "Lieutenant von Linz, Fifth Regiment of Foot Guards,
attached to the 56th Infantry at Schlatz," he announced, introducing
himself in the German fashion.  "And," he added sternly, "you will have
the goodness to remember, Herr, that you are addressing an officer!"

Clubfoot's face relaxed, and a flicker of interest stole into the wary
eyes.  He laughed noiselessly.  "So, so, the _flirt_ of the English
Miss?" he said, with gentle raillery.  "Well, with the greatest
possible respect I must request the Herr Leutnant to oblige me,"--of a
sudden his tone was harsh and commanding again--"by removing his
high-well-born presence from my study this instant.  You can wait in
the ante-chamber," he rasped.  "I'll ring when I want you...."

Rudi's face flamed, and I saw his gloved hand flash to his left side,
where the hilt of his sword made a bulge below the slim waist-line of
his long military frock.  You must remember that Prussian officers, as
Rudi had often explained to me, were not only permitted but, under the
military Code of Honour, also compelled, to use their swords against
civilians who showed disrespect for the King's uniform.  "Herr..."  he
cried threateningly.

"No brawling here!" Clubfoot thundered.  "Why, you poor worm, don't you
know who I am?"  His great chest seemed to swell.  "I," he boomed, and
his deep voice seemed to linger on the pronoun, "I am Dr. Grundt!"

Rudi laughed contemptuously.  "Highly honoured!  But for all I care,
your name may be Lehmann or Schultze, like every second person in this
town.  What is certain is that you're either mad or drunk...."  He
turned to me.  "Come on, Olivia, I'll take you home."

"A little moment, if you please," Clubfoot intervened in velvety tones.
He lifted the receiver from the telephone that stood on the desk.  "The
Fifth Foot Guards is your regiment, I think you said?"  He spoke
briskly into the instrument.  "Official.  Frulein, give me Potsdam!  I
want the house of Major-General von Kessel ... jawohl, the Commander of
the Guards Corps...."

I saw Rudi's face change.  There was rather a long pause, then Clubfoot
at the telephone said: "Is that you, Excellency?  Dr. Grundt here.
Good evening!  I have with me one of your young officers.  Would your
Excellency be good enough to tell him who I am?  Your Excellency is too
kind...."

A brusque movement of the bullet head signed to Rudi to approach.  With
a perfectly impassive face the boy went forward and took the receiver.
"Leutnant von Linz, Fifth Foot Guards, speaking."  His voice was
metallic, military.  "Zu Befehl, Excellenz...."  There was a moment of
stillness in the room.  Clubfoot sprawled back in his chair,
complacently smoking his cigar, his head cocked at the ceiling.  The
silent attendant loomed large in the dim background, guarding the door.

There was a little click as Rudi restored the telephone receiver to its
hook.  The action was listless.  He had his back to me, and it looked
dejected, as though all the spring had gone out of that elegant figure.
As he turned half round, I caught sight of his face.  It was ashen.

He glanced hesitatingly towards the man at the desk.  "I ... I owe the
Herr Doktor an apology," he stammered.  "I ... I had no idea ... I've
been so long away from Berlin.  I was upset when I arrived, on account
of Miss Dunbar.  When I found that she had left the restaurant, I
naturally assumed ... Gott, the Herr Doktor knows the Prince's
reputation...."

Clubfoot frowned and bared his yellow teeth, clamped upon the stump of
his cigar.  "Do you mind telling me what you're talking about?" he said
icily.

The boy floundered.  "I ... I thought the Prince had brought her here
against her will.  That message to me..."

"I sent it," Grundt snapped.  "And who might this Prince be?"  He
glanced at me.  "Or perhaps Miss Dunbar will..."  He broke off
suddenly, and sat up in his chair with a jerk.  I knew what was coming.
It was as though I was looking into the mechanism of that rapid brain,
cog moving cog, setting in motion a progression of thought: Schippke's,
the Pellegrini, the Prince, myself....

From under his overhanging eyebrows, as he crouched, with head bent
forward in thought, at the desk, Clubfoot balefully mustered the young
officer.  "Not ... not Prince Karl-Albrecht?" he queried softly.

"Jawohl...."

Grundt's fingers hammered softly upon the blotter.  "Do I understand
that His Highness dined with the lady and yourself?"

"No...."

"He joined you after dinner, then?"

Rudi looked at me uncomfortably.  "I think Miss Dunbar can answer that
question better than I can."

"Possibly," was Clubfoot's imperturbable rejoinder.  "But I'm asking
you.  We'll hear the lady later."

The boy made a helpless gesture of the hands.  "I didn't see the Prince
myself.  I had to leave after dinner.  Colonel Westfried, who was being
entertained in one of the private rooms, sent for me...."

"His Highness's Commanding Officer, do you mean?"

"Colonel Westfried has been promoted to command the regiment.  The
officers of his old battalion, the 2nd, in which the Prince is serving,
gave him a farewell dinner to-night."

"At which, no doubt, His Highness was present?"

"They told me so, but I didn't see him.  But when, on leaving the
Colonel, I went to look for Miss Dunbar, the head waiter told me that
she had been sitting with the Prince.  Since they had both disappeared,
I naturally assumed..."  He broke off awkwardly, and looked towards me.
"You ... you were sitting with the Prince, weren't you?" he said.

The lamplight glinted on the lenses of Clubfoot's thick glasses as he
pivoted his glance round to me.  Behind the glitter his eyes were a
blank, but merely from the angle at which his head was canted I was
conscious of their suspicious scrutiny.  With an effort I pulled myself
together to meet this fresh development.  "Certainly," I rejoined,
addressing myself to Rudi.  "Your friend, the Baron, presented me...."

"A chance meeting, then?" said Grundt.

"Oh yes...!"

"And did the Baron present you to the lady, too?"

"What lady?"

"Was His Highness not accompanied by a lady?"

"No!"

I answered boldly, for now I was on firm ground, and with no less
boldness met the long, challenging stare that followed on my reply.

"When you left the restaurant, did the Prince go with you?" was
Clubfoot's next question.

"No!  I went alone.  The Prince remained behind...."

"Pardon me, Herr Doktor," Rudi put in, "but, since the Prince did not
leave with Miss Dunbar, he must have joined his ... na, the lady you
alluded to just now...."

"You saw her, then?"

"Only from the distance.  She came into the restaurant while we were
having dinner."

"Alone?"

"Jawohl!"

"And when you came back?"

"She was no longer there.  I presume she left with the Prince...."

Clubfoot emitted an enigmatic grunt and scribbled something on a block.
Tearing off the sheet, he held it up in his hand.  Hansemann stepped
out of the shadow and took the message.  "Wait!" Grundt ordered, as the
man was about to withdraw.  With a jerk of his thumb he indicated Rudi.
"This officer is not to quit the house without my permission.  He will
remain in the ante-chamber until I send for him."  He gave Rudi a
freezing stare.  "I'll deal with you later, my friend."  An almost
imperceptible move of the head dismissed the boy.

With an appealing glance at me, Rudi slowly followed the messenger out.


I found myself in two minds.  I could not help feeling that Druce had
abandoned me; and the evidence of that photograph had shaken me
terribly.  And yet, in spite of all, I clung to my faith in these two
friends and their story.  Now the moment had arrived for me to decide.
Was I to make a clean breast of it and tell the truth to this pitiless
inquisitor, or should I continue to pretend ignorance?  As long as the
Prince and his lady-love were kept out of it, the only thing I had to
explain away was Grundt's discovery of my meeting with Druce at the
caf.  Subconsciously, throughout the foregoing interview, my brain had
been busy trying to hit upon some story that would serve to account for
this embarrassing piece of evidence...

But Clubfoot was speaking, suavely bland once more.  This man's
unwearying persistence appalled me.  More than once, since I had been
in that room, I had seen a sort of berserker fury flame up in his eyes,
and that huge form rocked by a gust of primitive passion, like a great
oak shaken by the storm....  But to me he had scarcely raised his
voice.  There was something unspeakably sinister about his patient
politeness, his iron self-control.

"To err is human," he remarked sententiously.  "We all make mistakes.
But now that I have shown you the character of the men who took
advantage of your ... your ... inexperience and good nature, I trust,
liebes Frulein, that you will waste no more time, but tell me just
what this scoundrel, Abbott, said to you...."

I had chosen my part.  "Herr Doktor," I answered firmly, "I can only
repeat what I've told you already, that I did not see or speak with
this prisoner of yours...."

He made no sign save that, like a cat stretching its paws, he suddenly
flexed the fingers of his right hand as it rested on the blotter, and I
saw the blotting-paper sag under the tense pressure.  The heavy face,
however, remained as hard, as blankly unrevealing, as a block of ice.

"Then how did you happen to go to the caf and ask for this gaol-bird,
this Max?" he questioned evenly.

I can abridge the tale I had concocted, into which I now resolutely
plunged, for it was destined to be swept away almost as soon as it was
told.  It was thin, but it had the merit of being based on a fact of
which Grundt had independent evidence, the fact that I had lost my
purse.  I am afraid I stressed the helpless maiden rle pretty hard
while describing how, walking along the Tauben-Strasse, I missed my
purse and, thinking I had dropped it, went back to look for it.  I
introduced Nigel Druce as a casual passer-by who had helped me in my
search and, discovering that I was English, had offered to lend me the
sum necessary for my hotel bill and fare back to England.  I went on to
narrate how my unknown friend had proposed that I should wait for him
at the Caf zur Nelke while he went home to fetch the money.

Grundt made a note or two of my story, and at its close put a string of
questions to me--what time was it when I met the young man?--how much
money did he advance me?--where did we part and when?--to all of which
I made what seemed to me to be adequate replies.  But I was by no means
sure that he was convinced.  His air was restless and distrait, as
though he had no heart in the business, and it puzzled me.  He seemed
to be waiting for something.  Or somebody.

And then came the murmur of voices without and Hansemann's livid face
peered round the door.  On the instant Grundt bristled into life.
"Well?" he was fiercely eager.

"They hadn't come back," was the stolid rejoinder.

"Herr Gott!" Clubfoot roared, and his fist crashed down upon the desk.

"But I brought the maid along.  She knows something...."

"Die Zofe" was the German word he used to describe her, and "Zofe" in
German means a lady's maid.  In a flash I realised what had happened,
and grasped the full extent of the catastrophe which had overtaken me.
They had got hold of Hedwig, the Pellegrini's maid.  I had forgotten
Hedwig....

Clubfoot chuckled and ground his palms together softly.  "Send her in,
my good Hansemann, send her in!" he chortled.  He looked at me, and
there was the light of triumph in his face.




69

Hedwig


Outside a woman's voice was suddenly upraised in terror.  "_Nein, nein,
ich geh' nicht...._"  I heard her scream, there was the sound of a
scuffle, and a slight, girlish figure was almost flung into the room.

It was Hedwig.  She was still wearing the neat cap and apron, the
coquettish black skirt, in which I had seen her that morning:
obviously, Clubfoot's emissary had not given her time to put on a hat.
Inside the study, she brought up short, her small hands clasped tightly
in front of her, the pupils of her china-blue eyes distended with fear
and brimming over with tears.  She did not seem to notice me at first:
she was staring fixedly at Clubfoot who, with one hand laid across his
great gash of a mouth, surveyed her silently over the top of the desk.

"Herr Doktor," she began to wail forthwith, "I've done nothing.  I've
nothing to tell you...."  She wrung her hands in anguish.  "They
frightened me so, dragging me out like that in the middle of the night.
Please, Herr Doktor..." she held out her hands to him--"ach, please let
me go home now!"

As she spoke she took a pace forward and caught sight of me where I sat
in the chair beside the desk.  On the instant her features became rigid
in a dreadful expression of horror, her eyes and her mouth opened wide,
and her hands went up to her face, the fingers clawing her cheeks.  She
rocked on her feet.

"Look out," spoke Grundt casually, "she's going to faint!"  But
Hansemann had forestalled the warning.  He had sprung forward and
caught the girl in his arms as she toppled backwards.

I jumped up to go to her, but, with a brusque gesture of the hand,
Clubfoot stopped me.  "Stay where you are!" he snarled.  Hansemann had
deposited the maid in a chair, and now crossed to the desk to fetch the
carafe of water that stood there.  "Dowse her well!" Grundt bade the
man.  "Nothing like cold water for the vapours.  And here,"--he pulled
open a drawer and handed the man a flask--"give her a dram of this!"

"You _must_ let me go to her!" I cried indignantly.  But Grundt's vast
arm barred the way.  "Sit still, you!  Our good Hansemann is as tender
as a young mother.  He knows how to handle frightened folk.  He used to
be one of the State headsman's aides...."  He laughed noiselessly.
"See, the little lady's coming round famously....  Bring her over here,
mein Junger!  Chair and all, that's the style!"

Dripping with water, gasping and pallid, Hedwig lay back in the chair
which Hansemann gathered up in his muscular arms and set down beside
the desk.  Presently she opened her eyes.  The man held out to her a
glass with brandy.  But she waved it aside.  "I feel so bad," she
whimpered wearily.  "I want to go home."

But Grundt leaned forward in his chair and thrust his beetling jowl in
her face.

"Not until you've answered my questions."  He moved his head in my
direction.  "You know this lady, I think?"

The maid shrank back in her chair.  "Nein, nein...."

"You've seen her before!  Where was it?"

But Hedwig covered up her face with her hands.  "Nein, nein!  I don't
know her.  Please let me go home...."

"Not before you've told the truth...."

The girl's hands fell away.  Her face was ghastly.  "To-morrow!  I will
tell you anything I can to-morrow.  But now, _please_..."  Her head
drooped suddenly.

"This is inhuman!" I burst out.  "Can't you see the girl's half dead
with fright?"  But as again I tried to rise that enormous arm shot out
and pinned me, like a bar of iron, in my chair.

"Answer me, you!"  Clubfoot's free hand went out and his broad fingers
wrapped themselves about the slim young throat.  He shook the swooning
girl brutally.  "The truth, you lying slut!"  He fleshed his teeth and
ground them together, while little beads of foam bubbled at the corners
of his mouth.  "I'll knock sense into you, if I have to bang your head
against the wall," he roared, his features distorted with rage.  "You
know this smooth-tongued English jade: I saw it in your face, the
moment you clapped eyes on her.  Where did you meet her?
Himmelkreuzsakrament, will you answer me?"

He moved his arm to reach for the carafe, and I, seizing my
opportunity, slipped out of my chair and placed myself between him and
his victim.  "This sort of thing has gone on long enough," I cried, my
fear for the moment forgotten in the blazing anger that carried me
away.  "Let the girl alone!  I can tell you what you want to know...."

"I'll hear no more lies from you," he raged, and hauled himself out of
his seat.  "You've found your tongue too late.  Stand aside!"  His
enormous arm cleaved the air and swept me from his path.  With his
other hand he dashed the water remaining in the carafe into Hedwig's
face.

The girl moaned, stirred, and finally sat up.  Grundt's hands clapped
themselves upon her shoulders.  "Answer me!" he commanded.  "Where have
you seen this Englishwoman before?"

"Don't make me say!" wailed the maid.  "The gndige Frau made me swear
I wouldn't tell ... I shall lose my place...."

"Answer...!"

Hedwig closed her eyes.  "At the apartment," she said huskily.

"When?"

"This morning...."

"What was she doing there?"

      *      *      *      *      *

Bit by bit he dragged the truth from her.  She must have been listening
at the door all through my interview with the Prince.  Apparently she
had not overheard the brief allusion to the gramophone; at least, if
she had, she did not mention the incident to Clubfoot: the only ray of
light I could discern on my black and hopeless horizon.

I stood aloof while Grundt, barking out question upon question,
gradually pieced the story together.  The Prince, it appeared, had
dressed and left the flat while Pellegrini was closeted with Clubfoot
in the salon.  They had discovered my disappearance, Hedwig said, only
after Grundt had gone.

"And your mistress forbade you to say anything to any one about the
Englishwoman's visit?" asked Clubfoot.

"Jawohl, Herr Doktor!"

"To me also, nicht wahr?"

A pause.  Then a scarcely audible, "Jawohl!"

"Why?"

The maid hesitated.

"She told you," he prompted, "that it would get her into trouble with
me, wasn't that it?"

Hedwig cast an uneasy glance about her.  Her whispered "Yes!" was like
a smothered sob.

"Then why didn't she send this Englishwoman about her business when she
first saw her?

"I ... I don't know, Herr Doktor!"

"Don't you dare tell me any more lies!" he screeched.  "Wasn't it
because your mistress was not aware, until I told her, that this girl
was a friend of the Englishman Abbott?"

The maid was twining and untwining her fingers in an agony of
apprehension.  "I ... I can't..."

"Herr Gott," vociferated the cripple, "you'd better mind yourself!  I'm
going to have the truth if it means plucking your false tongue out by
the roots.  Answer my question!"

"It may be so," was the sullen rejoinder.

"So?"  He cleared his throat raucously.  "And did this man, Abbott,
ever visit your mistress at the apartment?"

Hedwig clasped her hands together.  "Herr," she implored in a trembling
voice, "let the gndige Frau reply to that question herself!  I ... I
told a falsehood to your man just now.  I said I didn't know where she
was.  But I will tell you.  She has gone to His Highness's suite at the
Atlantic.  If you go there you'll find her, and you can ask her
yourself...."

Clubfoot leaned forward.  "Did this man, Abbott, ever visit your
mistress at her flat?" he repeated, with deadly emphasis.

"Urn Gottes Willen, Herr Doktor..."  She wrung her hands in a frenzy.

"Answer the question!"

She bowed her head in affirmation.

I heard Grundt draw in his breath with a hissing sound, saw how his
tufted nostrils opened and shut.  Behind their thick glasses his eyes
seemed to distend.  The nails of his left hand, which rested on the
blotting-paper, blindly clawed at the topmost sheet till it became
detached and was crumpled up in that huge palm.  His whole body shook:
I could see how the livid cheeks, shadowed by a black stubble, and
heavy as a mastiff's, trembled.

"The last time," he said in a rapid, croaking voice, "when was it?"

"It was a Sunday.  About a fortnight ago...."

"The night he was arrested, nicht wahr?"

The maid gave a frightened nod.

"Tell me...."

"He came in the evening to fetch the gndige Frau out to dinner.  He
was to spend the night...."

"How long was he there?"

"Not long, a little quarter of an hour.  The gndige Frau was
practically ready.  She had only to put on her cloak...."

"Where did he wait?"

"In the salon...."

"Alone...?"

"Jawohl, Herr Doktor!"  Grundt's enormous fist tight balled, was
pounding his knee.  "But," the girl went on, "the English Herr didn't
spend the night at the flat, after all.  The gndige Frau came back
alone.  And when I asked her what had become of Herr Abbott, she told
me he had had to leave Berlin suddenly...."

The man at the desk remained silent.  "Did another Englishman ever
visit your mistress?  Either before or after Abbott went away?" he
asked presently.

"Nein, Herr...."

He gazed at her abstractedly.  "Is this true?"

"As God is my judge, Herr Doktor.  Herr Abbott was Madame's only
English friend."

There was another pause.  Then Clubfoot stood up suddenly.
"Hansemann," he called, "my hat and coat.  And tell Heinrich I want my
car.  Send this woman"--he indicated Hedwig--"home in a taxi.  She"--he
jerked his head in my direction--"is coming with us.  You, too, and
Freytag.  Let Meyer remain here on duty.  If there should be any urgent
message for me, I shall be at the Hotel Atlantic, Prince
Karl-Albrecht's suite."  He clapped his hands.  "Be quick!"

Hansemann padded away and returned with a bowler hat and a light
overcoat.  "The car is at the door, Herr Doktor!" he announced.  There
was a whispered conversation between him and Grundt, as he helped the
latter into his overcoat.

"True," said Clubfoot aloud, "I'd forgotten him.  Well, you can send
him in...."

By this he seemed to have regained his equanimity.  In fact, he began
to hum a little tune as he opened a drawer of the desk and took from it
a large black automatic.  He scrutinised the pistol carefully, nor did
he look up when Hansemann, reappearing, ushered in Rudi von Linz.

"Ach, Herr Leutnant," Clubfoot remarked, as he broke the pistol and
applied his eye to the barrel, "there was a question I wanted to ask
you.  Do you know why your friend, Miss Dunbar, left Schlatz so
suddenly?"

Rudi, who had been staring in blank astonishment at the spectacle of
Hedwig with her dank hair and the front of her dress all running with
water, started and looked at me.  "N... no," he faltered reluctantly.
"That is to say..."

"You are aware that she was asked to leave the town?" Grundt broke in.

"Yes..." he answered, after a pause.

"Do you know on what grounds?"

"I do!"

"In that case," said Clubfoot, snapping the breach of his pistol, "you
will be interested to hear that she is under arrest on a charge of
espionage...."

The boy gasped.  "Espio ... it isn't possible!"

"Just as possible," Grundt retorted, as he clipped the magazine of the
automatic into place, "just as possible as that an officer of His
Majesty's Foot Guards should have so far forgotten himself as to have
associated with and shielded a foreign spy...."

The boy was white to the lips.  "Herr Doktor," he declared tensely, "I
give you my word of honour as an officer..."

But, with a click of vexation, Clubfoot cut him short.  "I've no time
for idle excuses," he snarled.  "You will return to your quarters and
there await the Provost-Marshal of the Garrison.  And," he added, as he
delicately laid the pistol on the high top of the desk in front of him,
"I would suggest you employ the time in seriously considering your
position in the matter."  He bowed formally.  "Herr Leutnant,"--he
paused--"it is doubtless the last time I shall have the advantage of
addressing you by your military rank--ich empfehle mich."

Rudi drew himself up and, with a set face, marched up to the desk.  To
my intense surprise, he picked up the pistol and thrust it into the
pocket in the skirts of his military frock.  He bowed stiffly to
Grundt, and without even a glance at me, strode quickly out of the room.

"Take her down to the car," said Grundt, pointing at me.  Propping
himself on his stick, he led the way.




70

The reckoning


I have no proper recollection of that journey through the night save
that we drove at a breakneck speed, and that Grundt's scarlet racing
car had a peculiarly melodious horn on two notes.  We went so fast,
indeed, that within a minute or two of our leaving the villa, or so it
seemed to me, we were out of the car and passing through a turn-about
door into a very ornate marble and gilt hotel lobby.

A clock above the reception desk, where the night porter was writing in
a book, showed the hour to be a quarter to two.  Most of the lights
were extinguished, and a stunted old man in overalls was clanking about
with broom and pail.  The lobby was sunk in that exhausted hush which
reigns in busy places after the day's work is done.

Grundt hobbled up to the desk and, opening his overcoat, appeared to
show the porter some badge or emblem.  At any rate, the man presently
left his counter with considerable alacrity and crossed the vestibule
to the lift.  Clubfoot lingered to give an order to his two acolytes.
Then his fingers gripped my arm, guiding my hand to the outside pocket
of his overcoat.  I felt the outline of a pistol.

"When I shoot, I shoot straight," he hissed in a rasping undertone.
"You might bear that in mind, my fine lady.  Vorwrts!"  He gave me a
push.  His two men remained behind.  He and I moved to the lift alone.

We shot up into the warm quiet of the slumbering hotel and stepped off
in the dimness of a floor high above the street.  The night porter
wanted to escort us, but Clubfoot declared he would find the way alone.
As the gate rattled to and the brightly-lit cage dropped, down into the
stagnant darkness, such a sensation of terror-stricken loneliness as I
have never known assailed me.  But Grundt's steely fingers fastened
about my arm and hustled me forward along the softly-carpeted corridor.
A weary-looking waiter in a white coat, carrying a tray of empty
champagne bottles, padded by.  The jingle of a piano, the murmur of
voices, raised in discordant song, drifted round the turn of the
passage.  A drunken voice, uplifted above the rest, was bawling:

  "_Bis frh um fnfe, kleine Maus,_
    _Da geh'n wir sicher nicht nach Haus,_
  _Bis dass der Hahn...._"


Clubfoot had stopped in front of one of the long line of
white-enamelled doors and, without knocking, flung it violently open.

Within the room a sea of faces swam in a blue pall of tobacco smoke.
It was a small salon, vulgarly pretentious with very bright gilt
furniture and mauve upholstery and curtains, and ablaze with light from
a huge crystal chandelier in the centre, and electric candles set in
golden sconces round the panelled walls.  The air was almost
unbreathable with the aroma of tobacco, the fumes of spilled wine, and
the cloying, sickly emanations of warm liquid white, grease-paint and
perfume.

For there were women in the company of the round half-dozen officers
who were taking their ease in His Highness's suite--three or four of
them at least.  One, a young thing, with pert, childish features, was
perched on top of the piano, a uniform cap cocked at an impudent angle
on her golden curls: another, much older, with a harlot's hard face,
giggled drunkenly as she sat on an officer's knee.  And the Pellegrini
was there too, installed on the Louis Seize settee beside the Prince,
who had an arm about her milky neck and his face buried in her
resplendent hair.  There were bottles everywhere; on the centre table,
on chairs, on the ground; bottles and glasses and brimming ash-trays.

The piano ceased abruptly on our intrusion.  But the drunken voice we
had heard went dithering on, raucous as a raven's:

  "_Bis frh um fnfe, kleine Maus,_
    _Da geh'n wir sicher nicht..._"


"Ruhe!" roared Clubfoot, and thrust me into the midst of them.

The pianist, a gorgeous figure in a tunic of scarlet and gold, swung
round on his stool.  I recognised the Hussar with the saturnine face I
had seen with the Prince at Schippke's.  When his eye fell on us, "Shut
up, Helmuth!" he called out to the singer, who was the man with the
girl on his knee, and no other, I perceived, than my friend, the Baron,
who had presented me to the Prince.  He seemed to be stupefied with
drink; but he broke off with his song.  Gradually, as the consciousness
of the presence of that brawny figure, looming portentous in the
doorway, penetrated through the befuddled wits, silence fell upon the
company.

The Hussar, who was the only one to appear comparatively sober, was the
first to speak.  "Du mein lieber Gott!" he ejaculated blankly, staring
at Grundt.

"Mind yourself, Ulrich, he's got a writ!" a voice cried facetiously.

The girl on the piano, who had been mustering me with owlish solemnity,
screeched suddenly: "Ach je, and I owe three weeks' rent!"

"A bailiff, pfui deibel!" ejaculated a plump blonde, who sat on the
floor with her head in an officer's lap.  "Chuck him in the bath,
Hoheit, chuck him in the bath!"

A delighted roar greeted this sally.  It was the Prince who quelled it.
The Pellegrini had sprung up and, thus violently parted from his
lady-love, the portly youth had struggled to his feet, and was now
eyeing Grundt with every sign of the liveliest concern.  He pawed the
air with his hand.  "Quiet, Kinder!" he bade.  With unsteady gait he
moved a pace towards Grundt who, hat on head, and leaning on his stick,
morosely contemplated the scene from the door.  "Herr Doktor," he
articulated, rather thickly, "I am delighted."  Then he saw me and
repressed a start.  I noticed how his glance swiftly travelled to the
Pellegrini's face.  "Lieber Herr Doktor," he went on cajolingly, "you
will join us, I trust.  Permit me to make you acquainted with my
guests..."  He swallowed a hiccough and smiled foolishly round the
circle.

"Your Highness will have the goodness to send your guests away," said
Clubfoot, brisk and firm.  "I wish to speak to you alone...."

"I wo," the Prince tittered, "they don't matter.  All good friends of
mine, Herr Doktor.  Sit down, man, and have some champagne."

With an exclamation of impatience, Clubfoot flashed a rapid glance
round the room.  His eye fell upon the gaudy Hussar who, sprawling back
against the piano, with his elbows on the keyboard, was watching him
out of a grave, impassive face.  Grundt made a sign, and at once the
officer rose up obediently and came forward.

"You remember me, Herr Graf?" said Clubfoot in an undertone.

"Gewiss, Herr Doktor!"  The Hussar was all deference.

"We met over the Hohenau affair, I think?"

"Stimmt, Herr Doktor!"

"Oblige me by getting rid of this rabble!"

"Willingly, Herr Doktor!"

He bowed stiffly and turned to face the room.  "Come on, Kinder!" he
cried.  "The party's over!"

A chorus of protest arose but, albeit with some difficulty, he
shepherded them all into the adjoining bedroom, where evening wraps and
service caps and swords were piled in a heap on the bed.  As the
Pellegrini rose to follow them, Clubfoot called out sharply: "Not
you...."

I saw her lip go out in pouting rebellion.  But he pointed imperiously
to the sofa, and she sat down, cowed and sullen, her green eyes
watchful and uneasy.

When the last of the party had trooped out, Grundt shut the door and
the clamour of their voices in the corridor died away.  The Prince had
drawn up a chair to the table, and was wetting a napkin with
Giesshbler water and dabbing his forehead.  Dragging his misshapen
foot over the carpet, Grundt limped up to the table.

"Prince," he said, "before leaving on his Norwegian cruise, His
Majesty, my Imperial master, entrusted to me the investigation of a
grave affair of espionage.  It will be my unpleasant duty to report to
His Majesty that your Highness is one of the persons implicated...."

The Prince giggled and looked up from his toilette.  "Some of those
fellows put you up to this, I'll be bound," he remarked, with a knowing
air.  "I saw you confabbing, with old Ulrich.  But I'm not so drunk as
all that"--he wagged his head clownishly--"nee, nee, mein Junger...."

"This is no joking matter, Prince," Clubfoot retorted sternly.  "Were
you aware that this lady here"--he pointed with his stick at the woman
on the sofa--"was the mistress of a notorious English Secret Service
agent, a man called Abbott?"

With her green eyes flaming, the Pellegrini thrust herself between
them.  "It's an infamous lie," she cried, bringing her hand down with a
crash on the table.  "Don't listen to him, Karlchen!  He's only trying
to make mischief between us...."

Peevishly the Prince drew down the corners of his mouth.  With a
nervous gesture he began to brush away some fragments of cigar ash from
the front of his tunic.  "Erlauben Sie, Herr Doktor," he observed, with
pompous irritation.  "Your accusation is ... na, a direct reflection
upon my honour...."

"Oh," exclaimed the woman, with an expression of extreme disgust, "is
that all you find to say...?"

The Prince scowled at Grundt and tried to look fierce.  "You ... you
forget yourself!" he said in a very loud voice.

Clubfoot bowed.  "Possibly, Prince.  But I do not forget my duty to
Your Highness.  And my duty is to prevent this wanton creature..."

The woman stamped her foot.  "Oh," she gasped in a furious voice, "this
is too much!"

The Prince rose up, oversetting his chair.  "Enough!" he squealed
indignantly, "I will not sit here and allow you to..."

But Grundt's harsh voice spoke on inexorably: "... to prevent this
wanton creature from making a public laughing-stock of Your Highness!"

Tortured as I was with anxiety, I could not help admiring the supreme
adroitness of this approach.  The princely vanity was flicked on the
raw.  I saw the flabby youth colour up and shoot an uneasy glance at
his mistress who, pale and pleading, faced him across the table.  She,
leaning forward, cried out in accents strangled by tears: "Send this
man about his business, Karlchen!  Can't you see through his game?
I've never told you before, but he's been pestering me for months.  He
swore he'd ruin me because I turned him down...."

This bold counter-attack won her a temporary advantage.  The duel of
wits was beginning to fascinate me.  On its outcome, I realised, my
safety depended.  The Pellegrini was quick and full of pluck, that was
clear.  But was she a match for her terrible adversary?  And how would
she parry the deadly blow he had in store, Hedwig's evidence, a
veritable _coup de Jarnac_?  The Prince clenched his fists and advanced
menacingly on Clubfoot, his small eyes alight with spite.  "You'd
dare...?" he muttered thickly.

Grundt's big teeth flashed golden as he bared them in a noiseless
laugh.  "Clever," he crooned, "but not clever enough.  As you will
discover, Prince, if you will let me finish what I have to say."  He
swung round, and, pointing an accusing finger at me, "Will Your
Highness take a look at this young person," he said, "and tell me if
you have seen her before?"

How like the man!  I might have known that Clubfoot would always regard
attack as the best means of defence.  Of a sudden the Pellegrini became
oddly still.  The Prince, pinned down by Grundt's merciless regard,
gave me a reluctant glance, and then his eyes signalled a mute question
to the Pellegrini.  But she left him to flounder alone, affecting to be
busy with the fastening of one of her emerald ear-rings.

Karl-Albrecht shrugged his shoulders.  "I ... I can't really say
offhand," he rejoined, with elaborate indifference.  "Where should I
have seen her?"

"This morning, at Frau von Pellegrini's flat," was the prompt answer.
"And again to-night at Schippke's."  His voice was a sing-song, as
though he read from a list.  "And each time _en tte  tte_," he added.

His Highness wilted.  He became defiant, like a child caught fibbing.
"Well, and what of it?" he demanded sulkily.

"Only that this Englishwoman is a spy in the British service...."

The Prince's fat face went a vivid scarlet.  He cast an indignant
glance at the Pellegrini.  The instinctive movement did not escape
Clubfoot.  "Na, ja," he remarked softly, "I, too, am wondering why she
didn't tell you!"

"Because I didn't know it," the Pellegrini exclaimed angrily.

"Then why, meine Gndige," was the swift riposte, "did you especially
warn His Highness not to mention to me his meeting with the
Englishwoman at your flat?"

If this was a blind thrust, and I think it was, it pressed her hard.  I
could see how she gathered up all her wits to parry it.

"It was to protect you, Karlchen," she made answer in a low voice,
gazing sentimentally at the Prince.  "Whatever Dr. Grundt may think,
you cannot afford to have your name dragged into an affair of this
kind."  Boldly she faced the cripple.  "That's why, if you want to
know,"--she flung the words defiantly at him---"I said nothing to you
about this girl's visit.  And because I had kept it from you, I
requested His Highness not to mention it...."

Upright beside the table, his knee slightly bent to ease the weight of
that monstrous boot, Grundt lowered at her.  "So," he murmured through
his set teeth, "you thought you'd hoodwink me, did you?"

"She was perfectly right," primly announced the Prince.  "Of course I
can't be mixed up in an espionage scandal, as you ought to know...."

There was jubilation in the Pellegrini's lovely face.  But I divined
that it was premature.  Unshaken, Clubfoot returned to the charge.
"Did the gndige Frau confide to you, Prince, that she was in the habit
of supplementing Your Highness's generosity in pecuniary matters by
rendering certain small services to me?"

The question rang bitterly ironical.  It acted on the Prince like a
goad, for he sat up suddenly and said: "Is this true, Floria?"

She began to whimper.  "I couldn't help myself.  He threatened me...."

With an imprecation Karl-Albrecht flung himself violently back in his
chair.  "It's incredible.  Do you mean to say that all this time you've
been spying for him?"

She uttered a frightened wail.  "Not against you, Karlchen.  On my word
of honour...."

"Ach, Quatsch!" he said roughly.  "You know that everything he hears
goes straight back to His Majesty.  It's ... it's an outrage," he
stammered.  "You must be mad...."  He relapsed into a gloomy silence.

"The gndige Frau has proved herself one of my most valued aides,"
Grundt observed, quick to seize the advantage.  "Why, only the other
day she was instrumental in securing the arrest of a dangerous British
spy...."  He made a deliberate pause.  "One Abbott.  Did Frau Floria
never speak of him?"

"No," answered the Prince curtly.

"So, so...."  The exclamation was as soft as a sigh.  "And yet he was a
great friend of Madame's.  They were at supper together at the Mascotte
the night we arrested him.  A Sunday night, Prince, the 5th of July.
If I remember rightly,"--he affected to be absorbed in the scrutiny of
his nails--"Your Highness spent that week-end at home at Traubheim."

The Prince stirred himself from his lethargy.  "That's true,
certainly...."  He looked sharply across the table at the Pellegrini.
"Well, haven't you anything to say?"

Her resistance was ebbing away.  "Grundt forced me to act as decoy,"
she faltered.  "This man was nothing to me, Karlchen, I swear it.  A
mere acquaintance...."

Clubfoot cackled noisily.  "So slight an acquaintance," he jeered,
"that he used to spend the night with her during Your Highness's
absence...."

"It's not true," she cried, her voice rising to a shriek.  "Karlchen,
you don't believe that...."

"Don't you dare give me the lie!" stormed Grundt.  "I've got the
evidence of your own maid against you."  He swung round to the Prince.
"Why, the very night he was arrested this man had arranged to stay at
her apartment!  And because we'd put him out of harm's way, because he
couldn't perform the errand himself, he sent this accomplice of
his"--the crutch-stick described a circle in my direction--"to retrieve
what he had left behind."  His great paws landed with a crash on the
table as he lurched forward to thrust his jowl almost into the Prince's
face.  "You surprised this Englishwoman in the salon this morning.  Did
she seem to be looking for something?"

The young man jumped up in a pet.  "I'll answer no questions, do you
hear?  You've got to leave me out of this.  I ... I won't be dragged
in...."

"You won't be dragged in, won't you?" shouted Grundt, casting all
deference to the winds.  "Don't you realise you're in it up to the
neck?  I've only to go to that telephone there to send you up for
court-martial.  And I'll do it, too, if I have any more nonsense.  Now,
will you answer me?"

With a livid face the wretched youth dropped back into his chair.  "All
right, all right," he muttered feebly.

"What was the Englishwoman doing when you found her?" Grundt demanded.

"Nothing in particular...."

"Was she sitting, or standing, or walking about, or what?"

"She was sitting on the sofa....  Wait, there was something...."  He
put his hands to his head.  "Ach, ja, she said she had been looking
through the gramophone records...."

Clubfoot's face changed.  His eyes rolled, his nostrils twitched, and
he ground his teeth together.  A bellow of rage burst from his lips
and, raising his heavy stick, he brought it crashing down upon the
table, upsetting the bottles and shivering a glass.  Bottles and
glasses clattered to the floor as he snatched the stick away and,
swinging it over his head, plunged round the table, dragging his
twisted foot after him, straight at the Pellegrini.  "I'll have your
life for this!" he gibbered.  With a scream she covered her face with
her hands and cowered on the sofa.

At that moment there came a knocking at the door.

I don't think Grundt heard it.  Even as he towered above the sofa, with
his arm raised to strike, his paroxysm of fury seemed to pass.  He
lowered the stick, breathing hard.  "You shall answer to me later," he
muttered, and slowly swung his glance to me.  His eyes, staring and
bloodshot, had lost all human semblance: they were the eyes of an
infuriated man-ape.  He made a vague gesture of the hand.  "First, I'll
deal with you...."

He was coming at me when, for the second time, the door was discreetly
rapped.




71

Concerning a waiter and his tray


"Herein!" he trumpeted ragingly.  The door gaped, and I caught a
glimpse of a white coat in the corridor without.  "What is it?" Grundt
demanded irritably, and, without waiting for an answer, hobbled to the
door.

I heard a deferential voice say in German: "It's the waiter, Herr!
With His Highness's permission I was going to clear away...."

"Not now," cried Clubfoot.  "In the morning will do.  Go to the devil
and don't come back!"  And he made to shut him out.

"A moment, Herr, if you please," I heard the man reply.  "A gentleman
is downstairs asking for Frulein ... Frulein Dunbar.  He says she is
with His Highness.  The night porter asked me to take up the
message...."

I went cold with apprehension.  This was the crowning catastrophe.
Nigel Druce must have followed me.  But what could he be thinking of to
send up his name in this way.

I saw Grundt hesitate.  Then, "Did the gentleman give his name?" he
asked.

"Nein, Herr!"  Grundt seemed to reflect.

"You can send him up..." he began.  He glanced back into the room.
"Wait!" he ordered.  His fingers fumbled at the inside lock of the
door.  He withdrew the key and inserted it in the outside keyhole.
Then, turning round, he crooked his finger at me.  By the malicious
glee that shone in his eyes I knew he had the same thought as I.

"A gentleman to see you, my dear," he chortled as I came slowly
forward.  "Shall we go down and find out what he wants?"

He held the door for me, and passing out, I came face to face with the
waiter.

Just across the threshold he stood, a tray with a jug of water and some
glasses in his hands, his drill jacket very white in the rays of the
single electric lamp that burned a little way along the corridor.  I
had scarce time to identify the bright blue eyes that, for one instant
smiling, strove to kindle in mine a reflection of the brave flame that
burnt there, for, as I came forth, he slipped like a flash between me
and Clubfoot, who followed after, and, without the slightest warning,
hurled his tray, jug and all, full in the German's face.  I heard the
smothered roar with which Grundt reeled backwards merge in the clang of
metal, the crash of broken glass, to cleave with horrifying din the
night hush of the hotel.  Then the door slammed violently, there was
the click of the turning key, and a warm, firm hand grabbed my wrist.
"This is where we run!" spoke a comforting English voice in my ear....

Even as we sped along the corridor, Nigel Druce and I, the uproar of
Grundt's assault upon the door rang after us.  The handle was madly
rattled, a great fist beat a thunderous tattoo upon the panels, and a
furious shouting welled out above the hubbub, an outcry loud enough to
wake the dead.  But we left it behind us as, round a turn of the
passage, Druce whisked me through a shabby swing-door into a
service-room where, in his stride, as it seemed to me, he whipped off
his waiter's jacket and snatched up his own coat that lay on a table.
Hand in hand, we scuttled through another door on the far side.  It
gave on a staircase, stone-stepped and iron-railed, that dropped,
flight by flight, with gaunt monotony into a stuffy half-light redolent
of coke and decaying vegetables and vague backstair whiffs.  Three at a
time we took those stairs until we reached, at the bottom, a narrow
lobby with a time-recording machine and a time-keeper's box where, it
seemed to me, there was a movement and a shout as we streamed by.

But Druce never faltered.  Across the courtyard into which we burst, a
patch of gloom penned amid the soaring, window-studded walls of the
hotel, a pair of gates, folded back, opened on a dim, quiet street,
where an open touring car waited.  Here Druce let go my hand and sprang
into the driving-seat.  Even as I scrambled in beside him, a whistle
shrilled, a door banged, and excited voices and scampering feet rang
hollow in the narrow canyon we had quitted.  Then the protesting whirr
of the self-starter, swallowed up at once by the roar of the engine,
drowned all other sounds, and we shot away from the kerb.

At the end of the street we swung into a broad avenue where the
deserted tram-lines gleamed like silver under the swaying arcs.  The
square mass of the Hotel Atlantic rose like a cliff on our right, with
Clubfoot's scarlet car before the glass-canopied entrance, mirroring
its sidelights in the dark and shining asphalt.  The alarm had not yet
reached the front.  The big doors were shut for the night, and all was
still.

"We haven't much of a start," said Druce, and opened up the throttle.
"We'll have to make for the Tiergarten.  If they get after us promptly
we ought to be able to shake them off there.  Damnation!"  With a
violent jerk the car's pace was checked.  He clawed at the hand-brake,
bringing us to a dead stop.  They were washing the street.  Dim figures
in high boots, moving about on the fringes of the circle of light flung
by the arc-lamp beneath which we had halted, were sluicing the roadway
from a hose which, running on little pairs of wheels, barred the whole
breadth of the avenue.

Druce glanced over his shoulder.  "Down, quick!" he rasped at me.
"They're piling into the car...."  I crouched down in the driving-seat.
We were moving forward again, though at a mere crawl, for the
street-cleaners were dragging their hose to one side to give us
passage.  And then the way was free.  Once more my companion's foot
drove the accelerator home.

Gathering speed swiftly, we flashed into the first side street that
presented itself, taking the corner at a pace that made my heart stand
still.  Our axles hummed as, at the end, with a brusque turn of the
wheel, we swung to the left again and went roaring along a leafy
boulevard with imposing mansions on one side, a tan-spread ride and the
trees of a vast park on the other.  I think it must have been the
Tiergarten-Strasse, where the Berlin millionaires have their homes.  I
had no time to look for a name-plate, for almost at once we took a
right-hand turn to shoot down an avenue driven arrow-straight through
the heart of the park under an endless vista of milky arcs, strung out
like a necklace of pearls.  As, with a shiver, the car responded to the
throttle, I heard behind us, above the brave hammering of the engine,
the melodious call of a motor-horn, tu-tee, tu-tee....

All too well did I know what those two notes, one low, one high,
signified.  I glanced backward.  Behind us the avenue we were following
stretched bare and shining like a naked sword.  I turned to the man at
my side.  He was preoccupied with the driving for, at the speed at
which we were travelling, the car was rocking like a boat in a rough
sea, and his face was set: but the ghost of a smile lingered about his
lips.

"That's Clubfoot's car," I said.

He nodded, his eyes on the gleaming ribbon of road unwinding itself
between the trees.  "Can you see 'em yet?" he asked.

Once more I glanced behind.  Now a funnel of brilliant white light was
detaching itself without perceptible movement from the dark background.
As I watched, the beam seemed to grow brighter.

"Yes," I rejoined.  "And they're gaining on us, I think!"

"We'll have to double back on our tracks," he remarked.  A single
lamp-post in the centre of the road showed that we were approaching
some cross-roads.  "Hang on," he warned me, "it's a sharp turn...."

He tore at the wheel and held it grimly as we whizzed round a corner
and zig-zagged wildly down another avenue, narrower and more
sparsely-lit than the last.  The car picked up speed again and rushed
on, creaking and straining.  The wind whistled in my ears and tugged
madly at my hat.  For the third time I looked backward.  There was a
white luminosity in the sky, and even as I watched I saw that brilliant
path of light stand out once more in our rear.

"They're still on our heels," I said to Druce, and glanced behind
again.  Now my eyes were dazzled by twin circles of vivid incandescence
that bore down upon us.

Druce craned his head to peep into the driving-mirror affixed to the
side of the wind-screen.  "Humph," he said drily, "they've got the legs
of us.  Listen!  I'm going to skid her.  There's just about room to do
it.  When she stops, hop out and get in among the trees.  Don't worry
about me, I'll be behind.  Ready now: hold tight...!"

He did not wait for my answer.  I braced myself as his hand dipped down
and his foot plunged forward.  The brakes screamed and, with a
sickening jolt, the car slithered like a live thing over the gleaming
asphalt.  The white kerb, the dark belt of leaves, the tall, grave
tree-trunks, seemed to whirl about us in an unbroken circle as we spun.
Then came a fearful jerk, a heavy thud, and I opened my eyes to find
myself still in my seat, the car stationary, and the solemn dark of the
forest before me.

An arm went about my shoulder, and Druce's voice whispered out of the
black night: "Not hurt?  Good.  Quick...."  He lifted me bodily out of
the driving-seat and set me on my feet.  The car sprawled athwart the
avenue, with one front wheel, lamentably buckled, jammed against the
kerb.  The glare of those pursuing lamps was not a hundred paces away.
I felt my hand gripped.  The next moment we were running over the
slippery carpet of pine needles in and out of the tall, slim boles.
Scarcely had the darkness of the wood swallowed up the road we had
quitted than we heard the approaching hum of the pursuing car.  Louder
and louder it resounded, swelling to a steady roar, until suddenly the
clamour of the engine was blotted out, the wood's secret hush rudely
shattered by a booming crash, the splintering of woodwork, the
reverberating clang of shivered glass.  A tumult of voices rose on the
still night.

There was a soft chuckle by my side as we sped along.  "They've hit ...
wreck," gasped Druce.  "I switched off the lights ... on chance.  My
hat ... old Clubfoot, eh?  Hope he's broken ... blinking neck.  Out of
action for present ... anyway.  You and I ...  got to get under cover
... quick.  Only bare hour ... before it's light.  Pity ... about the
car...."

The shouting grew fainter on the road behind us.  There were no sounds
of immediate pursuit.  We plunged on through the wood, which all about
us exhaled the fragrance of damp leaves, and moss, and pine-sap, into
the coming dawn.  Where the trees grew less dense, or where we crossed
an alley, a pale moon, riding high above the sleeping city, peeped down
loftily as though surprised to see us there.

We slackened pace as the arcs of another avenue glimmered through the
branches ahead.  For the moment I was at the end of my strength: I
could not have run another yard.  I halted, leaning against a trunk,
and gazed at my companion.  "I must rest for a minute," I panted.

He gave me his bright smile.  "It was a shame to make you run like
that.  But the worst is over now, at least for to-night.  If we're
lucky, we may pick up a late cab.  We'll hear it from here if one comes
along the road.  In the meantime, we'll take a little breather."

I was hot and dishevelled and irritable, my nerves frayed by all I had
gone through that night.  "And what now?" I said despairingly.

His lean face was wan in the grey light.  "We've got to lie low for a
bit.  They're going to turn this country inside out to find you, you
realise that?  Clubfoot, if he's still alive, is likely to believe that
we've lost no time in leaving Berlin.  At least, that's what I'm
reckoning on.  My plan is for you to stay somewhere quietly until the
first heat of the pursuit has spent itself and I can get hold of
another car.  You'll have to come to my place, I think.  Would
you..."--his eyes questioned mine--"would you mind doing that?"

"I'll do anything you say," I answered wearily, "as long as you hide me
from that terrifying man."

He picked up my hand, cold in the dawn chill, and warmed it.  "Don't
worry.  You'll be all right with me...."

"I try to be brave," I said, and struggled against the tears that rose
in my voice.  "But this awful man ... if you'd seen him to-night...."

It was no good.  I was worn out.  I began to cry.  He patted my
shoulder.  "Don't give way, my dear!  What you want is sleep and a good
rest.  You've been so splendid.  Here...."  He produced a large, clean
pocket-handkerchief and handed it to me.  "That's better," he added, as
I dabbed at my eyes.  "You must have thought I'd deserted you, didn't
you?"

I nodded forlornly.

"I'm not surprised...."  He dipped a hand into an inside pocket and
gave me a glimpse of the blue envelope.  "With that on me, I couldn't
risk falling into their hands, you understand...."

There in the twilight stillness, with the birds stirring in the
branches, and the first streaks of morning stealing into the sky, he
told me very briefly of the events leading up to his dramatic
appearance at the Atlantic.

On arriving with the car at Kemper's, rather before the appointed hour,
the presence of two stolid figures on the sidewalk before the hotel in
conversation with the driver of a limousine halted beside the kerb, had
aroused his suspicions.  Accordingly, he drove past the hotel and,
leaving his car in an adjacent side-street, returned to investigate.
From a bar opposite, impotent to warn me, he witnessed my arrival and
arrest and, when I was taken away, followed in his car.  "When you
disappeared into that villa," he declared, "I don't mind admitting that
I had a bad moment.  I didn't dare go into the grounds, for fear they
were guarded...."

"They were," I put in.

"I guessed as much.  You see, I had a notion that Clubfoot couldn't be
very far away, and the old bird don't leave much to chance.  So I
dodged about among the trees lining the street, keeping an eye on the
gate and wondering what the devil I should do...."

"You had the document," I said.  "You were quite entitled to escape
without me...."

He shrugged his shoulders.  "There are moments in life when a fellow
needs a friend.  I had a feeling that you were going through one of
those moments, so I hung round on the chance.  Then things began to
happen.  First that old trollop from the caf drove up in a taxi, and
then came another cab with a young officer...."

"That was Rudi von Linz," I elucidated.

He whistled.  "The investigation progresses," was his dry comment.  He
cocked his head in the direction of the road.  "Hark," he said sharply,
"I believe that's a cab!"  The brisk clip-clop of a horse's hoofs came
to our ears.  "I hope to Heaven it's not taken.  Come on!"  He gave me
his hand and, scrambling up a bank together, we hurried out upon the
avenue.

The cab was disengaged.  But the driver, returning from Berlin to his
stable on the farther edge of the Tiergarten, was loth to make the
journey back.  The promise of a twenty-mark piece, however, decided
him, and the next minute we were bowling smoothly over the asphalt in
the direction of the faint glow in the sky I knew betokened the centre
of the city.  The thought crossed my mind that to charter a cab thus
boldly was a venturesome undertaking in our present plight.  But I was
content to leave my future movements in Druce's hands, our movements as
well as our destination.  All I wanted to do was to lie back against
the cushions with my face to the wan moon, the paling stars, and rest
... rest.

As we drove along my companion finished his story.  There was not much
to tell, for he made his contriving of my rescue from the Atlantic
appear to be the simplest thing in the world.  When I quitted the villa
with Grundt, Druce followed after in his car.  Having himself stopped
at the Atlantic, he knew that Prince Karl-Albrecht kept a suite of
rooms there, and when he saw me and my escort descend at the hotel,
guessed at once Clubfoot's objective.  He did not dare to follow us
into the hotel, nor had he any particular plan in mind (Druce said)
when he left his car at the service entrance and reconnoitred the yard,
or even when, seizing a moment when the time-keeper was occupied at the
telephone, he slipped through the lobby and mounted at hazard the back
stairs.

Once inside the hotel, he was still in a bit of a quandary (Druce
proceeded), for he did not know the number of the Prince's suite or,
consequently, the floor on which it was situated.  But here luck came
to his aid.  While prowling about one of the upper storeys, he heard a
noisy party stream into the lift on the floor above and, as the cage
went sliding downward past him, the Pellegrini's name caught his ear.

It was a woman speaking (she was, of course, one of the Prince's guests
on their way downstairs), and her chance remark gave him the
information he sought.  "_The Pellegrini,_" she said, "_will know how
to deal with the ugly brute._"

Druce raced up to the next storey by the back staircase.  Fortunately,
he went softly, for in the service room he all but blundered upon a
waiter stowing empty champagne bottles away in a crate.  Druce slipped
up the next flight, and waited there out of sight until the waiter
emerged from the service room and descended the stairs.  He had changed
out of his white coat, and was evidently going off duty.  (This must
have been the waiter who had crossed Grundt and me in the corridor on
our arrival.)

For quite a while (Druce said) he wandered aimlessly about the floor
until, suddenly, as he tiptoed along the dim corridor, his attention
was arrested by the murmur of voices.  Creeping to the door whence the
sound proceeded, he heard Grundt's deep bass: "_Will Your Highness take
a look at this young person,_" Clubfoot was saying, "_and tell me if
you have seen her before?_"

He then realised (Druce told me) that the situation was desperate.  But
just how desperate it was he only discovered as that deadly
cross-examination proceeded.  It was clear that I was there, behind
that door, and that Clubfoot was using the Pellegrini and her lover to
force the truth from me.  If he were to be of any service to me (Druce
said), he knew he must act at once.  But what could he do?

He could not remain there in the corridor, for if an hotel servant or
one of Grundt's men should come, or Grundt himself should happen to
open the door, the game would be up.  And he had the document in his
pocket.  Then he thought of the waiter's coat which he had seen hanging
on the wall of the service room.  In the guise of a waiter he would at
least have a pretext for being in the corridor.  He crept back to the
service room.  Then, as he donned the coat, it occurred to him that, as
a waiter, if he cared to take a big risk, he might, on some excuse or
other, gain access to the room.  Still without any specific scheme of
operations, he snatched up a tray that stood on the table and returned
to his listening post outside the Prince's suite.

As he stole along the corridor he heard Clubfoot's voice upraised in
wrath.  By the time he reached the door, however, the conversation had
sunk to an unintelligible murmur.  He was trying to make up his mind
whether to rush straight in or wait, in the hope of overhearing
something further to tell him how the land lay, when (he said) there
was a hoarse shout within the room, a crash and a savage bellow from
Clubfoot: "_I'll have your life for this!_"

It was then that my indomitable friend, in the belief that Grundt was
attacking me, rapped on the door.  His story that some one was asking
for me, made up on the spur of the moment, was intended to let me know
that he (Druce) was at hand.  He had purposely left the document in his
coat in the service room as, it being clear that the men who had come
with Clubfoot had remained below stairs, he had determined (Druce said)
to drag me, by force, if needs be, out of Clubfoot's clutches.  But he
had no plan of campaign more definite than this in his mind when he
knocked.


How much of this simple, gallant tale I took in, as the cab rattled us
through the quiet streets, I cannot say now: I expect I filled in the
gaps, as it is set down here, from the many talks we had together
afterwards.  I listened in the dreamy silence of exhaustion, hovering
in that no-man's-land which lies between sleep and waking, too weary to
question, too weary, even, to tell of my ordeal at Clubfoot's hands.

In the end I think I must have dozed, for when I opened my eyes I found
that the cab had stopped in a cobbled forecourt with the arched faade
of a great railway station behind.  Day was advancing with giant
strides, and under a lemon sky pigeons were fussily picking a breakfast
among the strewn oats of the cab-rank.  "A cup of coffee to warm us,"
said Druce, helping me to alight, "and then we'll go home."

I was stiff and cold after our drive, and the coffee and hot rolls we
had at the buffet did me good.  "You realise," said Druce, "that
Clubfoot is bound to dig out that cabby.  That's why I told him to
drive us here, to the Anhalter Bahnhof.  No place as good as a big
railway station for losing a trail.  Now, if you're ready, we'll go on."

Outside the station we clambered on a tram, to leave it, after a short
run, in a long and dingy thoroughfare permanently darkened by the steel
carcase of the Elevated Railway straddling it.  Behind nestles a
cluster of small and shabby streets which, already at that hour, as
Druce and I threaded them, were stirring into life.

Before little nondescript shops on the ground floor of the tall and
gloomy tenements, housewives, still drugged with sleep, were beginning
to struggle with the shutters or to sluice down the pavement.  Old
women, hooded and mittened against the eager early morning air,
delivered bottles of milk from little push-carts: a hunchback girl,
limping hideously, went from door to door with the morning newspaper:
scavengers banged the dustbins about.  Almost before the night was
fully spent, this humble corner of the Weltstadt was awaking to another
day.

But presently we turned into a narrow street where, in a blaze of
electric light and to the jingle of an electric piano in the caf at
the corner, the night yet endured.  It was a slip of a street, a mere
hyphen between two broader arteries; but it pulsated with life.  Almost
every house harboured some kind of Nacht-Lokal, as the Berliner calls
it, either a little bar, with a garish faade set round with festoons
of coloured lights and artificial flowers, sentinelled by a
shoddy-looking porter in tarnished gold lace, or a furtive-looking caf
like Frau Hulda's with curtains, glowing dully with the light within,
close-drawn across the steam-blurred windows.  A line of cabs edged the
kerb outside an archway surmounted by a weather-beaten board on which,
picked out in red lights, I read:

"VENUS-SAELE.  HEUTE GROSSER BAL."


The strains of a very noisy orchestra, as discordant as a circus band,
and the thudding of feet, proclaimed that within the "Halls of Venus"
the aforesaid "ball" was in progress.

The spike of a policeman's helmet glittered in the lights across the
way.  Hastily Druce drew me into the forecourt of the dance-hall.  We
waited there in the shadow until the bulky, sword-girt figure had
drifted out of sight.

The next house proved to be our destination.  With his key my companion
let us into a sordid passage-way lit by the first rays of morning
struggling to enter through a glazed door at the end.  Through this
door we passed into a small yard, dank and fetid, and through another
door on the far side into a second yard equally malodorous, where, in a
corner, the foot of a dark staircase was flanked by rows of white china
nameplates.

Here Druce struck a match.  A lungful of foul air, clammy and close,
and overladen as it were, with an accumulation of ancient reeks,
nauseated me.  I shrank back.  "You don't live _here_?" I faltered.

"Indeed I do," he retorted cheerfully.  "Pretty filthy, I grant you,
but it's fresher higher up.  I hope you don't mind a climb.  Here, I'll
lead the way...."

"I ... I couldn't sleep in a place like this," I said.

He cast a glance about him, then took my two hands in his.  "I know
what you feel.  But, believe me, there's no other way.  Be brave a
little longer, won't you?  Every second we linger we risk being seen by
some one in the house.  And it's essential that no one should know
you're in hiding here...."  He lit another match.

"Oh, all right," I capitulated listlessly.

In silence we climbed into the stuffy darkness, up and up, landing
after landing, until, the staircase ending under a grimy glass lantern,
we stood in a low-pitched corridor lined with doors.  Druce laid a
finger on his lips and went softly to the end of the passage.  A key
grated, a switch clicked, and a stream of light, falling through an
open door, illuminated the mobile, valiant face.

"Sanctuary!" he whispered, and drew me in.




72

Sanctuary


You know how it is when you are expecting one thing and stumble upon
another: any merits the substitute may possess are apt to be overlooked
in the first keen shock of the disappointment.  I had looked to find a
flat: two rooms and a bath, say, at the least; but I discovered that my
sanctuary was nothing but an attic under the eaves.

I did not then perceive that this humble refuge, though naked as a
convent cell, was also as scrupulously neat and clean.  I was weary and
fractious, and saw with disgust only that the walls, blotched with
damp, sloped at an acute angle up to the ceiling that arched itself not
a yard above our heads; that of furniture, beyond a deal table and a
pair of chairs, there was none, and that, to complete the garret
setting, a packing-case with a division did duty for a cupboard to
store some odds and ends of crockery; and that an assemblage of
chimney-pots, with rusty and dilapidated cowls, peered, like a throng
of hooded beggarmen, through the unscreened panes of the two small
dormer windows.  A pink check curtain drawn across a recess at one end
of the attic suggested the presence of a bed.

If my companion remarked my obvious discontent, he did not comment upon
it.  Whilst I looked about me, he busied himself at a sink fitted into
the corner opposite the alcove.

"Pretty squalid, what?" he observed chattily, as he filled a pan at the
tap.  "But in my position I can't afford to attract attention.  And the
best way to avoid remark in a big modern city is to pitch your tent
among people who are equally intent on evading inconvenient inquiries."
He chuckled, and set his pan down on a gas-ring which stood on a shelf
beneath the sink.  "I've got some devilish queer neighbours, my dear, I
don't mind telling you, as you'll hear for yourself presently, when the
bong tong starts coming home to bed...."  He put a match to the gas.
"There, that'll be hot in a minute.  I dare say you'd like a tub before
you turn in.  I've got a rubber bath.  I'll just dig you out some clean
sheets...."  So saying, he turned round to the alcove and pulled back
the curtain.  Then I heard him utter a sharp exclamation.

On the narrow camp-bed which stood in the recess, a girl lay fast
asleep on the coverlet.  She was fully dressed, with her handbag beside
her, as though she had come in from the street, but her hat, a shabby
black hat with a cherry-coloured ribbon, was skewered to the curtain
with one of its long pins.  Her back was to the room, her face pillowed
on her hand, and her hair, which had begun to come uncoiled, lay in an
ashen-blonde rope along her slim young neck.

"Why, Ottilie!" I heard Druce say, and at his words she instantly
awoke.  She moved her head round and opened her eyes, and I recognised
the little waitress from the Caf zur Nelke.  She did not sit up, but
Druce stooped down and, stretching up like a child, she put her thin
hands on the lapels of his rough jacket.  Under its mask of paint her
small face was haggard in the early morning light.

"Ach, Count," she murmured in a soft little voice, "I thought you'd
never come.  I was so tired, I lay down to wait for you, and I must
have fallen asleep.  Listen, I came to warn you.  You can't go back to
the caf.  It's shut up...."

She addressed him as "Du"; and I was not unaware of the sentimental
significance of the second person singular in the relation of the sexes
in Germany.  I felt a sharp sense of irritation.  It was bad enough of
Druce to expect me to share a garret with him: but to find that garret
in the occupation of his mistress...

"Raided, eh?" said Druce.  (They seemed to have forgotten all about my
existence.)

She nodded.

"I thought as much.  When was it?"

"Just before two.  And they've nabbed Frau Hulda.  I heard the
Kommissar tell Lenchen.  But that's not the worst...."  She paused and
drew him closer.  "They've got your photo, Count.  It's printed on a
handbill as large as life, with a reward, a thousand marks, for your
arrest...."

I saw his eyes narrow quickly; but he said no word.

"Hans offered to help track you down," she went on in her rather husky
voice.  "I didn't wait to hear any more.  Fortunately, the joint was
crowded, and while they were rounding up the gang, Black Lola--you
remember her?--and I; we slipped away through the pantry and the court
at the back.  I came straight off here to put you wise."  She uttered a
little crooning sigh.  "Du, I can stay with you now, nicht wahr, and do
the shopping and look after you...?"

I saw him gently detach her fingers and straighten himself up.  "You're
a good friend, little Ottilie," he said--he, too, used the familiar
tense, and it jarred on me again.  "But you can't stay here.  You
see...."  He moved aside and disclosed me.

Her eyes widened at the sight of me, and her short upper lip trembled.
For a moment I thought she was going to cry.  Instead, she sat up
abruptly and, snatching her hat, swung her feet to the ground and
crossed to a mirror which stood above a wash-hand stand at the foot of
the bed.  In the moment of awkward silence that ensued, I heard,
somewhere within the house, heavy footsteps mounting, and then a door
bang dully.

Druce looked at me thoughtfully.  "Let me deal with this, will you,
please?" he interjected in a hurried undertone.  "It's quite all
right...."

"It's nothing of the sort," I rejoined, with heat.  "You know I'd never
have come here if I'd dreamed that you expected me to share a room with
you.  And in a place like this..."

"There was never any question of such a thing," he retorted
indignantly.  "Of course I'm going elsewhere...."

"You needn't bother," I told him icily.  "I've no wish to upset your
domestic arrangements,"--I saw him flinch at that.  "The only thing I
must ask of you is to advance me some more money, enough for me to get
my ticket home."

While we thus senselessly sparred, all the unseen labyrinth of the
great tenement beyond our threshold mysteriously crepitated, with
stealthy footfalls, the drawn-out whine of a door, hushed laughter.
Suddenly out of the rustling stillness a strident voice began
screeching.  A woman shrieked abuse.  "Schwein, Schwein!" she screamed
over and over again.  There was the scrape of feet, a stifled cry, the
thud of a door, then quiet again.

"Go out with all that scum on the stairs?" said Druce, rather
scathingly.  "Be reasonable!  Besides, by this time your description is
in the hands of every Schtzmann in the city.  You'd be grabbed before
you were a dozen yards from the house...."

I held out my hand.  "Please do what I say...."

"You're crazy!" he exclaimed, exasperated.

I suppose I was; but I was nerve-wracked and furiously irate into the
bargain.  "Very well," I cried, and swung about.  "Then I'll just fend
for myself...."

But even as I turned to leave him, a little voice cried out, "Adieu!"
Ottilie's slim figure flashed past me and whisked through the door.
Druce sprang forward, but he was too late.  She was away along the
corridor and down the stairs before he could stop her.

He made no attempt to follow.  He closed the door and placed himself
before it.

"It's better so, maybe," he declared sombrely.  "At any rate, she'll
know how to keep out of harm's way, which is more than can be said for
you."  He broke off, and contemplated me gravely.  "Won't you please be
sensible?  Believe me, I know what I'm talking about when I tell you
that you've got to stop here.  And so have I.  At any rate, for the
present.  When you're rested, it'll be time enough to talk about your
plans."


I make no excuses for myself.  The long, long years of heartbreak have
brought their punishment with them, although afterwards I did try to
make amends.  When I look back upon the way I behaved, that morning in
Nigel's attic, the scene I made, the flood of wrathful tears in which
my outburst culminated, and, when he forcibly prevented me from
reaching the door, the hateful, mean things I flung at him, I am sick
with shame to think I could ever have been such a stupid, caddish
little prig.

But in 1914 we were not worldly-wise as the maidens of to-day.  For all
my Continental experience I was far from having flaked off the starch
of Aldershot and Camberley.  And, utterly ignorant, like every other
English girl of my age and upbringing, of the trend of world politics,
I was still incapable of appreciating the urgency of the circumstances.
Despite all I had seen, and heard, and gone through, even at that date,
a bare fortnight before the outbreak, I had no realisation of the swift
approach of war as a fatality resolved, ineluctable!

The irony of it was that, where Nigel Druce was concerned, little
though I knew about his private life, and that little how incredibly
shameful, I had no fears for myself.  I don't think it even occurred to
me that there was any danger in my being thus alone with him in a
lonely garret in the heart of what I suppose one would call the Berlin
red light district.  It was only my wretched dignity that was offended,
part and parcel of that miserably smug conventionality which the war,
glory be, has blown sky-high.  Perhaps, too, a certain stirring of
jealousy played a rle; but that part comes later.

Why is it that in anger we women must always seek to wound?  Men, too,
say cruel things in their wrath,, the crueller, perhaps, because they
come from the heart; but women deliberately barb their tongues with
falsehood.  Actually, I had thrust that photograph, and the tale that
went with it, far into the back of my mind, meaning to forget it unless
my own impression of this man, who had so strangely entered my life,
were in the upshot to be falsified.  I had no wish to judge him: and I
nursed a secret hope that somehow things might not be what they seemed.

But now that he held me prisoner in that sordid place, the thought came
to me that this stranger, who had so sorely wounded my pride, was a
convicted thief, a felon with his niche in the Rogues' Gallery.  He
could not know I did not myself believe a tithe of what I said as, in a
burst of indignation, I flung his past in his face.  Though he
attempted no denial, or, indeed, any rejoinder, but only gravely
considered me with those blue eyes of his rather sorrowful, I repented
of my taunts as soon as they were spoken.  God knows that in the years
between I have done penance for them in many hours of bitterness.

The tears which blur the lines I have written cannot dim the memory.  I
can see him now, as he stood that morning between me and the attic
door, in his shabby clothes, with the first flush of sunrise reddening
the naked walls of his sordid lodging.  For the second time, in the
brief and crowded span of our acquaintance, I discerned a look of
lassitude, of desperate unhappiness, in the lean, proud face: the first
time had been at the wax-works when I told him of the fate of his
friend: and my heart misgave me.

He let me storm myself out.  Then very quietly he said: "You'll find
clean sheets in the box under the bed, and some clean pyjamas too.
I'll be back later and bring you some food."

With that he went away.  And then I realised what I had done.  How
could I drive him from our only refuge, when by this, no doubt, the
streets from end to end were flaming with the bills of the hue-and-cry?
I was springing forward to call him back, when the sound of the key
turning in the lock banished all unselfish thoughts from my mind.  He
had dared to lock me in.  The mysterious noises of the house deterred
me from hurling myself against the door.  But I flung myself down upon
the bed and gave vent to my outraged feelings in another storm of tears.




73

Treed


How wee my bedroom seemed!  And surely the wallpaper had changed
colour?  How silly of me: this pinkness, with the sunlight glowing
through it, was not wallpaper, but a curtain, a pink check curtain,
shutting off the bed.  But how did a curtain come to be there?  I must
ask Franziska.  Funny, she hadn't called me.  Yet I could hear her in
the kitchen: Lord, the row she made!  And those bells that kept on
clanging, what could they be?

My hand, straying to my throat, encountered an unaccustomed
constriction about the neck, an unfamiliar button.  I opened sleepy
eyes again and found myself blankly contemplating brandenbourgs that
unaccountably slashed the front of my nightdress.  Hold on, it wasn't a
nightdress: I was wearing blue silk pyjamas.

Now I was wide awake.  Abruptly I sat up in bed.  The garret was like
an oasis of quiet amid a desert of clamorous voices, the multitudinous
din of the city.  In the street children were calling shrilly and, with
incessant gonging, trams bumped over the points; and every now and
then, with a roar and a rattle and the shrill wobbling whinny of
dynamos, an Elevated train trailed a streamer of individual noise
across the picture.

The hands of my watch pointed to a quarter to six.  They had stood at
half-past five when, having fished myself out an expensive-looking
sleeping-suit of Nigel Druce's, I had finally gone to bed.  The watch
had not stopped.  I had merely slept for twelve hours.  Now, when I
drew back the curtain the empurpled sky behind the guard of solemn
chimney-pots told me that evening was falling.

For a little while I lay still and listened to the restless surge of
the city beat, like a tide, upon the stillness of my retreat.  The last
human being left alive upon the earth will not, I swear, feel more
utterly forlorn and dejected than I did then, realising that I was at
the end of my resources, feeling that amongst the teeming millions,
whose voices seemed to mount in a dull roar to my hiding-place, the
hand of every one was against me.

Presently, I noticed certain changes in the appearance of the room upon
which, twelve hours before, I had closed my eyes.  It was evident that
some one had visited the garret whilst I slept.  A great pan of water
simmered on the gas-ring above a dim circle of blue flame: on a towel
neatly spread upon the floor a rubber bath stood prepared; and a
coffee-pot, flanked by a jug of milk, rolls and butter, and two eggs in
a saucepan, in water ready for boiling, the whole set out upon a clean
red and white tablecloth, reminded me that I was inordinately hungry.

During the mechanical operation of tubbing and dressing and tidying up
the room, what time the water was boiling for the coffee and the eggs,
I thought about Nigel Druce.  On getting out of bed I had tried the
door, and the discovery that it was still locked brought back with a
rush all my irritation against him.  But I was conscious that, in
reality, my resentment sprang from my own keen sense of humiliation
over my behaviour to him on the previous night.

The hot coffee, the delicious rolls: this welcome meal, complete down
to the newspaper folded by my plate, which, as I began to realise, he
could have procured for me only at imminent risk to himself, went far
to smooth down my ruffled feelings.  I told myself that I had treated
him abominably.  I should have to try and make amends when he came back.

But would he come back?  What if it were the girl Ottilie--I had heard
her volunteer to do the shopping--who, at his bidding, had brought me
breakfast?  She must have a key to have gained access to the room the
evening before.  Supposing Druce had decided to have nothing more to do
with me?  Or, if he had meant to come back, what if he had been
arrested?  Had not Ottilie said that the streets were placarded with
his photograph?

The thought appalled me.  Already I missed that strong, unflurried
presence at my side.  Deserted by Druce, to whom should I turn?  What
should I do?

The problem kept my mind busy while I cleared away and washed up the
breakfast things under the tap.  One thing was clear: I could not
continue to keep Druce out of his room.  And yet how could we share it?

To take my mind off my thoughts I sat down at the table and picked up
the newspaper.  It was the afternoon edition of the _Berliner
Lokal-Anzeiger_, a journal which I saw at a glance was far more
up-to-date and enterprising than the staidly monarchical and
unspeakably dreary _Kreuz-Zeitung_ or the smugly _Evangelical
Reichsbote_, which, together with the _Schltzer Volksfreund und
Kreisblatt_ (thrice weekly), had constituted the sole newspaper fare of
Dr. von Hentsch's household.

A big headline right across the front page announced that the delivery
of the Austro-Hungarian Note to Servia was hourly awaited.  There were
columns about the crisis from Vienna and Belgrade and Paris and London.
Madame Caillaux was about to stand her trial in Paris for the murder of
the editor of the _Figaro_; and the London news was mostly about a
conference sitting at Buckingham Palace to settle the Irish question.
The long columns of print made my head swim, the serried files of
wiggly, gnarled-looking German characters, planted as close together as
the trees in a primeval forest, with great clumps of adjectives, like
undergrowth blocking the trail through the prodigiously long sentences,
and at the very end, as welcome as the glimpse of a distant roof
through the foliage, the isolated and indispensable verb.

So I turned with relief to a column of short paragraphs headed
"Vermischtes," that is to say, "Miscellaneous."  Here, boiled down to a
line or two, all the horror and misery of a great metropolis were
packed away.  Murder, robbery, arson: tragedies of love and of drink:
suicides and attempted suicides: all were there, a single day's record
of the stirring, pulsating existence of three million humans.

Suddenly, as I listlessly scanned the column, my eye fastened on a
name, Von Linz.  I thought at once of Rudi.  In the spate of happenings
since Grundt had carried me away from the villa, the boy had passed
from my mind; but the sight of his name reminded me that Clubfoot had
despatched him to his quarters to await the arrival of the
Provost-Marshal.  With a sudden pang I turned to the heading of the
paragraph.  What I read there was:

"_Selbstmord eines Offiziers_": "_Suicide of an Officer._"

The announcement was brief enough.  "_Early this morning,_" it stated,
"_in an hotel of the Dorotheen-Strasse, the dead body of an officer was
discovered, a revolver in the right hand.  The victim has been
identified as Leutenant von Linz, of the_ 56_th Infantry Regiment_
(_Fogel von Falckenstein_)_.  Leutenant von Linz was formerly in the
Fifth Regiment of Foot Guards.  The suicide is attributed to money
difficulties._"

Poor, wretched Rudi!  The utter horror of it, to think of him, with his
sunny nature, sitting in his hotel bedroom all through the long night,
waiting for the arrival of the Provost-Marshal, which he must have
guessed would signal the end of his military career!  He had chosen his
own way out--no, not his, the way which Clubfoot had suggested.  I
could see that poor boy, the last sight I was to have of him, standing
at the desk looking hopelessly down upon the revolver which Grundt, so
meaningly, as I now understood, had laid there.

Clubfoot again!  There was no limit to the power of this man.  Swiftly,
noiselessly, the Crouching Beast had sprung.  Only a little bullet-hole
was there to show for it, and blood on a young face where laughter once
had dwelt.  No fuss or scandal: the tale of money troubles was there to
stifle that.  And it was I who had sent this care-free charming youth,
whose lips, now cold, had kissed mine, to his ignominious death.
Horrible, horrible!  While all the muted noises of the city came riding
into the garret along the last rays of the setting sun, I sat and
stared benumbed at the fatal sheet.

The sound of a key in the door aroused me.  Thank God, it was Druce
coming back.  At that moment I yearned for some one staunch and
unafraid like him to share with me this new burden.  But when the door
opened, it was Ottilie who entered.  And she was alone.

"I knocked," she said, "but there was no answer.  So I let myself in
with my key...."  She broke off and, after a swift glance round,
brought her pale eyes to rest on me.  "Where's the Count?" she demanded.

Her tone was imperious, and it set my back up.

"As you can see for yourself, he's not here," I answered.

She clasped her hands before her, and her eyes grew large with dismay.
"You don't mean to tell me he's gone out?"

"I'm afraid I know nothing about his movements," I retorted.  "He went
away early this morning and I haven't seen him since.  Was it you who
brought me coffee and eggs for breakfast?"

"No," she replied wonderingly.

"Then he must have come back.  And not so long ago, for he left me the
afternoon paper.  I was asleep, and I didn't hear him...."

Her eyes were fixed on my face in a sort of menacing stare.  She nodded
several times impressively.  "So, and you let him go out.  He must
needs risk his life so that Madame can have her comfortable breakfast
when she condescends to wake."  With a violent movement she slammed the
door to behind her and advanced rather threateningly to where I sat at
the table.  "Do you realise that they're raking the whole town for him?
They're making the round of every Kaschemme between this and the
Wedding Platz, and they'll not rest until they've hunted him down.
That clubfooted dog is at the head of the pack, and the Crouching Beast
always gets what he watches for."  Her voice broke.  "Why, you poor
fool, you must be crazy!  If he were my man, I'd have tied him to the
bed there, I'd have locked him in, I'd have gone out and foraged
myself, rather than let him risk his life in the streets...."  Tears
strangled her utterance.  "As true as there's a God in heaven," she
cried, "if anything happens to him, I'll go to the police and see that
they grab you too!"

At that moment the door behind her was softly rapped.  In a flash she
was at it.  "Gott sei Dank, it's you!" I heard her cry.  "Ach, Count,
I've been so terribly afraid...."  The door opening disclosed Druce,
his arms full of packets.  She hung upon his neck and his parcels
rained upon the ground.  "Du, du," she repeated over and over again,
"how could you be so foolish!"

He laughed in his quiet way, and the sound of his laughter fell like a
balm upon my distress.  "Na, na, Kind," he told her, "I know my way
round as well as most.  And I never was a one for taking risks.  Why,
have you been shopping too?" He was looking at a basket which I
perceived for the first time standing by the door.

"A few trifles... I never imagined you would dare venture out...."
Ottilie was fumbling at her eyes with her handkerchief.  "I ... I must
be going now.  I just looked in...."  She turned hastily to the door.

He patted her shoulder affectionately.  "You're a real friend, my dear.
But you must let me pay you for these things...."

She shook her head.  "I don't want your money..."

"But I'm counting on you to bring us our breakfast in the morning," he
retorted.  "If you won't let me pay you, however..."

"Then you don't mean to go out any more?"

I was conscious that he flashed me a rapid glance.

"Perhaps not for a day or so," he laughed.  "It must be the weather, I
think, but I find the streets of Berlin unpleasantly hot at present...."

She took the note he held out to her.  "I'll be round first thing.  But
you ... you stay at home."  She flung me a defiant look.  "If I were
you, I'd hide his clothes!"

Druce laughed.  He emptied her basket and handed it to her.

"Until to-morrow, then..." she said and paused, reluctant to be gone.

"Until to-morrow," Druce rejoined.  "And bring me all the morning
papers, will you?"

She stood before him, a slight, shabby little figure, looking up into
his face.  He laid his hand softly along her cheek and said: "Thank
you, dear Ottilie!"

With that she stole away.

Druce shut the door after her and locked it.  Then, whistling a little
air, he began to assemble the various packages on the table.  He sorted
them into little groups, calling out their respective contents as he
did so.  "Cutlets," he announced, "butter, cheese, eggs, bread, some
peas and carrots--I adore fresh vegetables, don't you?--a ham"--he
slapped a large bundle--"for boiling and as a stand-by--sound eating,
ham, for all the Mosaic law--fruit, cigarettes, and some tinned
stuff,"--he emitted a little ripple of laughter--"in case of a siege.
Powder, face cream, eau de cologne, hairpins, a box of handkerchiefs,
for you--I took a chance on the powder and bought the cream tint: I
hope it's all right.  If there's anything else you want, we'll have to
make use of Ottilie.  And now let's see what she's brought us in that
basket of hers...."

His debonair manner did not deceive me.  His face wore a pinched look
and, when he flung aside his hat, I saw that his hair was dank with
perspiration.  His clothes and shoes were white with dust.  He gave me
the impression of being utterly exhausted.

"Do sit down and rest," I said.  "You look absolutely worn out.  Have
you had anything to eat to-day?"

He dropped into the chair I gave him, and the whole of his lean,
muscular frame seemed to sag.  "Well," he remarked, his features
crinkled up in that easy smile of his, "now that you mention it, I
don't believe I have!"

"It's too bad," I said.  "I'm going to make you some tea and do you
some scrambled eggs.  While you're eating those, the cutlets can be
cooking.  You must be famished!"

"I could do with a cup of tea," he answered.  "But don't you worry!
I'm quite used to fending for myself...."

"You stay where you are," I told him, as I filled the kettle at the
tap.  "What have you been doing to get yourself into such a state?"

He flung back his head, gazing at the ceiling, and gurgled a dry laugh.
"I've been running, running like hell, from the police...."

"You were followed, then?  Your ... your friend said you were crazy to
go out.  It was foolhardy of you...."

"Not foolhardy: I had a job of work to do.  Besides, I always like to
see for myself.  I wasn't followed either.  But a nose--I beg your
pardon, I mean a detective--spotted me as I came out of Wertheim's,
where I had been doing my little shopping, and gave chase...."  He
gurgled again.  "Gosh, it was funny.  Like a comic film.  In and out of
the crowds in the Leipziger-Strasse, through that restaurant with the
double exit--I forget its name--and along the Kronen-Strasse.
Fortunately, I don't think my fellow was sure of me: at any rate I
shook him off.  But little Ottilie's right.  We've got to lie low for a
bit."

I was at the gas-ring, stirring up his eggs in the pan.  The flame
fired my cheeks anyway as I said: "I blame myself for your going out
like that this morning...."

"You needn't do that," he put in hastily.  "I should have gone in any
case."

"I owe you an apology," I went on doggedly.  "I said things I had no
right to say."

Dusk was stealing into the room, and the failing light seemed to spread
a shadow across his weary face.

"You said nothing that was not true," he answered, rather tonelessly.
"You don't understand, probably, that the Service can't afford to lay
much store by what are conventionally known as morals.  It uses such
instruments as come to its hand.  And it's a rare bit of luck, I can
tell you, for an officer, dismissed as I was, to be taken on again in
the King's service.  For I _have_ been in gaol, my dear Miss Dunbar, at
the Scrubs and at Parkhurst, twelve months of the best for theft...."

His voice was hard, hard: it had a stabbing quality that seemed to
pierce me through.

"Please!" I said.  "I don't want to hear any more.  Won't you forgive
my abominable behaviour?  Nothing you can tell me about your past will
make me forget again all I owe to your splendid courage in getting me
out of the hands of that awful man...."

"I don't desert my pals," he rejoined roughly.  "I told you from the
first that we were in this thing together.  It's much better," he added
more gently, "that you should know all about me.  Ottilie's presence
here, I admit, was an unlooked-for complication.  Perhaps you will
believe me when I say that, had I foreseen it, I should never have
brought you to this place...."

"Let's say no more about it, shall we?" I put in.  "Your eggs are done,
and you must have them while they're hot.  And while I'm frying the
cutlets you shall tell me about our plans."

"Plans?" he repeated rather grimly, as he took his seat at the table.
He paused, and in the twilight silence a train, far below, rushed
screaming by.  "I'm afraid we can't make any plans for the present.
We're treed in this garret, you and I!"




74

News of a friend


With that he began to eat.  Because I saw that he was famished, I
questioned him no further but busied myself with my cooking.  When I
brought the cutlets he wanted me to join him.  But I told him I had
only just had the food he had left ready, and retired to the alcove to
freshen myself up with the eau de cologne and put on a dab of powder.
There were not many men, I reflected as I creamed my face, who, hunted
as he had been that day, would have been so thoughtful.  In all the
crowded hours we had passed together nothing he had done touched me
quite so much as this.

When I returned to the table he had finished his meal, and sat quietly
in the dusk smoking a cigarette.  He gave me one and, fetching a cup,
poured me out some tea.  For a little spell, while the darkness slowly
deepened, we faced each other across the littered table, and smoked in
silence.

"Well," he remarked at last, "we're cornered right enough.  For how
long, the Lord knows.  I was lucky to-day, devilish lucky.  But I did
what I meant to do, anyway."

I thought he was alluding to his shopping excursion.  "I've not thanked
you yet for the powder and things..." I began.

"I wasn't thinking of that," he rejoined hastily.  "What I really went
out to do was to get rid of you know what...."

My thoughts flashed back to that thundery evening at Schlatz.  Had my
little Major fulfilled his mission after all?  And was his honour
redeemed?

"You don't mean to say you've managed to send it home?" I cried, agog.

Thoughtfully he flaked the ash from his cigarette.  "I wish I could be
sure.  If I know anything of Clubfoot's methods, nothing has left this
country by post for a foreign address--no letter, at any rate--without
being first opened and read.  I had to risk that.  Seeing that we're
bunkered for the time being, I made a copy of that report this morning
while you were asleep and posted it, rolled up in a newspaper, to a
safe address in Brussels.  Our people there will know what to do with
it ... if ever it reaches them."  His voice trailed away.  "In the
meantime," he resumed, fixing his blue eyes on me, "I'm afraid you'll
have to put up with me here.  I hope it won't be for more than a day or
two.  I'll rig up a curtain across the room, and see to it that you
have as much privacy as possible...."

I felt the colour coming into my cheeks.  "This is your room," I told
him, "and rather than turn you out again, I should leave myself.  If
you'll let me stay, I shall be grateful.  I'm sure that any arrangement
you make will be satisfactory."  And then, to bridge the awkward pause
that ensued, I changed the subject.  "This document," I queried, "was
it what you suspected?"

The gathering gloom obscured his features; but there was a certain
grimness in his affirming nod.  "Yes...."

He was staring moodily in front of him.  Then his feelings seemed to
burst out in a cry of pent-up exasperation: "God, to think of my being
caged here while they're preparing to spring _this_ on us!"

"Why," I exclaimed, bewildered by the sudden change in him, "what do
you mean?"

"What do I mean?" he echoed bitterly.  "I mean that this time it's war.
They've made up their minds to have their war all right, at any costs,
on any pretext, against all comers ... now.  If only my warning gets
through to London...."

He rose to his feet and began to pace up and down.

"If war should break out," I tried to pacify him, "it won't affect us
surely?  At any rate, not at once...."

"You don't understand," he answered sombrely.  "The Fleet is partly
mobilised for manoeuvres.  Manoeuvres finish this week, and ships and
crews will automatically disperse over the week-end.  Unless..."  He
pounded his open palm with his fist.  "This delay in presenting the
Austrian Note fills me with anxiety.  I can't help fearing that they're
waiting for the dispersal of the Fleet...."

Like other people in those bewildering days, I was still far from
conjuring up out of the mass of newspaper verbiage about the "demands
of the Ballplatz," "demarches at Belgrade," judicial investigation,
guarantees, punitive measures, the spectre of the awful tragedy which
was hanging over our heads.

"Must this Austrian Note necessarily lead to war?" I said.

"It's the starting gun.  They're going to make their demands so utterly
unacceptable that Servia must reject them.  If Russia and France stir a
finger in protest, they'll find Germany in all her military might drawn
up behind Austria.  They can eat humble pie or fight.  That's the sort
of Hobson's choice our French and Russian friends will be up against!"

The scene at Schippke's came back to me.  "Soldiers always want to
fight," I suggested.  "It's their job.  But the common people!  I have
so many good friends in Germany.  I'm sure they don't dream of
attacking any one...."

Druce halted in his stride and faced me.  "They don't.  But they'll be
told, already they're being told, that this is a war of defence.
Germany's a military State,"--the old recurrent phrase!  "The great
General Staff possesses a potential instrument of propaganda in every
German who has performed his service with the colours, and that, as you
know, is the bulk of the male population.  For years now the German
people, egged on by the Kaiser's incessant craving for personal
glorification, have been told that Germany is surrounded by enemies
ready to fall upon her.  The whole nation is drunk with power.  As long
as the Kaiser kept his hand on the throttle, there was a chance for
peace, for the man's a coward at heart, and always runs away from the
logical consequences of his words and deeds.  But he'll not wriggle out
of it this time.  Moltke and Tirpitz and the rest of the gang, they'll
see to that.  They've packed H.M. off to Norway to play whilst they're
getting on with the work.  When they're ready for him to sign the
mobilisation decree, they'll bring him home and not before.  As soon as
friend Wilhelm reappears in Berlin, you mark my words, war will be only
a matter of days...."

He moved to the window and stood there in silhouette, gazing out, past
the cowled company of chimneys, at the first stars trembling in the
evening blue.  "We shall mobilise, we must mobilise," he murmured, as
though to himself, "and I,"--he struck the window-frame with the flat
of his hand--"I am cooped up here!"

There was a moment's silence, then he sighed and, going to the door,
switched on the light.  "I don't know why I'm gassing high politics to
you," he said, smiling in his old, placid way, "when there's so much
you have to tell me."  His keen eyes searched my face.  "You look
upset.  Has anything happened since I've been away?"

I could not trust myself to speak.  I picked up the newspaper and
showed him the paragraph about Rudi.  He read it through in silence.
"By George," he ejaculated, almost with an air of admiration, "the old
man certainly is thorough.  What did he have against your friend?  But
perhaps"--his voice was suddenly very gentle--"you'd prefer to speak of
this at some other time?"

I shook my head and, gulping back the tears, told him poor Rudi's story
and the rest of my adventures on the preceding night.


It was the 22nd of July, a Wednesday, when Nigel Druce brought me to
the garret.  The house reared its six storeys in the Mahl-Strasse, one
of the narrow teeming streets which abut on the lower Friedrich-Stadt.
The weather was magnificent, and in the sunshine of a glorious summer
Europe lay at peace.  It was stiflingly hot in our eyrie under the
roof.  The heat and the confinement, together with the atmosphere of
breathless suspense in which we lived, produced in me a curiously
unreal state of mind, so that, when I look back upon those four days I
spent with Nigel Druce in his attic, it seems to me that I must have
heard above the restless stir of the city, the sullen growling of the
approaching storm.

I saw little of Druce.  A pair of sheets now curtained the room into
two.  The improvised kitchen, with the sink, was on my side of the
partition, so Druce, who had spread himself a bed of blankets on the
floor of his domain, would get up first in the morning, whilst I was
still abed in the curtained alcove, and wash and shave and prepare the
coffee.  He would have done all the cooking, but I insisted that I
should take my share of the house work.

He was always courteous, always good-tempered with me.  As far as any
man could, he studied my comfort.  Thus, on the morning after our
arrival, when Ottilie had come with supplies and the newspapers, he
pushed a flat packet through the curtain.  It contained nightgowns,
stockings, and underwear, dainty and, as any woman could see at a
glance, expensive, a boon which my enforced separation from my baggage
made most welcome.

Ottilie called every day, usually very early, before I was out of bed.
She remained on Druce's side of the curtain, and I never saw her,
though I heard her husky voice.  I suspected that Druce had asked her
so to time her visits that we should not meet.  Druce and I took our
meals together at the only table, which remained in his territory.  At
first, at any rate, he chatted with me unconcernedly enough, discussing
the day's news, and telling me stories of the Berlin underworld, with
which he appeared to have an extraordinarily wide acquaintance.  But he
never alluded again to that secret of his I had surprised.  I was
conscious of a certain austerity in his manner towards me, an air of
reserve which, albeit never stressed, I felt to hang like a fireproof
curtain between us, ready to descend, at the first renewal of the old
intimacy, between him and me.

In truth, the memory of the cruel words I had spoken was a barrier more
effectual than any improvised partition.  I was no longer at my ease
with this partner of mine.  My peep into his past had shocked me
terribly: less the discovery of his disgrace than his cynical admission
of the truth: and the Ottilie situation irked me.  In vain I told
myself that the private affairs of this man, with whom fate had thrown
me into temporary association, were no concern of mine.  I could not
help remembering that he had made no attempt to explain Ottilie; and
his indifference humiliated me almost as much as his resolute evasion
of my proffered atonement for my ungenerous outburst.

The most important thing in life, Daddy used to tell me, is to be
honest with oneself.  I have tried to set down here my feelings towards
Nigel Druce in order to explain what came after.  Candidly I don't
think I was in love with him at this time, though I dare say I was
jealous of Ottilie.  I admired him for his pluck, his loyalty, his
splendid unselfishness; and I was overwhelmingly, desperately sorry for
him.  If there can be no jealousy without love, then perhaps my
resentment at Ottilie's intrusion sprang from a feeling of
disappointment.  I might suspend judgment on that old and bitter
passage in my friend's life: but his relations with this waif of the
streets were an ever-present fact which I could not evade.

He, too, it sometimes struck me, was conscious of and regretted, the
tension between us.  When we were together, and he thought I was not
looking, his eyes would rest on my face.  A word from me, then, I dare
say, would have broken the ice between us.  But I was too proud to
speak it.  Desperately I longed to be free and never to see him again.

I was worrying, too, about Dulcie.  She would have received Dr. von
Hentsch's telegram announcing my return to England; and by this she
must be distracted with anxiety about me.  I wanted Druce to let
Ottilie send her a wire, not necessarily signed, just a word to bid her
not to be alarmed.  But he would not hear of it.  The telegram might be
traced, he declared, and it was essential that Clubfoot should have no
grounds for thinking we were still in Berlin.  The argument was sound,
and I did not insist.

Our neighbours in that great bee-hive of a tenement left us severely
alone.  Most of the tenants, Druce told me, were girls frequenting the
dance-hall next door, the landlord of the house was the proprietor of
the dance-hall, and depended on these "Damen" to bring custom to his
establishment.  He was doubtless willing to pay heavily for the
privilege of shielding his clients from troublesome inquiries: at any
rate the house, Druce said, was singularly immune from police
supervision.  Rent at the Mahl-Strasse was paid six-monthly in advance,
and Druce had secured his room by means of a lump sum down to his
predecessor, a Galician anarchist, who had to leave Germany in a hurry.

Druce was restless, restless.  He could not sit still.  All day long,
and often far into the night, I would hear him pacing up and down
beyond the curtain.  The delivery of the Austrian Note to Servia--the
Berlin newspapers published the text on the Friday after our arrival,
if I remember rightly--seemed to redouble his furious anxiety.  That
morning he made Ottilie wait while he scribbled off a letter for her to
take.

"It's war all right," he told me at the mid-day meal.  "Even if the
Belgrade Government is willing to accept Austria's terms, Russia will
never permit it."  He complained bitterly of the scarcity of news from
London.  "They should have received the report by this," he declared
sombrely.  "It must have gone astray.  When it comes to hand, we're
bound to see its reflection in the news despatches."  But all the news
from England was of civil war in Ulster.

Late that evening Ottilie came back.  I was already in bed when I heard
her whispering with Druce.  For the first time she seemed badly scared.
"He wouldn't even open your letter," she said.  "He sent out word that,
if I bothered him again, he'd fetch the police."  They talked in
undertones far into the night, and I fell asleep on the murmur of their
voices.

When I rose next morning, Druce still lay like a log among his
blankets.  Ottilie had left an evening paper, and while the water
boiled for the coffee, I glanced over the day's news.  The tone of the
newspaper was truculent.  It seemed to be assumed that Servia would
reject the Note and that the Austrian Army would occupy Belgrade.  The
Ulster Conference at Buckingham Palace was still muddling on.  And
then, under the heading "Society," I came upon an announcement which
made my heart leap within me for gladness.

"_Herr Geoffrey Transome, Secretary of the American Embassy,_" I read,
"_has returned to Berlin from Lausanne._"




75

Druce and I fall out


Dear old Geoff!  He wasn't a bit like a "Botschaftsrat," as the
_Berliner Tageblatt_ called him.  It always struck me, when we used to
meet in London, that Geoff, in his dry American way, got a lot of quiet
fun out of his diplomatic duties amid the stiff and glittering
magnificence of the Imperial Court.  This is not to say that, like most
sensible people, he did not have at heart a very real respect for the
many excellent qualities of the Germans.

But the Court set, especially the military, with their titles, and gold
lace, and ribands, and their portentous, mandarin-like formality,
filled him with ribald glee.  At Palace functions he was entranced when
some spangled official would mistake him in his plain evening clothes
for a waiter.  He used to complain to me that he had never succeeded in
"thinking up," as he called it, a really suitable rejoinder for use on
such occasions.  Geoff seemed to me like a haven of refuge in my
present dilemma.  Grundt would have no fears for him.

I did not impart my news to Druce: at least not then.  I was
unpleasantly and increasingly aware of being a drag on him, and, while
I knew that he would never desert me of his own accord, I could not
help feeling that he would have a much greater chance of making his way
out of the country alone than with me.  It gratified me to reflect
that, now that he had virtually reached the end of his resources, it
might conceivably be I who, through the Transomes, would secure our
flight into safety.

This was not mere childishness on my part.  Secretly I was a little
hurt that Druce had never given me credit for possessing any brains or
enterprise in our plight.  He appeared to assume that all initiative
must proceed from him.  Yet he consulted Ottilie eagerly enough.  Thus
when, at dusk that evening, after a day of gloomy moping on my
companion's part during which we scarcely exchanged a word, the girl
arrived, Druce brisked up at once.  Snatches of their whispered
conversation came to me as I sat on my bed mending a ladder in my
stocking.

Apparently Ottilie had visited various garages on our behalf.  At one
the proprietor became hostile and suspicious directly a trip to the
Dutch frontier was mentioned.  Ottilie thought he had been put on his
guard by the police.  At the others, in view of the uncertainty of the
political outlook, she was equally unsuccessful.  "On all sides," I
heard her tell Druce, "there is talk of mobilisation.  That means that
all cars will be commandeered.  So very few garages will send cars out
on long trips."

They spoke of somebody called "Peter der Dachs," "Peter the Lynx," who
seemed to be a friend of Black Lola's, with whom Ottilie was putting
up.  "If the money's all right," I caught Ottilie's husky whisper, "the
Lynx won't let you down."  Druce made some inaudible remark, to which
the girl replied sharply: "Nein, nein, nein!  He won't hear of it."

Druce's sibilant "S-sh!" rasped across the room.  The voices sank once
more to an unintelligible murmur.  Then, "Don't be a fool, Count!" I
heard Ottilie exclaim.  "You'll not get a chance like this again.  It's
only a question of time before he tracks you down.  Any one of these
women in the house will sell you for a thaler.  And Clubfoot never
gives up..."

The rest escaped me.  Presently the door creaked softly.  "As you
will," said the girl.  "They're over at the Apollo Caf, so I'll be
back within the hour.  But I tell you now that, man or woman, he won't
hear of it..."  The door closed: and Druce resumed his endless pacing.


She did not return.

A golden evening deepened into a sweltering night.  My head ached with
the heat.  We ate our evening meal in silence.  After we had done, with
the dividing curtain drawn aside to air the room, we lingered long at
the table, smoking and listening to the voice of the city.

That evening it was as though an electric atmosphere rested over
Berlin.  A rumour, vague and distant, like a fading echo, seemed to
hover above the habitual stir.  At last I rose and went to the window.
I became conscious of continuous waves of sound, like very faint
shouting, mounting upward in the stagnant air.  I called Druce over.
As he stood beside me listening, the distant tumult swelled up for an
instant and died down, like the tremolo of that motor engine which, as
I write these lines in the peace of the winter night, goes throbbing in
and out of the folds of the Downs.

"That noise is cheering," said Druce.  His voice was husky with
excitement.  "Demonstrations, eh?  Is it war already?"  His fingers
began to drum on the window ledge.  "What's keeping that girl?"

He advanced his wrist in the failing light to consult his watch.  Ten
o'clock past: she had been gone these three hours.  In a blur of sound
raucous shouts now mounted from the street below.  They were crying
special editions.  The warm evening was vibrant with the clamour.
Close at hand a band began to blare.  Voices took up the strain and
rose in song, virile, reverent, sonorous, as the Germans sing, to our
crow's nest under the stars:

  "_Deutschland, Deutschland, ber Alles,_
    _ber Alles in der Welt...._"


"The sands are running out," Druce's deep voice overtoned the solemn
chant.  "If this isn't mobilisation, it's only a question of hours, of
days at most.  And mobilisation means no transport, and the frontiers
shut tighter than ever.  Why the devil doesn't Ottilie come?"

Little by little the hubbub faded away.  Once more the familiar racket
of Berlin by night ascended to batter at my aching head, the clatter of
the little horse-cabs, the staccato tang-tang of the trams, the winged
screech of the electric trains.

I left the window and, sitting down by the table, resumed my
needlework.  But Druce remained where he was, staring out.  After a
while he turned about and said hoarsely: "Ottilie has never failed me
before.  I'm going to find out what's happened to her."

I looked up from my sewing aghast.  "You wouldn't be so foolhardy,
after what happened the last time?"

His troubled eyes seemed to evade me.  "I know where she lodges with
Black Lola," he rejoined.  "I can go by the back streets.  There's not
much risk at night."

"Don't be so reckless," I urged.  "She's sure to be back soon..."

"I must know what's going on," he broke in wildly.  "I can't afford to
wait.  Suppose that report has been held up in the post!  How can you
expect me to skulk here, knowing that the only other copy is in my
possession?  Besides, the Lynx is due to leave an hour before dawn, and
I must find out if he's willing to take us with him."

"Who is the Lynx?" I asked, "and where are we going with him?"

"He's a friend of Black Lola's.  He and some other men are starting by
car, first thing to-morrow morning, for Cleves.  That's near enough to
the Dutch frontier for our purpose.  The Lynx has no desire to attract
attention to himself and his pals, and it's a heaven-sent chance for us
to get away quietly, that is, if he's willing to take us..."

"I couldn't help overhearing some of your conversation with Ottilie," I
put in.  "They won't take me.  Isn't that it?"

"We're partners, you and I," he answered doggedly, evading my question,
"and we stick together.  Ottilie ought to have made that clear to them
to start with.  I'm going now to find the Lynx and talk to him
myself..."

"You needn't risk it," I said.  "If this were our only chance, I
wouldn't stand in your way, though I appreciate your loyalty
tremendously.  But I think I have a means by which we can escape
together without separating."

His inquiring "Oh!" had a touch of rather patronising surprise which
grated on me.

"Geoffrey Transome's back in Berlin.  The newspaper says so."

"Who?"

"Geoffrey Transome.  I told you I was going to stay with him and his
wife.  They're the kindest people in the world and tremendous friends
of mine.  They'll do anything to help me."

He knitted his brow.  "But surely you told me he was at the American
Embassy?"  His tone was cold.

"Yes.  He's one of the secretaries."

Druce gave a short laugh and, pulling open the table drawer, began to
transfer to his pockets various articles lying there, the portfolio
with his money, his cigarette-case.

"Don't you believe me when I tell you that Geoffrey is sure to help
us?" I demanded rather tremulously.

"If you value your friendship with the Transomes," was the cool reply,
"you'll leave them out of this."

"You don't know Geoffrey," I retorted.  "He's the most unconventional
person in the world."

"He may be.  But he won't thank you for dragging him into this.  He's a
diplomatist officially accredited to a friendly Government.  And you
seriously expect him to assist me, a spy, and you, my accomplice?  No,
no, my dear, let's try and be practical!"

His superior tone nettled me.  "I know Geoffrey Transome better than
you do.  I tell you he won't let us down."

"And I know this game better than you do, and I tell you that your
friend will run a mile from you."  He picked up his hat.  "We shall
probably make an early start.  Hadn't you better lie down for a bit?
You look dreadfully tired..."

"Don't take this awful risk," I pleaded.  "For God's sake, wait..."

He made a gesture of impatience.  "I can't afford to wait, I keep on
telling you..."

"I shall be scared to death every minute you're away.  What's to become
of me if anything happens to you?"

He laughed a hard laugh.  "It would certainly make your Yankee friend
less disinclined to help you.  But don't worry about me.  I'll be all
right."

"If you insist on going," I said, feeling rather desperate, "then let
me go too..."

He shook his head.  "To run the Lynx to earth I shall have to go to
places where one can't take a woman."

"Oh, you're obstinate," I burst out angrily.  "Ottilie never failed us
before.  Why not wait a little, and when she comes, I'll give her a
note to take round to Geoffrey Transome in the morning..."

He fixed his blue eyes upon me in a sombre stare.  "Has it occurred to
you that she may have been arrested?" he asked.

"And if she has been," I flamed back, "what good can you do?"

"Not a great deal.  But I can leave money to get her decent food and
provide for her defence."

"Oh," I cried out contemptuously, "you only think of her.  I understand
now why you're so anxious to go out.  The rest is just a pretext..."

The shadows in the blue eyes seemed to darken.  "I should have thought
you too intelligent to be jealous," he answered, and it struck me that
his voice was wistful rather than reproachful.

"Jealous?" I gasped wrathfully.

But my exclamation was cut off by the closing of the door.  He had
turned on his heel and walked out.  I noticed that this time he did not
lock the door behind him.




76

The man on the stairs


If he had called me selfish, unreasonable: if he had reminded me, as
well he might have, that his duty came before any consideration of my
comfort or safety, I should have cared less.  But jealous; I who had
been willing to overlook his disgrace and even to humble myself to the
dust to tell him so and jealous of a street waif at that!

Well, it was finished now.  I was beholden enough to this man.  I would
leave him to his friends and go to mine.  With me out of the way he
would be free to accept the Lynx's offer.  After all, it was best so.
Though I would not have admitted it to Druce, I had an uneasy feeling
that it was going to be a little difficult to explain him to Molly and
Geoff.

In point of fact, however, I did not stop to think things out properly
at all.  My stupid pride was bitterly offended and my sole impulse was
to get away from my companion at all costs.  My anger overcame my fear;
and I lost not a moment in bundling my few possessions--even for those,
I reflected wrathfully, I was indebted to him--into a brown paper
parcel.

It was nearly half-past eleven, my watch told me.  But the hour didn't
matter.  Geoffrey Transome, thank Heaven, was the sort of friend one
could appeal to at any hour of the day or night.  Molly too.  I had
their address.  They lived in the Viktoria-Strasse, a street which, as
I had discovered from the map of Berlin at the von Hentsches, abutted
on the busy Potsdamer-Strasse, near the canal bridge.  I should have to
inquire my way there, for I dared not venture on a cab.  But for the
time being, uplifted by a wonderful sense of freedom, I was content to
leave these details on the knees of the gods.

I put on my hat and adjusted my veil and, my parcel under my arm, made
for the door.  There I paused.  I owed it to Druce to let him know that
our partnership was dissolved.  I found a piece of paper in the drawer
of the table and scribbled him a note:


"_I am deeply grateful for all you have done for me.  But you must
accept your friend's offer.  I am going to Geoffrey Transome.  I can
find my way to England alone._"


This bald message of farewell I left upon the table, propped up against
the water-jug, where he would see it when he returned.  As I turned
towards the door, the sight of the orderly pile of blankets on the
floor below the window, where he was wont to make his bed, gave me a
momentary pang, and I wondered whether I would ever set eyes on Nigel
Druce again.  But I fought down the feeling of great loneliness that
suddenly assailed me.  I was only a pawn in the dangerous game he
played so blithely; and now that I had done my part, I meant to show
him that I could get on without him.  I set my teeth and switched off
the light.  The next moment, with a thumping heart, I was tiptoeing my
way down in the fetid, lurking obscurity of the staircase.

The house was sunk in a profound hush.  No sound, other than the
distant bourdon of the street, disturbed the stillness.  The darkness
of the stairs was clammy with evil, ancient reeks, and permeated, as it
seemed to me, with all the sin and misery that dwelt within that place.
I dared not strike a match, but let the greasy hand-rail guide me.

And then suddenly, from somewhere below, a shimmer of light and the
murmur of voices brought me to a shuddering full stop.  I peered over
the balustrade.  Two floors down the door of one of the flats had
opened.  From it a dim radiance shone out upon the figure of a man who
was half-way across the threshold.  He seemed to be taking his leave.

I heard a woman's voice speaking in German, throaty and rather harsh.
"Wie gesagt, we keep ourselves to ourselves.  They might have the flat
next door for aught I know.  Last year a girl hanged herself in a room
upstairs.  It was three months before they found her..."

"There are single rooms here, then, as well as flats?"  The echo of the
staircase absorbed and muffled the man's deep tones.

"Three, on the top.  Two are store-rooms.  A Russian student had the
other; but I haven't seen him for weeks..."

"Keep your eyes skinned anyway, d'you hear?" said the man.  "There's
money in this for you, my lass.  They're somewhere in the
neighbourhood, that's certain."

There was a hoarse chuckle from beyond the threshold of the open door.
"So are half the murderers the Blue-coats would like to get their claws
into and can't.  The quarter's a rabbit-warren, like this house.  But I
can't stick here jawing all night, zum Donnerwetter.  I was due at the
dance-hall this hour gone..."

Swiftly I mounted a few stairs as I heard the door close.  The
staircase groaned and the banister shook in my grasp.  Holding my
breath, I peeped over.  I could see nothing in that pitchy darkness,
but the woodwork creaked under a heavy tread.  Merciful Heaven, the man
was coming upstairs!

I turned about and on tiptoe fled upward.  The darkness was in my
favour.  Behind me I could hear the unseen visitant stumbling and
puffing as he laboured his way aloft in the dark.  In an instant I had
gained the top and, darting along the corridor, regained my haven under
the rafters.  Even as, with infinite precaution, I shut the door behind
me, the awful truth dawned upon me.  Druce had carried away the key.  I
had no means of securing the door.

There was nothing heavier than the table with which to barricade it:
besides, there was no time.  I was caught in a cul-de-sac.

I sprang for the window farthest from the door, the one at the end of
the room.  It was a dormer window, small and low-pitched, that
projected from the precipitous slope of the roof.  Outside a broad
gutter which ran below afforded the only foothold.  I hesitated at the
sight of it, guessing that, like everything else about the house, it
was probably old and ramshackle, wondering whether it would support my
weight.

The harsh shriek of a train speeding between the houses far below
rasped across the sultry night.  As the din died down, an irregular
footfall, a sort of muted thud, followed by a softer sound, in the
corridor without, came to my straining ears.  Some one with a heavy
limp was advancing stealthily along the passage.

I delayed no longer.  Steadying myself on one wing of the casement
windows, I swung myself out, dropping my feet to the gutter.  One
glance below, where the bright lights of the Mahl-Strasse lay like a
narrow yellow riband at the foot of a canyon of darkness, sent such a
sickening wave of giddiness over me that I shut my eyes and lay back
against the rough, crenellated tiles of the roof, unable to move, to
think, even to pray.  The vibration of the open window to a ponderous
tread on the bare boards within brought me to my senses.  Stemming my
back against the steep pitch of the roof, while the gutter sagged
nauseatingly under my weight, I began to edge precariously along the
tiles away from the window.

I had not recognised the voice on the stairs; but I knew to whom that
heavy, halting step, now moving with cumbrous caution about the room
below me, belonged.  Somehow it had never occurred to me that Grundt,
with all the forces of the police at his command, would thus come
scouting in person.

For so far he was only scouting.  The scraps of conversation I had
overheard made that much clear.  How had he tracked us down?  Perhaps
Ottilie had been shadowed: if not to the house, at least to the street.
The Mahl-Strasse was quite short; and there would be no great
difficulty about ransacking it, house by house.  Perhaps...

I went cold with fear.  Merciful God, what if they had captured Druce?
He was not five minutes gone.  If they had been watching the street, he
must have walked straight into them.  And with Druce in his power,
Clubfoot had come in search of me.  Too well I knew the deadly
thoroughness, the infinite patience, of the man.  He would sit down and
wait for me.  And I should be trapped here on the tiles until the first
peep of day, now but a few hours distant, should reveal me clinging to
the roof to anybody who chanced to look aloft from the street.

And then I remembered the message I had left for Druce.  All the
effects I possessed were in the parcel which I still clutched under my
arm.  My note, coupled with the absence of any trace of me in the
garret, surely this should suffice to convince Clubfoot that I had gone
for good?

But what mattered I if Druce had fallen into their hands?  Before the
imminent, deadly peril threatening us both, all my stupid pique melted
away.  Of a sudden my mind was flooded with the glamour of the old
camaraderie that had borne us high-hearted through so many vicissitudes
together.  I thought of the tenderness with which he had spoken of
Abbott, his dead friend: of his unflinching courage: of the sparkle in
those blue eyes of his which no challenge of danger, but only my
heartless taunts, had been able to dispel.

As I cowered there in the soft, velvety darkness of the summer night,
with every nerve vibrant, every sense awake, bitter remorse assailed
me.  I realised that, almost from the moment of my meeting with this
man who had come so strangely into my life, I had lived only for the
day when our ripening friendship should rend the veil between us, and
he should open his heart to me.  Now it was too late.  We had parted in
anger, and I felt that I should never see him again.  Over the city
spread out far below me, whose rumour mounted to my ears like some
distant ocean surge, my thoughts soared out in quest of him on the
wings of an unspoken, fervent prayer that he might still be safe.

The sounds within the garret had died away.  Keeping my head well back,
lest that glimpse of the vertiginous depths beneath should dizzy me
again, I opened my eyes.  Above my head the night sky was glorious with
stars.  Enthroned in the heavens, serene and cold, they seemed to be as
aloof from the world on their perches as I on mine.  But the next
moment the creaking of a board, so close at hand that my heart almost
ceased to beat, brought me swiftly back to earth.

A dim glow in the window I had left warned me that the light had been
switched on within the room.  A plank groaned again, and Clubfoot
stepped into the embrasure.  I saw his face, under the black wide-awake
hat, clearly framed in the pane of the open casement, the features
terrible with implacable resolve, the eyes peering out from under the
tangle of the projecting ape-like brows, flinging the menace of their
dark and merciless regard at the dark windows across the way, the
massive jaw thrust forward, as solid and as immovable as the Rock of
Gibraltar.  Numb with fear, I flattened myself against the roof,
tucking my hands behind me, lest their light colour might betray me,
thanking Heaven for my veil and my dark clothes.

With grim deliberation that ogre countenance slowly turned in my
direction, and the measured scrutiny of the hot and angry eyes seemed
to burn me.  But the dark night was my friend, and in a little Clubfoot
withdrew from the window.  I heard his monstrous boot thump heavily on
the planking, saw the room sink into darkness.  Once more the window
jarred to that ponderous tread: then silence....

Tense with expectation, I waited.  I strained my ears for the sound of
the door that should tell me he was gone.  But the stillness of death
reigned within the attic.  In vain I sought to muster up the courage to
make my way back along the gutter to the window; but each time my nerve
failed me.  The thought that that sinister cripple might yet be lurking
there in the darkness of the garret, isolated at the top of this evil
house, paralysed my will.

I watched the stars pale and wisps of grey steal into the sky behind
the line of tall chimney-pots that, with their fantastic cowls, stood
up like an array of Manchu war-braves on the house-tops across the
street.  At most an hour was left to me in which to screw up my courage
to the sticking-point.  Between the chance of stumbling upon Clubfoot
now, and the certitude that dawn would discover me either to him or to
the neighbours, there was not much choice; but I could not bring myself
to do more than edge a few paces nearer the window.  There I stuck
fast, and with death in my heart witnessed the relentless approach of
dawn.

There was a lemon light in the Eastern sky when, very distinctly, I
heard a step within the room, and thereon the hollow slam of the door.
At last!  I squirmed my way along the gutter and laid my hand upon the
window.  I had to watch my feet, and it was not until I had steadied
myself on the window-frame that I ventured to glance into the room.

What I saw there seemed to turn my blood to ice.




77

"Heute mir, morgen Dir"


With his hands raised above his head and his back to the door, Nigel
Druce confronted me.  In the foreground, between him, as he faced the
window where I precariously balanced myself--it looked straight along
the room to the door--and me, Grundt's vast back bulked enormous.  The
attic was mysterious with the russet shades of dawn, though in the
corners the darkness yet lurked, and in the leaden half-light I could
clearly distinguish every detail of the two motionless figures.

Druce was smiling; but his eyes were wary.  He did not see me, for he
was watching Grundt and the great hairy paw, held level with the waist,
which I knew must be grasping a pistol, though from where I was I could
not see it.  Thus they stood in silence, eyeing one another, whilst I
watched them fascinated.

The half-drawn curtain before the bed told me at a glance what had
happened.  Clubfoot had concealed himself behind it to wait, and on
Druce's appearance had stepped out and surprised him.  I must have
appeared at the window almost at the moment of their meeting, for Druce
was not a pace from the door, and Grundt was standing on a level with
the alcove.

A sudden movement of the massive torso before me caused me to withdraw
as much of my body as I could, leaving only my face peering round the
window.  Clubfoot was laughing silently: I could see the tremendous
shoulders heaving.

"Lieber Herr," he remarked softly, "you must forgive my unseemly mirth.
But really, as a student of human nature, I find the irony of the
situation irresistible.  I can understand your dismay in descrying my
somewhat Simian traits and rotundity of line in place of the bewitching
face and sylph-like form of the delightful lady who shares, as I
perceive, not only your fortunes, but also..."--he waved his stick
airily in the direction of the alcove, and I felt my cheeks grow hot.
"Na..." he broke off.  "But," he went on, "the expression on your face
on seeing me was so unutterably comical.  Pardon me, but my profession
offers so few opportunities for a hearty laugh."  And he chuckled
wheezingly.

Druce's face darkened.  The raillery died out in his eyes, and I could
see his hands, as he held them above his head, trembling.  "We'll leave
the lady out of it, if you please," he said, in a suffocating voice.

"Ah, but we can't," Clubfoot retorted blandly.  "Like all Englishmen,
you are doubtless addicted to the pleasures of the chase.  You can
certainly appreciate the beauty of a right and left..."

Druce shrugged his shoulders, but he did not speak.  Only his eyes
narrowed.

"An allegorical way of saying," the cripple went on with smooth
mockery, "that your charming companion is by this time in the bag.  You
I bring down with my right: her with my left.  Pan, pan, and the thing
is done!  Kolossal, nicht wahr?"  Still chuckling audibly, he moved to
the table.  "You don't know perhaps that she left a message for you?"

Druce's face lightened suddenly, and he made an instinctive movement
forward.  "Stay as you are, you dog," Clubfoot bellowed savagely, every
vestige of jesting banished on the instant, "or this gun may go off
before it has to."  He picked up my note.  "I will read you the
billet-doux."  And in strongly guttural English he read out my message.
"Do you know where she has gone?" he asked softly.

"As you see," said Druce stiffly, "Miss Dunbar has not acquainted me
with her plans."

"A rift within the lute, hein?  Perhaps I can enlighten you.  Would it
surprise you to learn that the lady has sought the protection of the
Stars and Stripes?"

For the briefest instant a look of utter panic appeared in Druce's
face.  Prompt as he was to regain control, he was not quick enough for
Clubfoot.  "Schau, schau," was Grundt's comment, "old Clubfoot is not
often out in his guesses.  I thought you'd read the newspaper wherever
you were.  So you noticed my little paragraph announcing Herr
Transome's return to Berlin, eh?  And the lady flew straight off to her
friends."  He gurgled.  "Na, one of my young men will have to do the
honours in the Herr Botschaftsrat's place.  Herr Transome has taken his
wife to America, you see!  But Miss Dunbar will be most welcome at the
Viktoria-Strasse.  It's dull work watching a house; and my people have
been there for the past week..."

At that moment Druce caught sight of me.  He had raised his head and
was gazing rather miserably past Clubfoot out of the window.  His
expression did not alter: he showed not the slightest sign of
recognition; and presently his eyes turned to Grundt once more.  But in
that instant communication was established between us, and I was
conscious of the strong sense of confidence his presence always gave me.

Now Druce was listening to Clubfoot again.  "The game's up, lieber
Herr," the German was saying.  "You know what I want.  Hand it over!"

Druce smiled.  "Your guesses aren't always so good after all, Herr
Doktor.  You may not believe me, but I assure you that I have nothing
that can possess the smallest interest for you..."

"So?"  The ejaculation rang through the garret like a pistol shot.
"You'd lie to me, would you, you gaolbird?  We'll see about that, you
gallows-fruit!"  The heavy boot clumped on the boards, as with clumsy
agility the baboon-like figure scrambled forward.  "The report, you
scum," the great German squealed, "or I'll spatter your brains over the
door behind you!"  He slowly jerked up the pistol.  He had halted three
paces from Druce.

There was an instant's tense silence, then Druce said: "Oh, all right,
you shall have it."  I realised his purpose: it was to draw Clubfoot
away from the window.

"Where is it?" Clubfoot demanded.

"In the inside pocket of my coat..."

"Turn about and face the wall.  And remember, at the slightest attempt
to lower your hands, I blow the back of your head off.  Vorwarts!"

Druce turned about.  Grundt turned his stick under his arm and his left
hand shot forward.  His long fingers fastened themselves in the collar
of Druce's coat and, with a violent wrench, tore it away.  His eyes
never left his victim as his fingers explored the jacket pockets.  Then
the coat dropped to the floor and I saw the blue envelope in Clubfoot's
hand.

He raised it to his mouth, and with his teeth ripped the envelope
across.  He shook out a folded sheet of folio paper and, dexterously
catching it in his fingers while the envelope fell to the floor, spread
it out, always with the one hand, glanced at it and grunted.  He thrust
the document in his pocket and called out to Druce: "You can turn round
again."

Druce, in his shirt-sleeves, obeyed.  His face was impassive; but there
was something about him, perhaps merely the way he held up his head,
which told me he had not lost all hope.

"A chancy business, this job of ours, Herr Kollege," Clubfoot remarked
amiably: his gust of rage seemed to have blown itself out.  "You know
our German proverb: 'Heute mir, morgen Dir'--my turn to-day, yours
to-morrow.  I can't help feeling sorry about you.  You've got
remarkable aptitude for the profession, quite remarkable, jawohl, and,
had circumstances been different, I might have been able to make you an
offer which would have interested you.  But in this affair, so very
delicate, involving, as you will have probably realised, one of His
Majesty's immediate entourage, it is quite out of the question that, on
the losing side, there should be any survivors..."

Every word he spoke in his deep, resonant bass came to me distinctly.
I was cold with horror.

"A pistol shot will rouse the house," said Druce evenly.  "I suppose
you've thought of that?  You'll hardly want a scandal, will you, if
discretion is so important?"

"There's been one suicide here already," Grundt rejoined.  "A second
won't be unduly remarked.  Gott ja, every week some poor devil in this
city shoots a bullet into his head.  And a down-and-out actor--that's
your present cover, I think?--will never be missed..."

      *      *      *      *      *

It was abundantly clear to me now that this savage meant murder.  Only
I could do something!  Between us we would have to get possession of
that pistol.  But how?  Grundt was at the far end of the room from me.
Were I to burst blindly in upon him, I knew he would not scruple to
shoot down his prisoner before turning to face me.  What plan could I
most usefully adopt?

And then, as though he could read my thoughts, Druce supplied the
answer to my question.  "Your German proverb's a good one," he said to
Clubfoot, in rather a loud voice.  "But there's an English one you
should know, too.  We have a saying, 'While there's life, there's
hope!'  And let me tell you another one, 'There's many a slip 'twixt
the cup and the lip!' which applies rather neatly to this work of ours
which, as you remark, is apt to be chancy.  I've been in tight corners
before, and somehow I've never felt absolutely certain that my number
was up.  Why, even while we're talking here, I have a feeling that
anything might happen to avert the fate you have in store for me, even
if it were an angel from Heaven that came flying in through that window
behind you with a terrific crash of glass..."

He had given me my cue.  I was to distract Clubfoot's attention.
Without hesitation, I drove my knee into the window-pane and, with the
glass tinkling and clattering all about me, hurled myself into the
room.  I was watching Grundt, and I perceived how he started at that
resounding crash and, for the merest fraction of a second, deflected
his gaze from the man before him.  In that instant Druce sprang.

I saw the colossus rock and sway under the shock of that terrific
impact.  I waited for the shot; but no shot came.  Above their heads,
as they were locked together, Grundt's right arm pointed straight
upward at the ceiling, with Druce's lean hand clutching at the pistol
grasped in the hairy paw.  As I gathered myself up from the floor I
heard Clubfoot grunt stertorously as, with a supreme effort of muscle,
he forced that ponderous arm downwards to level his weapon at Druce's
head.  But in the same moment he seemed to lose his balance, or else
his crippled foot failed him, and he toppled over backwards with Druce
still fastened to him like a tiger to its prey.  He landed on the
boards with a thud that shook the house, his head striking the leg of
the table with sickening violence.  Druce was on his feet by the time I
reached him, the pistol in his hand.  He was breathing rather hard; but
the laughter danced again in his eyes.  "Oh, well done, partner!" he
murmured.

Behind him on the floor the huge mass lay limp and still.  "Is he ...
is he dead?" I said.  Druce shook his head and stepped aside.

The body sprawling on its back was like the carcase of some giant
gorilla flung down by the hunters.  The eyes were closed, the lids
yellowish and pursy, and the face, with its prodigious bony development
and its pads of hair on the cheeks, was scarcely human.  The bulbous
lips were blown out rhythmically to the laboured heaving of that mighty
thorax.  The head, with its greyish, shaven scalp, reposed in a dark
and sticky pool.

Suddenly I felt my senses slipping.  The floor seemed to tilt.  I must
have uttered some sound, for Druce, who had dropped to his knees beside
the prone figure, looked up in alarm.  The next thing I knew his arms
were about me: his cheek brushed mine: and, as though out of the far
distance, I heard his voice: "Oh, my dearest dear..."

I did not faint.  But I clung to him as the room swayed about me,
caring nothing that the whole world should slide away from under my
feet now that he had come back to me.  He held me very close, and I
yielded myself to the comforting protection of his arms.  In happy
surrender I listened to the voice I thought I might never hear again.

"Oh, my dear," he said, "everything's all right.  The car is waiting
for us, and we can make our way back to England together.  When I came
in and found you gone, and that savage in your place, I didn't care
what became of me, for I thought I'd lost you.  But now that I've found
you again, you've given me something to live for.  Olivia, dearest,
you're quite safe with me.  I'm going to take you home to England.
Won't you speak to me?"

I opened my eyes.  The floor was steady once more.  "I've been so
frightened," I said, in a voice that sounded in my ears like someone
else's.  "I thought I'd lost you, too; I never meant us to part like
that.  But I was angry, and when I'm angry I say and do horrid, stupid
things.  Can you ever forgive me ... Nigel?"

His blue eyes were gazing into mine.  I tried to turn my head aside to
hide the tears that were very near the surface; but he held me fast.
Suddenly his head dropped upon my breast, and he clung desperately to
me, even as I, a moment back, had clung to him.  "Olivia..." he
murmured brokenly.  I bent and laid my lips softly upon his raven hair.

"Nothing matters now," I told him.

At that he raised his head and fell back a pace, staring at me in
wonder.  For a brief instant we faced one another in the rosy flush of
sunrise which transfigured that shabby room.  And then I was in his
arms again.




78

In which we part from Clubfoot and embark on a journey


The rapture of that moment--ah, how often in my present loneliness my
thoughts fly back to it!--was speedily ended.  There was a movement on
the floor.  Quick as a flash, Nigel whipped round, at the same time
thrusting me behind him, the pistol pointed at the figure at his feet.

Clubfoot had opened his eyes.  Powerless though he was to harm us now,
their expression frightened me.  A sort of untamed, wild-beast fury
smouldered in their depths, and the tufted, overhanging brows were
drawn down in a savage scowl.  He seemed to be still partly stunned,
however, for he groaned feebly once, and closed his eyes again.

Side by side, Nigel and I stood, gazing down upon our old enemy.  A
muttered execration broke from Nigel's lips.  "If he had his deserts,"
he said between his teeth, "I'd give him a bullet through that ugly mug
of his.  But if Clubfoot could have risked a shot, we can't afford to.
It would bring the whole blinking house about our ears.  Dash it all, I
can hardly strangle the fellow: I'd better see about tying him up..."
He consulted his watch.  "We shall only just do it..."  He glanced at
the figure on the floor, then stooped to whisper in my ear: "The car's
due to leave in half an hour.  Fortunately, the rendezvous is quite
close by.  And that reminds me..."  He gave me a questioning look.
"Would you object frightfully to travelling as my brother?"

"Dress as a man, do you mean?"

He nodded.  "The ... er ... party who owns the car refused at first to
take anybody except me, and then only because Black Lola vouched for
me.  With a great deal of trouble I persuaded him to let my young
brother come too.  As a matter of fact, the disguise will make it
easier for us getting across the frontier.  You'll find what you want
in that old box of mine under the bed: there ought to be a cap there as
well.  Do you mind awfully, Olivia darling?"

"I'll do anything you say, Nigel..."

He patted my shoulder.  "You're a brick.  While you're over there I
think I could do with the straps off that trunk of mine..."

I threw him the straps and retired to dress.  The grey flannel suit I
found did not fit too badly, for Nigel and I were much of a height.  I
hunted in vain for a necktie.  "Don't worry!" Nigel called out to me
when I told him of this deficiency.  "On this trip we belong to the
dishonest poor!"  So I left the blue tennis shirt I had donned open at
the throat.

When at length I emerged from behind the curtain, Grundt, who was to
all appearance still unconscious, was pinioned hand and foot.  Nigel,
kneeling on the ground, was tearing a towel into strips.  "Great
Csar," he exclaimed softly on catching sight of me, "was there ever a
more perfect boy?  Your name ought to be Viola, not Olivia!  Classical
allusion, very apt!  But, oh, I say,"--acute dismay rang in his
voice--"what _have_ you been and done to your hair?"

"It had to be," I told him.  "It would stick out from under my cap and
spoil everything."  I whipped off the cap and shook my shorn locks at
him.  "Does it look very awful?" I asked, for, now that it was done, I
was not feeling too good about it.  "I only had my nail scissors.  I'm
afraid it isn't much of a job..."

"The job's A1," he said rather glumly.  "But I'm thinking of your
beautiful raven hair, my dear!"

"It'll grow again," I answered bravely.  (Within a month I was a
V.A.D., and I was glad to leave it short.  Little did I realise that I
was anticipating a world fashion that morning in Nigel's attic.)

"You're certainly thorough, and I love you for it," he declared.
"We're travelling with a roughish crowd, I suspect, and I dare say it's
for the best..."  He held up a strip of towel.  "I've got to gag our
friend here, in case he feels chatty when he wakes up, and then we'll
be off."

"Are you sure it's safe?" I questioned cautiously.  "Don't you think he
has people watching the house?"

"Nobody stopped _me_."  His eyes searched the brutish face on a level
with his.  "I think he's playing a lone hand in this.  Now that we know
where that report came from, one can understand the old man's wish to
avoid publicity..."

"How did he track us to the Mahl-Strasse?"

Nigel hesitated.  "Ottilie was shadowed," he said rather reluctantly.

"Oh, Nigel, they haven't arrested her?"

He shook his head.  "I put her and her friend, Black Lola, on the train
for Prague to-night.  Lola's a Czech, you know, though she kids the
Berliners that she's Spanish.  Ottilie will be safe in Prague."  He
paused.  "I want to explain about Ottilie, Olivia..."

I was silent.  Somehow, Ottilie didn't matter now.

"I always meant to tell you some time," he went on.  "She was one of my
scouts.  I arranged for her to report to me here, because it was safer.
That's why she had a key."  He hesitated.  "I don't make a virtue of
it, but the fact is that we were never more than friends."

"Oh, Nigel," I exclaimed, "you make me feel so badly.  Can you ever
forgive me?"

But now he raised his head and waved me backward out of Clubfoot's line
of vision as he lay on the ground.  Grundt's eyes were open again.
Defiant and unafraid, they glared up into Nigel's face.

The huge German ground his teeth.  "D'you have to truss me like a fowl
to kill me?" he snarled.

Nigel's features hardened.  "What happened to Abbott?" he demanded
sternly.

The dark eyes were suddenly wary, like the eyes of a wild beast at bay.
"I had no hand in that," he declared in a surly voice.  "Ask the
Englnderin,"--he craned his head to see me, but I shrank back out of
his sight: "she'll bear me out.  And, if you want to know, I broke the
clumsy fool that gave the order."

"Abbott's dead, then?"

"Killed on the spot.  He was shot through the head."

There was a pregnant pause.  Then, "He was my friend," said Nigel.

The great mouth set in a grim line.  "Les risques du mtier," Grundt
murmured.  His eyes flashed an angry challenge.  "Well, why don't you
shoot?" he demanded doggedly.

The rolling bass was firm and insolent.  I could not help admiring the
courage of the man.

"Much as I'm tempted, Grundt," said Nigel, "I'm not going to kill you."

A little sigh broke from the fleshy lips, and the tigerish face melted
into a crafty smile.  "So, so?" Clubfoot muttered.  "'Heute mir, morgen
Dir!'--did I not tell you it was the motto of our guild?  But I see
that you're itching to place that unpleasant-looking gag in my mouth.
Before you silence me, let me say 'Auf wiedersehen'! for I have a
curious feeling, Herr Kollege, that we may meet again..."

The words died in his throat for, with a sort of angry growl, Nigel
thrust the gag into that ogre mouth.  But it was not until Clubfoot's
eyes had been bandaged as well that I was permitted to come forward.
"I'm taking no risks," said Nigel grimly.  He put on his coat and, with
a gleeful face, showed the document restored to its place in his
pocket.  Then he laid a finger on his lips and opened the door.  He
paused to lock it after we had passed out.

A moment later we were creeping down the staircase.


The last of the tenants seemed to have retired to bed: at any rate, we
met no one on the stairs.  And when we peered out cautiously from the
house door, it was to see the Mahl-Strasse lying deserted before us in
the early morning light.  It was stretched out like a funnel of silence
between the tall tenements, and the ganglion of drab streets about it,
too, were draped in a hush in which our footsteps echoed.

My unfamiliar attire, especially a horrible sense of nakedness about
the legs, made me feel desperately self-conscious.  But my bashfulness
was quite uncalled for.  It was Sunday morning, and there were very few
people about.  The rare passers-by we encountered paid no attention to
the rather skinny youngster with the shabby young man at his side.

"You and I will have to talk German together, of course," Nigel
reminded me, as we threaded the quiet streets.  "And, oh yes, your
name's Heinrich, Heinrich Held, and I'm Max.  The Lynx and his friends
are not communicative, and I don't suppose they'll bother you much.  If
I were you, I'd try and get some sleep in the car.  You'll probably be
glad of it by the time you see a bed again..."

I asked him about our plans.

"We're bound for Cleves," he said, "and the lads reckon on travelling
straight through..."

"How far is it from Berlin?"

"The best part of four hundred miles..."

"How long will it take us?"

"Twenty hours at least, I should say, not allowing for stops.  We ought
to strike Cleves in the early hours of Monday..."

"And what happens there?"

"We leave our friends and make for Holland on foot.  It's only a matter
of five miles or so to the frontier, and with luck we ought to do it
before it's light.  Otherwise, we'll have to lie up for the day.  That
won't be difficult, for the frontier's pretty well wooded in those
parts.  Indeed, that was why I didn't want to let this chance slip.
I've had Ottilie scouting everywhere for a car leaving for the Cleves
region..."

"You know that part of the world, then?"

He smiled confidently.  "Pretty well."  He chuckled.  "You and I won't
be the first British agents to scuttle out of Germany through the
Reichswald, my dear?"

"The Reichswald?" I queried.

"It's the biggest forest on the Rhine," he explained, "and it lies a
mile or two south-west of Cleves.  The frontier line passes through its
far side.  They'll be on the look-out for us, of course, but the forest
is pretty dense and I know the paths..."  He paused.  "With old
Clubfoot out of the way I'm pretty hopeful.  Unless war breaks out
before we get across..."

"Is there any more news?"

His face grew sombre.  "The Kaiser's due back from Norway to-day.  It
won't be long now before the guns go off, I'm thinking.  But we've got
a sporting chance.  Some time on Monday, with luck, we'll be on the
train for London.  If only we're not too late...  But here we are!
Throw back those shoulders of yours, young fellow, and take long
strides.  And don't forget to call me Max!"

We were skirting a fence which surrounded the ramshackle sheds of what
seemed to be the premises of a dealer in old iron.  The fence was
broken by a pair of wooden gates at which we stopped.  Nigel gave a
peculiar whistle on three notes, and a small door in the gates swung
back.  A man in a peaked cap looked out.

"Na, endlich," he muttered gruffly.  "The Lynx had given you up."  He
beckoned us in.

We stepped through into a yard where an enormous touring car, with the
hood up, was waiting.  An undersized individual was stooping over the
open bonnet.  At the sound of steps he turned and disclosed his face.
Narrow, shifty eyes, a long and pointed nose, and a short upper lip
that unbared his teeth, gave him a furtive, rapacious air.  This, I
surmised, was Peter the Lynx, and a proper villain he looked.

"You're late, verdammt," he growled, while he eyed me suspiciously.
"Got the cash?"

Nigel handed over a wad of notes.  The Lynx flicked them over with a
dirty thumb, grunted, and stowed them away in his pocket.  "In at the
back, you two!" he ordered, and slammed down the bonnet.  "Crank her
up, Moritz!"  He moved to the wheel.

The floor of the car was stacked with petrol tins.  There was a
passenger already on the back seat, an individual with a livid
complexion, high Tartar cheek-bones, and stony, merciless eyes.  "You
haven't met the Doctor," said the Lynx to Nigel.  "Doctor, this is Max
Held, a friend of Lola's, and his brother."

The man who, in his rusty black clothes, wore a vaguely professional
air, bowed ceremoniously and made room for us.  His basilisk stare
rested on my face.  "You're young," he remarked to me in a fluty voice,
"and the young are apt to be talkative.  Don't let your tongue wag, my
friend..."  He patted my thigh encouragingly.  "Just a word of kindly
advice, nicht wahr?"  His upper lip drew up in a slow smile which made
him look like a grinning fox mask.

"Got your little bag, Doctor?" demanded the Lynx jovially, from the
driving-seat; and I perceived that my neighbour was nursing a small
black bag on his knee.

"Gewiss, gewiss," was the softly purring rejoinder.

"All right, Moritz!" said the Lynx.  The man in the peaked cap started
the engine and swung back the gates, the car passed through, and
Moritz, having closed the gates behind us, sprang into the seat beside
our leader.  We shot away into the streets of Berlin.

It was only when I sank back into the comfortably cushioned seat that I
realised how utterly exhausted I was, body and mind.  I felt too weary
even to concern myself with the forbidding looks of these travelling
companions of ours, or the nature of their business.  If they were good
enough for Nigel, I told myself drowsily, they were good enough for me.
What a blessed relief to yield up my cares to him!  Merely the touch of
his arm against mine lent me confidence; his presence was like a
buckler between me and a world of foes.  I put my fears away and closed
my eyes.  Before we were clear of the Berlin trams, I was fast asleep.




79

The end of the journey


I have but mixed recollections of that trip, excepting the shocking and
terrible episode that marked its close.  I was as though drugged with
sleep.  All through the morning I slept in snatches, as one sleeps in a
car on a long journey, my impressions a jumble of vignettes: an endless
ribbon of road glaring white in the sunshine of a flawless summer day;
level crossings with black and white striped barriers which rose and
fell to the clang of a gong; villages where the sound of bells floated
on the air of our passage, and peasants, stiffly clad, and grasping
large umbrellas, wended their way to church.  And all the time the
furious drumming of the engine throbbed like a pulse in my brain.

I remember feeling the eager nip of morning before the sun got up, and
basking in its warming rays when we slowed down in a clean and bustling
city which someone said was Magdeburg.  Once Nigel sought to rouse me,
and I opened my eyes to find the car at a standstill in the midst of
brown moorland bright with gorse, and the party out on the road eating
sandwiches.

But I was too sleepy to eat, and I soon dropped off again, nor woke
until my arm was shaken, and I perceived Moritz unstacking the petrol
cans under my feet.  Again we had stopped in the open country, this
time among the oak and beech of a dense wood.  I felt refreshed and
hungry, and was glad of the sandwich which Nigel had kept for me.
Everybody appeared to be in the best of spirits.  We had passed
Hanover, Nigel told me, and were well up to time.

The tank replenished, and the empty cans, with most un-German
extravagance, flung away into the undergrowth, we started off again.
We did not halt again for a hundred miles.  All the afternoon long we
raced through the clinging dust, roaring through the villages, bouncing
over the cobbles of sleepy little towns, dipping down through the green
and resinous depths of great, mysterious forests: all through a mellow
afternoon and a gorgeous, purple-hued sunset into a warm and moonless
night, vibrant with the clamour of frogs.  It was already dark when,
between Osnabrck and Mnster, on a lonely stretch of road, the Doctor,
leaning forward, tapped the Lynx on the shoulder, the car slowed down
and we drew up outside a solitary tavern.

Rapturous greeting rang from the threshold, and a fat man bustled into
the glow of our head-lights.  He led us into the tap where supper was
waiting: raw Westfalian ham, smoke-flavoured and pungent; Edamer
cheese, scarlet-rinded; heavy, sweetish black bread, what the Germans
call Pumpernickel; and little glasses of a fiery white spirit that
burned my throat.

The Lynx and Moritz ate and drank voraciously, and without speaking;
but the Doctor, contenting himself with a cigarette and a glass of
schnaps, sat conversing in undertones with the inn-keeper, who appeared
to be his particular friend.

"They're mighty jumpy over Cleves way, so they tell me," I heard the
inn-keeper say.

The Doctor made a contemptuous gesture.  "We've had these war scares
before ...

"Permit me," rejoined the host importantly, "but this time a regular
frontier control is in operation.  They're stopping cars..."

"It doesn't affect us," his companion put in.  "We're not crossing the
frontier, as you know."

"The car I heard of," the host insisted, "was held up in Cleves itself!"

The Doctor shrugged his shoulders.  "They haven't manned the frontier
with troops, at least?" he questioned.

"I didn't hear that," replied the inn-keeper.

"Na, ja," said the Doctor, "don't you try and make our flesh creep with
your war scares, Fatty!  We shan't reach Cleves until after midnight,
and by that time the police will all be snugly tucked up in their beds.
And apropos..."  He lowered his voice and I heard no more.

I caught Nigel's eye and, rising from the table, strolled across to the
tap-room door.  It was one of those old-fashioned inn doors in two
parts, and the upper half was folded back.  I leaned over it, gazing
out upon the dusty _chausse_ gleaming whitely under the stars.
Presently Nigel joined me, and I told him what I had heard.  He was not
greatly perturbed.

"It was only to be expected that Clubfoot would take his precautions,"
he remarked.  "But we needn't worry, Olivia darling.  I know Cleves.
Where they would stop cars would be at the Customs post, just outside
the town, on the Cranenburg road, which is the main road into Holland.
As long as we drop off in the town we shall be all right.  By the way,"
he added, "I believe I've placed our friends."  He moved his head in
the direction of the supper table.

"Oh, Nigel," I exclaimed, "who and what are they?"

His eyes twinkled.  "Can't say for certain.  But as I got out of the
car just now I kicked the Doctor's bag, _and it clinked_!"

"I don't understand..."

"Professional apparatus: they're going to crack a crib!"

"You mean... oh, Nigel, not burglars?"

He glanced cautiously over his shoulder.  "You've said it.  And I think
I can guess the job they're on.  There's only one place at Cleves, so
far as I know, which could possibly interest high-grade operators from
the capital, such as the Lynx and his assistants appear to be, and
that's Schloss Bergendal.  Its collection of old Dutch gold and silver
work is celebrated.  But it don't concern us, my dear.  Once in Cleves,
we go our way and they theirs."  He gave my hand a gentle squeeze.
"Buck up, sweetheart, we're doing splendidly!"  He looked into my face
with his happy smile.

I clung desperately to his hand.  "This story about cars being stopped
scares me," I said.  "I thought we were done with Clubfoot for good!"

"Well," Nigel remarked thoughtfully, "I tied him up pretty tight.  And
we've come nearly three hundred miles without being molested.  It's
beginning to look to me as though we'd shaken the old man for good..."

But this time, as events were to prove, my young man spoke without the
book.


Once more we went drumming into the night.  The open road, a darkened
hamlet, the hush of the fields again, another flying streak of rare
lights and blind windows as yet a fresh village stood up in the glare
of our lamps: so, in endless alternation, it went on.  We travelled in
silence.  Our companions spoke no word now; and the steady beat of the
engine, hammering out the kilometres, was the only sound.

But their taciturnity was only a cloak to cover up their growing nerve
tension.  We burst a tyre; and the Lynx fretted and fussed while Moritz
adjusted the Stepney wheel, a job which seemed never-ending in the
dark.  Then, at a village before Mnster, we missed a turn, and had to
go back a considerable distance.  The Lynx roundly abused Moritz, who
held the map, and the man swore back at him.  The Doctor had quite a
business to restore peace.

It was half-past ten by the Mnster clocks as we slid through; and
beyond, on the Wesel road, the villages were fast asleep.  At Wesel,
two hours later, even the cafs were dark, and the Lynx cursed aloud
when he saw the time over the station.  But our troubles were not yet
over.  We had crossed the bridge of boats, and the dark and swiftly
rushing Rhine was at our backs, when there came a series of splutters
from the exhaust.  The Lynx raved, while Moritz stolidly set about
exploring for the seat of the trouble.  Nigel, with a glance at his
watch, shook his head gravely at me.  It was a good half-hour before we
got going again, and close on two o'clock when Nigel nudged me,
pointing ahead to where brilliant lights seemed to ride in the sky
above a cluster of railway signals dully gleaming.  "Cleves!" he said.

My spirits soared.  We had almost two hours of darkness before us, and
the frontier, Nigel had told me, was but five miles away.  The arc
lamps that glittered coldly above the factories grouped about Cleves
station were not brighter than my hopes as we nosed our way along the
narrow, cobbled streets of the little town.

Nigel was speaking to the Lynx.  "I'll put you down all right," the
latter said.  "But you'll have to wait until we reach the Tiergarten,
where we turn off.  It's dark there under the trees, and you'll be less
noticed...."

And then, as we turned a corner, a raucous voice called "Halt!" and a
policeman stepped out of the shadow.  So promptly did the Lynx
accelerate that the man had to leap back to save himself from being
crushed.  In the light of the ancient bracket lamp jutting out from the
wall above his head, I had a glimpse of his face, scared but
exceedingly wrathful.

The car seemed to bound forward, and we went thundering down the empty
street.  There was a wheezing sound beside me.  The Doctor was
laughing.  I looked at Nigel.  "This means we're in it to the end!" he
whispered, frowning.

And, in truth, the Lynx showed no intention of stopping to let us
descend.  He seemed to be as familiar as Nigel with the geography of
this remote corner of the vast German Empire.  The street we had taken
soon became a boulevard of villas with the steep, wooded banks of a
park on one side.  A narrow lane opened off on the right, and into this
the Lynx recklessly swung the car.

We were now following a country road, a handful of houses on one side,
flat fields on the other.  The surface was appalling, and the three of
us on the back seat were flung this way and that as the car bounced
along.  The last house was passed, and we were in the open country,
when suddenly there was a muttered execration from the driving-seat,
and our mad pace was checked.  Ahead, a ruby light gleamed from the
middle of the road, beyond it the glint of metal in the yellow rays of
a lamp.  We had reached a level crossing; and the barrier was down.

We stopped, and in that moment a large gendarme--the Gendarmen are the
German country police: I used to see them in their green uniforms in
the villages about Schlatz--appeared at the Lynx's elbow.  He had a
holster on his belt, and a lighted lantern dangled from his left hand.
"Your papers, please!" he said in a stern, official voice.

There was an ominous pause.  It was broken by a terrific report, so
close at hand that it made my ears sing.  Crying "Ah!" in a voice
shrill with surprise, the gendarme toppled forward and fell.  The car
rocked with the impact of his body as it struck the running-board.

"Up with the barrier, quick, Moritz!" said a sleek voice at my side,
and I saw the Doctor leaning forward with a smoking pistol in his hand.
Hardly had he spoken, however, than, with tremendous roar an orange
flame streaked the darkness about us and with a grunt, the Doctor
collapsed in a heap at my feet.




80

The story of Marston-Gore


A whistle trilled clamorously.  Without an instant's delay, Nigel was
out of the car.  By the glow of our lamps blazing on the lowered
railway barrier I saw him on the road with his arms held out to me,
behind him a low iron fence enclosing a fir plantation.  It was only a
fleeting glimpse, for in the same moment the headlights were switched
off, and the utter blackness of a moonless night in the open
countryside dropped down upon the scene.  Another shot went crashing
out, and a piteous voice, shrill with fear, was screeching, "Nicht
schiessen!" as I sprang into Nigel's arms.  He swung me clear of the
railing and dropped me on my feet among the shrubs, then vaulted over
himself.

He dived forward on his face and hands, and on all fours began to worm
his way between the low trees, I following.  Neither of us looked back.
A tremendous hubbub was going on about the stranded car.

The plantation was quite small.  Thirty yards, and we emerged upon the
fence on the farther side, the flat fields beyond.  Nigel sprang over
and helped me across.  Lights were moving on the road we had left.  An
infuriated voice was crying: "This way!  One went this way!"  With a
brief glance at the stars, Nigel grasped my hand, and we set off at a
run across the open country.

That was a nightmare course in the dark.  All about us was the flat
plain, in which the dim outline of the hill, above which Cleves
clambers to its ancient Schloss on the summit, was the only feature.
Not a wood, not a valley, to hide us: I felt that we were as
conspicuous as flies on a ceiling.

The going was terribly rough: over stubble with the ghostly shapes of
corn-stooks all about; in and out of the sun-hardened furrows of vast
vegetable gardens; across thistley pasturage.  Everywhere were little
irrigation channels, dry, for the most part, at this season, into which
we continually stumbled.  Twice we had to make a detour to avoid a
village; and there were innumerable plantations, four-square and
close-set with baby trees, similar to that which had screened our
flight, which we went round, rather than again force a way between the
prickly firs in the dark.

Neither of us had any breath to speak.  We must have been going for a
full hour, and the Eastern sky had already begun to lighten, when a
dark mass loomed out of the dimness ahead.  "The Reichswald!" said
Nigel.

We paused for a breathing spell.  Nigel looked up at the sky.  Already
it was possible to discern objects in our immediate vicinity.  He shook
his head sagely.  "I daren't risk it," he remarked.  "I've not
approached the Reichswald from this side before, and I've got to pick
up my bearings yet.  I shall never manage it in the dark.  This is an
enormous forest, you know, more than forty miles square, and we can't
afford to lose our way.  We shall have to go to ground for the day,
that's about the size of it.  Never mind, my dear, our troubles are
nearly over."  He jerked his head in a backward direction.  "We're well
out of that mess, it seems to me...."

"Oh, Nigel," I said, "it was ghastly!"

He nodded moodily.  "Your real German criminal is a murderous beast.
However, we mustn't complain.  That gendarme was looking for us, you
know.  If the Doctor hadn't pulled a gun...  I'm sorry about the
policeman, though: these gendarmes are mostly thundering good chaps.
Of course there were two of 'em posted at the crossing.  When one went
down, t'other opened fire.  And then, to judge by the row, others in
reserve came on the scene.  I wonder if the Lynx and Moritz got away?
I hope to goodness they did.  The Doctor and the bag of tools are quite
enough to distract attention from us; but I wouldn't bet on the
discretion of the Lynx and his pal if they've fallen into the hands of
the police...."

"How much do they know about us?"

"Only what Lola told them, and she knows nothing, either.  She simply
gave them to understand, I gather, that I was in trouble and anxious to
clear out of the country: they probably think that we're deserters from
military service.  Clubfoot, of course, would guess the truth in the
wink of an eye; but by the time the story reaches his ears we shall be
in safety...."

While he was speaking, we had resumed our weary trudge.  The road we
were now following presently became a cart-track striking across a
fallow field to merge eventually in a black belt of trees.  The track
drove deep into the forest debouching, at last, upon a mossy glade,
high-banked and dim, along which we went for perhaps a mile until we
lighted upon another trail running right and left.  We took the
left-hand road, and when it ended, the left-hand turn again, travelling
always with a left-hand slant or, as Nigel said, in a south-westerly
direction.

Sunrise, which overtook us in that verdant place, was entrancing.
Every leaf sparkled: the forest rang with the chorus of the birds; and
the first shafts of light, falling between the solemn tree-trunks,
spread a stencilled pattern of foliage on the spongy rides we tramped.
There were strange rustlings in the undergrowth.  A stoat skipped
across the path; squirrels peeped, bright-eyed, from amongst the
gnarled roots of the ancient oaks and beeches; and once we caught a
glimpse of a dappled hind standing between the boles, with head
uplifted warily.  The soft air was impregnated with the forest
fragrance, the clean smell of dry leaves, resin, and damp moss.

We were threading a track which seemed, by the coarse grass which had
sprung up between the ruts, to be little used, when Nigel stayed me
with a hand on my arm.  I heard a distant rattling sound.  I looked in
the direction to which he silently pointed, and saw a horse and cart
slowly moving between the trees.  They were a considerable distance
away, and it was impossible to distinguish whether the figure at the
horse's head, enveloped in a sort of long cloak, was a man or a woman.

In an instant we were behind the nearest trunk.  Crouching there, we
watched until the horse and cart had passed out of sight.  Evidently we
had not been seen.  "But," Nigel declared, "it's a sign that it's time
we went to earth."  Accordingly, we left the path and made our way
between the trees until the forest grew denser.  Presently, we came
upon a nook, a rough triangle formed by the enormous trunks of two
fallen elms, where, it seemed, we might lie safely hid in the event of
any further interruption.  There we flung ourselves down at full length
side by side, our backs against the fallen tree, the blue sky overhead,
and relaxed our exhausted limbs.


"Olivia," said Nigel suddenly, "are you asleep?"

I opened my eyes.  The sun was high in the heavens.  The forest was as
still as a church.  The very birds seemed drowsy with the heat, all
except one, an obstinate fellow, who seemed so pleased with his
imitation of two stones knocking together, that he kept on repeating
it.  I must have dozed.  We had been talking about our plans.  Nigel
was still unfamiliar with his surroundings.  His idea was that, in the
noon-day hour, when the charcoal burners, who, he said, were the only
people we were likely to meet, were at their dinner, he would steal out
and reconnoitre.

"No," I said in reply to his question, smiling at him affectionately.
Somehow I was very happy to be thus alone with him in this
world-forgotten spot.  It was as though the hush of the woods drew us
nearer together.

"I want to tell you a story," he went on, his blue eyes looking
intently into mine, "and ask you a question."

I knew what was in his mind.  I put my hand on his brown one.  "Ask me
the question first," I bade him.

He glanced aside.  "I haven't the right ... until you've heard the
story."

"Isn't that for me to say?"

Once more his eyes sought mine.  Behind his eagerly questioning regard
I was conscious of the abject unhappiness which once before, that
evening in the garret when I had taunted him with his past, I had
discerned in his expression.  "Nigel," I said, "you break my heart when
you look like that.  Oh, my dear, you're a very reluctant lover.  Do
you want me to ask you your question?"

For an instant his face shone.  But almost at once his eyes clouded
over again and he shook his head.  "You couldn't marry a man who'd been
in gaol!"  His mouth was bitter.

"I'd marry _you_," I told him, and smiled into the troubled face on a
level with my own, "that is, if I were asked."

"Do you mean that?" he demanded, so sternly that the smile left my lips.

I found it hard to answer when he gazed at me so intently.  "Women have
intuitive instincts about men, they say.  I never believed you were a
thief, Nigel.  You mustn't think of the cruel things I said that night.
I was worn out and cross and ... and ... well, I didn't understand
about Ottilie then."

"My dear, I know that," he put in gently.

"But even if you were, I'd marry you just the same!"

He gripped my hand fiercely.  "Olivia, is it true?"

I bowed my head.  "Just as true," I whispered, "as what I told you last
night.  And what you told me."

"Oh, my dear," he muttered brokenly, "ever since I took up this work on
my release from gaol I've never cared whether I came back from a
mission alive.  But this time, please God, we'll go home safely
together.  And now I'll tell you something I've never confided to a
living soul...."

He paused, and in the silence I heard the chatter of that industrious
bird reverberating out of the tangled green about us above all manner
of drowsy insect sounds.

"I didn't steal old Whirter's cup," he said at last.  "But, though I
took the blame, my disgrace was the consequence of my own actions.
Marston-Gore is my real name.  I changed it to Druce, which was my
mother's maiden name, when I came out of prison.  I was a subaltern in
the Indian Army.  I didn't have much money, but I had a pretty good
time; women, racing, polo, a bit of shooting: you know the sort of
life.  As long as I was in India, I managed to keep my head above
water; but I exchanged into a British regiment, and when I came home,
gosh, it was a different story.  It wasn't long before I had to go to
the Jews and raise money on some expectations of mine.  Soon I was in
fairly deep all round.  The prosecution brought up these transactions
at the trial; and they settled my hash all right...."

He fell silent for a spell, tearing at the golden blooms of a head of
gorse.

"There was a woman in it, of course," he resumed slowly.  "I met her in
India.  Her husband was a box wallah--you know, an English
merchant--not a bad sort, but much older than she was, and dull, and
absorbed in his business.  I'm not saying this to excuse myself, but
just because it's part of the story.  It wasn't the first affair of the
kind I had had by any means.  But with her it was different.  She was
quite young and very pretty, and, until we met, her life had been
quiet.  India's a hotbed of the most ghastly snobbery; and anyway her
husband hadn't contrived to get into the amusing set.  I took her
round, got her asked out a bit and all that.  And then...  But I
needn't go into that.

"At any rate, when I left India, I persuaded her to follow me home.
There was no scandal: the pretext was that her two small children had
to go to school.  I wanted to marry her, but she wouldn't hear of it.
She was fond of her children and afraid of losing them.  She was always
terrified of her husband finding out about us...."

He broke off suddenly, his head raised, listening.  "Did you hear
that?"  Out of the forest depths a bell tolled faintly.  "I thought I
heard it before; but I was only half awake at the time.  There it is
again!"  Three more strokes came to us distantly on the warm air.
Nigel glanced at his watch.  "Twelve o'clock; it's the Angelus.  There
must be a convent somewhere round here."

Once more the bell sounded thrice.  Then silence descended again, and
Nigel resumed his story.

"She had a flat in Knightsbridge and went about a great deal.  I was
stationed out of London, but I was in town every week.  It sometimes
struck me that she must spend a lot of money; but her husband was
pretty well off, and she had always seemed to have anything she wanted.
And then one day when I was with her at the flat, she produced this
gold cup, and asked me to raise money on it for her.  She was quite
casual about it.  She said she was overdrawn at the bank and didn't
care to worry her husband: he hated her to exceed her allowance, she
said.  But she had to have 300 to settle some pressing debts.  She
didn't know how one raised money on anything: would I undertake the
transaction as though it were for myself and hand her the proceeds?"

"Did she explain how the cup came into her possession?" I put in.

"That was the first thing I asked her, for, you see, I recognised the
cup.  Sir Charles Whirter was a rich old josser living down in
Hampshire.  She had met him somewhere, and he was very sweet on her.
She had made him ask me down to his place with her for a couple of
week-ends, and I had seen this pot, an eighteenth-century French goblet
and a lovely thing, in his collection.  She told me he had given it to
her.  There was nothing unusual in that, for he was always making
magnificent presents to women he liked.  I told her she was a fool to
accept such a valuable gift, but she laughed and said it was nothing to
him; he had plenty more in his collection.  To make a long story short,
I did as she asked.  My Jermyn Street Jew advanced me 300 on the pot."

"Had she stolen it?"

He nodded.  "Unquestionably.  But to me she held out to the end that
old Whirter had given it to her."

"Didn't she come forward and say so at the trial?"

He made a little pause.  "She went back to India before the case came
on," he said.

"Oh, my dear...."

"I had no luck.  It appeared that this cup was a unique specimen, a
museum piece.  My moneylender showed it about, and it was seen by a
King Street dealer, who made inquiries.  It was only then that old
Whirter discovered his loss: you know the slack way some of these
country house collections are kept.  I had spent two week-ends with
him: he had shown me his collection himself: I had pledged the cup: I
was in debt: naturally, I was arrested."

"And you never told them the truth?"

"How could I?  When I was on bail, before the police court proceedings,
I saw her, and she promised to explain everything to Sir Charles and
get him to withdraw the prosecution.  She didn't tell me that she had
already booked her passage, and that by the time I appeared at
Marlborough Street she would be on her way back to India.  Without her
no one would have believed my story, even if I had been willing to
speak.  But I felt in part responsible for her downfall.  I had taken
her away from her husband: I had persuaded her to come to England: I
had contributed to the development of the abnormal traits that were in
her.  For she was just a thief, Olivia, a plain crook.  I didn't know
it then, but I found out afterwards.  Things were missed at country
houses where she had stayed: she narrowly avoided prosecution for
swindling one of the big stores.  Vivian Abbott knew a bit about her
and tried to make me speak.  But I could do nothing without her, and so
I held my peace."

There was a moment's silence between us.  Then, "Nigel," I said, "what
has become of her now?"

"She's dead."

"Did you ever see her again?"

He shook his head.  "She never even wrote."

"Did you?"

"No.  I let her go.  Afterwards her husband divorced her over another
man.  Then she went to the devil altogether.  She was killed last year
with a Rumanian in a motor smash on the Grande Corniche."

I could not trust myself to look at him.  "I hate myself when I think
of what I said to you," I whispered.  "Oh, my dear, why couldn't you
have told me then?"

His smile was wistful.  "Because I'd buried the past.  I learnt in
prison to see Marston-Gore in his true light, and I wasn't very proud
of him.  I went into the Secret Service to try to make a new life for
myself: that was Vivian's doing, God bless him!  I was brought up in
Germany, and, before I took this toss, I had been on one or two stunts
for the Intelligence, following Divisional and Brigade manoeuvres on
the quiet: you know, plain clothes and a push-bike.  When I came out of
prison, six months ago, it was Vivie--we were in India together before
he went into the Intelligence, and he stuck to me through my trouble
like a brick--who persuaded the old man to give me a chance.  They
tried me out on a couple of jobs in Germany--that's how I come to know
this part of the country--and I didn't do too badly.  I liked the work;
it took my mind off myself--and I intended to make a career of it.  I
shall never get my commission back, of course, unless..."--his eyes
shone--"unless war breaks out, and there's something worth while to do.
Marston-Gore is dead and buried; but His Majesty might find a job of
work for Druce."  His arm went about me.  "If you're still of the same
mind, Olivia dear, I give you fair warning, you must be prepared to
marry Druce."

I smiled at him happily.  "You can call yourself Grundt for all the
difference it makes to me," I answered.

He drew me to him.  "Oh, sweetheart," he said, "you give me back my
life.  I never dreamed the world contained a woman who could make me
forget the bitterness of the past.  Olivia darling, tell me again that
you care...."

"Nigel," I whispered, "I think I loved you from that first day when I
met you on the stairs at Bale's...."

At that moment a dull, whirring noise, like the droning of some
enormous insect, floated down to us from the patch of blue sky above
our heads.  We both looked aloft.  High in the air an aeroplane, very
white in the brilliant sunlight, soared majestically above the
tree-tops.




81

"A fool, a fool, I met a fool i' the forest..."


We exchanged a glance.  Nigel's face was perturbed.

"I say," he murmured, "I don't like that...."

"You don't think he's looking for us, do you?"

"I wonder.  The nearest aeroplane station is Wesel, where there's a big
garrison.  Of course, with all these war rumours about, they may only
be patrolling the frontier.  Still..."

Swiftly the machine passed out of sight.  The note of the propeller
grew fainter.  Nigel jumped up and helped me to my feet.  "Everything
seems quiet," he said.  "I'm going to have a prowl round.  If this lad
is looking for us, the sooner we get under cover the better.  In the
very heart of the forest, near a sort of ravine known as Charlemagne's
Ride, there are some caves.  We'd be quite snug there, if only I can
pick up my bearings...."  He broke off listening.  The 'plane was no
longer audible.  He took me in his arms and kissed me.  "Don't be
anxious if I'm rather long away.  There are two main roads running
through the forest.  If I can strike one of them, I shall know where I
am...."

"I hate letting you go," I said.  "I wish you'd take me with you."

"Better not, in case they're out after us.  I can travel quicker alone.
You're ever so much safer here in this cache than you'd be with me.  If
you hear anything, keep down.  And should you see any more aeroplanes,
don't look up, but turn over on your face.  Wait...."  His hand went to
his pocket.  "I think you'd better look after this, just in case...."
He passed over the blue envelope with the document.  He made me put it
in my inside jacket pocket and fasten the mouth of the pocket with a
pin.

"You will take care of yourself?" I whispered.

"Have no fear for me...."  He caught up my two hands and pressed his
lips to them.  The next moment he was plunging away through the
brambles.

I sat down again against my fallen elm and prepared to wait.  The peace
of the woods was extraordinarily soothing.  After a little while I
heard that droning from the air once more.  This time it came at me
with a sudden rush and a roar, and before I had time to hide my face,
there was the 'plane, like a huge white box-kite, skimming the
tree-tops.  So close to the ground was it that I could distinguish the
great black Maltese crosses painted on the under-sides of its wings.

And then it was gone.  As I lay face downward among the forest berries
I could still hear the receding hum of its engine.  Little by little
the deep note swelled in volume till it was deafening; and I knew that,
for the second time, the machine had swooped down over my hiding-place.

Gradually the whirring faded and stillness settled over the forest.
For a good half-hour I must have lain motionless on my face, but the
bird-man did not reappear.  I tried to tell myself that this was a good
sign: the aviator had gone on with his patrol.  But I felt desperately
uneasy.  What if he had seen us the first time, returned to make sure,
and had now flown away to report?

The hours of silence dragged on.  I love the sunshine, and while I
basked in the golden light I pondered on the strange story Nigel had
related, and tried to picture this woman who had wrecked his life.
Men, I had heard, always fall in love with the same type: I wondered
whether this abominable cheat had looked anything like me.

How long this reverie lasted I cannot say, for when at length I looked
at my watch I found it had run down.  But I could tell by the change in
the light that the afternoon was waning.  The aeroplane did not
reappear: in truth, I had almost forgotten it, for I was growing
seriously alarmed at Nigel's prolonged absence.  Our nest among the
logs was situated in a clearing, on highish ground, looking across a
steep, wooded gully to the farther slope where, half-way up, the trees
were so close-set that their branches met and formed a thick screen.
It was into this tangle that Nigel, after scrambling across the nullah,
had vanished; and I now began to watch the slope for the first sight or
sound of his return.

After some time I thought I heard a distant crashing somewhere behind
this curtain of foliage.  I had a thrill of relief, for I made no doubt
but that, at any moment, Nigel would appear through the trees.  The
noise came nearer; and I had risen excitedly to my feet when a whistle
rang shrilly through the forest, and immediately thereon a faint hubbub
of voices came to my ears.

In my panic I had but one thought--that I was in the open.  All around
me the ring of solemn trees seemed to beckon me with their leafy arms
to seek safety within their hidden fastnesses.  Without a moment's
delay I clambered out of my retreat and darted into the thicket behind.

I was not neglectful of my partner.  I did my best to memorise my
surroundings in the hope that, should the pursuit swing aside, or
should I out-distance it, I might be able to retrace my steps and wait
for him at the rendezvous.  Once through the zareeba of fern and
bramble which fringed the clearing I had left, the trees became widely
spaced and the going easy, though often very steep.  Downhill was the
worst, as my shoes--white canvas, from Nigel's wardrobe--though tightly
laced, were much too large for me, and my feet kept slipping on the dry
leaves.

I was scrambling down one of these slopes when, as usual, my legs went
from under me, and I found myself travelling on my back.  Before I
could regain my balance, the declivity became accentuated, and I
perceived a high, naked wall at the bottom.  I shot down and landed in
a bed of nettles, with a thud that jarred every bone in my body.
"Damn!" I exclaimed loudly and deliberately, as I sat up to look for my
cap.

I found it beside me.  I had just put it on, when a voice at my very
elbow said--I write the words as I heard them--"You Englnder, a-oh
yes?"

I whisked round in amazement.  An extraordinary figure confronted me.
It wore a monkish garb, a habit of heavy, coarse, brown cloth, girded
about with a thick rope, and sandals.  A partly filled sack hung across
one shoulder.  The face was the face of an imbecile, with a sloping
forehead, vacant eyes of watery blue, and a foolish, dribbling mouth
with a fringe of reddish beard under the chin.  Behind this fantastic
visitant the wall made an angle and I surmised that he had emerged from
around the corner.

As I stared at him, dumbfounded, he cackled a high falsetto laugh.
"'Damn' a very bad English word," he squawked.  "Pater Vedastus he say
'Damn!' once; but he not let Josef, poor Josef"--the idiot mouth
sagged--"say it."  Ingratiatingly he grinned at me, blinking his eyes
and nodding.  "You come and talk with Pater Vedastus, yes?"

"Does Pater Vedastus speak English?"

The half-wit went off into a shrill peal of laughter.  "Pater Vedastus
Englnder the same as you.  Very fine man, Pater Vedastus.  He dig in
the garden."  His thin hand pawed my jacket sleeve.  "I take you to
him, yes?"

I hesitated, listening.  It seemed to me that I could still hear vague
sounds in the dark forest towering above the monastery wall.  The note
of the whistle, reverberating faintly again, decided me.

"All right," I said, "let's go to Pater Vedastus.  But first tell me,
what place is this?"

"Kapuziner-Kloster!" was the giggling reply.

Kapuziner?  "Kapuziner" in German meant Capuchins, I reflected, as I
followed my guide round the turn of the wall.  Friars.  I had never met
a friar before.  And apparently this Pater Vedastus was an English
friar at that.

Would he see through my disguise?  Heavens above, surely women were not
allowed in monasteries?  What would happen if he found me out?

Sniggering and talking to himself, my oafish escort had stopped at a
gate in the wall.  With a great key, which he drew from his ample
sleeve, he unlocked it.  We crossed a flagged yard, where he flung down
his sack, to a small door set across a corner.  He opened the door and
disclosed an immense garden, enclosed within four high walls.

From the threshold I looked in upon a scene of utter peace.  The garden
seemed to glow in the golden afternoon light.  There was the glint of
ripe peaches and apricots on the honey-coloured walls, and apples and
pears glistened in the sun on their loaded branches.  Along one side of
the enclosure flower-beds bright with flowers spread a lavish splash of
colour: along another, vegetable plots were laid out in neat array: and
in a remote corner, screened by a rank of solemn, black cypresses, the
rounded tops of headstones, very white against the emerald turf, marked
the dead friars' last resting-place.  Above the wall on my right hand,
a sober edifice of brick, weather-greyed, with high slate roof, stood
up, with rows of little windows gazing down upon this vast and tranquil
spot, and, at the end, a chapel, surmounted by a little belfry.  In
this hung a bell, the one, no doubt, whose voice had reached us in the
forest.

The garden was deserted save for a solitary friar, garbed in the same
rough habit as my guide, who was digging in a plot of earth just inside
the gate.  When we came upon him, he had ceased from his labour and
stood sunk in thought, with one sandalled foot resting on the spade
thrust upright in the ground in front of him.

He was every inch of six foot and broad in proportion, with a great
beard, heavily grizzled, spread out like a fan across his brawny chest.
Though clearly getting on in years, he still looked alert and vigorous.
His face, tanned by exposure to the weather, was as brown as his frock,
and one had the impression of tremendous muscles under the coarse
serge.  As he leaned on his spade, with the belfried chapel at his
back, with his huge beard and pointed cowl and sandals, he was like a
picture from the _Little Flowers of St. Francis_ come to life.

My oaf ran forward.  "Gelobt sei Jesus Christus, Pater!" (Praised be
Jesus Christ, Father), he cried.  The bearded friar started, and to my
immense surprise, I saw a tear splash down his face.  Quickly he
brushed a large hand across his eyes.  "Amen!" he responded.  "Was
ist's, Bruder Josef?"

The half-wit broke into English.  "Pater, Pater, an Englishman," he
gibbered.  "He fall on the back and say 'Damn!' like you that time you
beat your foot with the spade.  As I gather pine cones in the forest I
hear him, and I bring him to you, yes?"

Now for the first time the Capuchin raised his eyes to mine, eyes
luminous and kindly.  "An Englishman at Materborn, is it possible?" he
said in slow, deep English.  "You are English, my son?"

"Yes, Father," I replied.

He thrust his hands into his sleeves and bowed his tonsured head,
closing his eyes as though in prayer.  "Oh God," he murmured, "how
merciful art Thou to Thy poor servant!"  He turned to my companion.
"You did well to bring me my compatriot, Brother Josef," he said.  "Now
go back to your task!  The Father Procurator will scold if your sack is
not filled by Compline."

"Schn, schn," mumbled the imbecile and shambled away.

"A poor, weak-minded fellow, whom we employ as lay brother," the Father
explained.  "I have taught him a little English in the recreation hour.
Strange are the ways of Providence, my son!  Just as you appeared, my
thoughts were with my country.  For more than twenty years I have lived
in this friary.  We lie off the beaten track; and during all this time
I have not had more than two or three opportunities for talking with a
fellow-countryman."  He sighed and added: "I know that the lowly
disciples of our holy founder, St. Francis, have no fatherland, and
that the love he taught us to bear for all men should rise above the
turmoil of worldly strife.  But I am weak, and in my weakness I prayed
to him that, in this critical hour for our dear country, he would
comfort an exile's lonely heart by letting him hear his mother tongue
just once again.  And behold, through his, our dear saint's,
intercession, Almighty God has made this poor simpleton His instrument
for bringing you to me."  He paused and, producing an enormous red
handkerchief, used it with vigour on his nose.  "But," he went on,
tucking the handkerchief away, "you look exhausted, my son.  Your
clothes are covered with dust and burrs, and your hands are all
scratched."

While he spoke I had been listening for any sound from the forest
beyond the high wall.  But all was still.

"I slept out in the woods last night," I said.  "And I've been
running..."

"Running?" the deep voice echoed.  "Why?"

"They are beating the forest for me.  I am trying to reach the
frontier.  You're an Englishman, Father.  Won't you help me?"

His eyes were stern.  "I am a Capuchin, my son, and we are in Germany.
I cannot hide a fugitive from German justice, a murderer..."

"A murderer?" I cried, aghast.

He bent his brows at me.  "The gendarmes were here this morning.  They
asked whether anything had been seen of two men implicated in the
murder of a gendarme by a gang of motor bandits from Berlin last night,
and believed to be hiding in the forest."

"Father," I exclaimed desperately, "it is true that we, my friend and
I, motored from Berlin with these ruffians.  They were burglars and
when the gendarme stopped them at the railway barrier, they shot him
down.  But we had no hand in this terrible crime.  Without knowing
anything about these criminals, we paid them to take us with them to
the frontier from Berlin...."

"A man is known by the company he keeps," the Capuchin rejoined
severely.  "Why should innocent persons consort with criminals?"

"Because the German Secret Service is on our track," I said, "and there
was no other way."

He looked at me curiously.  "The German Secret Service?" he repeated.

I nodded.  "You spoke just now of this being a critical hour for
England.  Well, we are trying to bring into safety a document of vital
importance for the security of our country."

His eyes were of a sudden misty.  "It's many years since I heard of
such matters," he remarked gently, "But surely the British Government
doesn't employ children for work of this description.  Why, you're only
a boy!"

"I'm nothing of the sort," I retorted, with perfect truth.  "And
anyway, I'm not a British Agent.  Though my friend is...."

Pater Vedastus seemed to catch his breath.  "Is he English too?"

"Yes."

"An officer?"

"He used to be...."

"Army or Navy?"

I could not fail to be aware of the almost anguished curiosity behind
his questions.  He seemed to hang on my reply.  "Army," I said, and he
uttered a little sigh.  I raised my eyes pleadingly to his.  "Father,
they're scouring the forest for us.  He may have been taken.  I can't
cross the frontier without making an effort to find him.  Won't you let
me stay here quietly until the pursuit is past and I can go back and
wait for my friend at the place where he left me?"

He was silent for a spell.  "What proof have I that your story is
true?" he asked at last.

What impulse moved me I know not, but I had made up my mind to trust
this fellow countryman of mine.  I cast a hasty look about the silent
garden, then thrust my hand into my pocket and drew forth the document.
I held it out to him.

"Even if you won't help me," I said, "I know you won't betray me.
There's the document.  It has cost two men their lives already.  You
may read it if you wish...."

But he made no move to take it, and his hands remained concealed under
his wide sleeves.

"It is of vital importance, you say, this paper?" he inquired.

"My friend says that on it the movements of the British Fleet depend.
And that, as you know, means the security of England."

At that moment the chapel bell began to ring.  "Put up your document,"
he bade swiftly, "and listen to me.  That's the bell for Compline.  Go
to the door of the tower yonder and mount the steps you find there.
They will bring you to the organ loft.  Wait there for me...."  With
that he pulled his brown cowl over his head and, thrusting his hands in
his sleeves, strode off along the path.

Dumb with joy at the realisation that I had found an ally, I watched
him pass through a gate in the wall below the monastery windows.  Then
I slipped across the garden to the tower door.


The chapel, with its narrow windows of stained glass set high up in the
whitewashed walls, was dim.  Save for the crimson gleam of the lamp
before the altar and two candles burning on either side of a lectern in
the choir, there was no light.  In the organ loft it was almost dark,
and I posted myself in the shadow of the great bunches of pipes that
reared their heads towards the dusky beams of the roof.  A handful of
peasant women knelt motionless in the seats, and from time to time the
padded door of a built-in porch on one side of the porch thudded softly
to admit a newcomer.  At first the chancel was empty, but presently the
shuffle of sandals reached my ears, and a procession of hooded figures,
two by two, defiled through the sanctuary into the choir.

There was a light step on the stair, the glimmer of a taper, and Pater
Vedastus was at my side.  "I have excused Brother Josef, who usually
blows the organ for me," he whispered, "and you shall take his place.
See, it is quite easy...."  His big hands laid hold of a shaft
projecting from the side of the organ, and drove it rhythmically up and
down, then he made me try.  "We shan't require the organ until
Benediction," he explained.  "Kneel down there meanwhile.  You can
follow Compline in the English Prayer-Book I gave Brother Josef.
Here...."  He placed an open book in my hand.  "Don't come any farther
than this: you might be seen from below.  I'm going to light the
candles...."

He padded away.  A dull radiance illuminated the front of the gallery.
Its reflected light glanced athwart the large print of the breviary,
Latin and English, which lay open on the prie-dieu before me.  In the
choir a sonorous voice was intoning the opening of Compline.  I started
as my eye fell upon the English version of the Collect: its theme was
so apposite to my plight:

"_Brethren, be sober and watch.  For your adversary the devil goeth
about like a raging lion, seeking whom he may devour.  Whom do ye,
strong in faith, resist.  But Thou, O Lord, have mercy on us!_"  The
voice ended, and the rolling bass of the friars struck the echoes from
the dimness as they made response: "Deo gratias!"

And then, as another voice began to intone the Psalms, I heard a heavy,
halting step on the flags of the chapel below.  I glanced down.
Half-way up the aisle, hat in hand, irresolute, Clubfoot stood, leaning
on his stick.




82

In the Capuchin chapel


It was only a momentary glimpse, for the next moment he had stepped out
of my range of vision.  As in a dream I heard the Office out, through
the stentorian chant of the Psalms, swinging, verse by verse, from one
side to the other of the choir, and the rustling silence thereafter, on
the lector intoning the Pater Noster, to the end.  Then, somehow or
other, I was at the bellows handle, filling Brother Josef's lowly part,
while before the altar, ablaze with light, vestmented figures moved
about the chancel, the smoke of incense eddied upward to the dark roof,
and the organ pealed.  And so to the close of the Benediction when, to
a soft tolling in the tower above me and the musical clash of altar
bells in the sanctuary, the glittering monstrance was upraised in the
solemn hush of heads bowed in adoration.  Presently, while the organ
softly played, the coped ministrants filed out, a cowled cortege
behind; sabots clattered on the flags as the little congregation
dispersed; a friar silently extinguished the altar lights; and the
chapel was once more dim and deserted.  The organ ceased; and Pater
Vedastus was at my side.

"Father," I whispered, "that man who entered, during the service, did
you notice him?  He has come in search of me...."

The Pater put a finger to his lips.  "I guessed as much.  Brother
Hippolytus, our porter, fetched the Father Guardian out of the choir
after Benediction.  Our Most Reverend Father and the stranger are now
talking together at the bottom of the chapel.  Ps-st...."

He raised a hand in warning and I heard the scrape of feet within the
tower.  Without a word, Pater Vedastus moved swiftly to the back of the
organ and groping there, plucked open a low door framed between the
soaring pipes.  He signed to me to go inside: I crept through; and he
closed the door after me.

My funk-hole was pitch-dark and reeking of dust and dry rot.  I could
not stand erect.  The door was merely a means of access to the interior
of the instrument, I assumed, for the purpose of cleaning and repairs.
As I crouched there I suddenly heard a voice, cool and authoritative,
speaking within a foot of my head.

"Pater," it said, "this gentleman is from the Berlin police.  He has
come by aeroplane from Berlin in search of two fugitives from justice,
a man and a girl, implicated in this dreadful affair at Cleves last
night.  You were working out of doors this afternoon.  Did you remark
any suspicious-looking strangers?"

A harsh voice now broke in, a well-remembered voice, whose mere sound
sent shivers of terror coursing along my spine.  "They may have
separated.  When we were flying over this part of the forest in the
early afternoon we observed two figures hiding in a thicket.  On our
return over the same spot only one was to be seen.  That must have been
the girl, for, at the Gendarmerie headquarters at Cleves just now, they
told me that towards four o'clock this afternoon the man was sighted
near Charlemagne's Ride on the far side of the forest.  They lost track
of him again, but they are quite positive that he was alone.  The girl
must still be in these parts.  But for that damned fool of a pilot who
lost me a good two hours by insisting on returning to Wesel to land,
we'd have rounded her up by this.  Have you seen anything of her, a
tall, dark wench?  Speak up man, I'm in a hurry!"

There was a pause: then the deep tones of Pater Vedastus, cold and
lifeless, made answer: "I have seen no woman, Herr!"

"You understand, of course"--the Father Superior, or whatever Pater
Vedastus had called him, now intervened--"that no woman has access to
our enclosure...."

Clubfoot laughed stridently.  "Possibly.  But there's reason to believe
that this woman is dressed as a man...."

"You saw no man, Vedastus," the suave voice demanded, "who might have
been a woman in disguise?"

Once more there was a pause.  Then, "No, Reverend Father!" the monk
made answer.

"The Community are assembled for the evening meal," said the Superior.
"If you desire to question any of them...."

There was a moment's silence.  I was trembling: would Clubfoot insist
on searching the organ loft?  But then I heard him grunt and say: "Take
me to your refectory.  But you'd better warn your Fathers that I'll
stand for no lies...."

"In the house of St. Francis you'll hear nothing but the truth," the
Superior replied with icy dignity; and it seemed to me that, on the
other side of the partition, someone had heaved a deep sigh.  "Are you
coming, Vedastus?" the speaker added.

"With permission, Most Reverend Father," was the respectful answer, "I
have our music to put away, and the lights to extinguish."

"Then lend me your taper.  The stair is dark...."  A heavy limp thumped
the flooring; the footsteps died away.

After what appeared to be an eternity of waiting I saw a rim of light
about the entrance to my hiding-place, and the door swung back.  Pater
Vedastus stood there, beckoning me out.  He spoke no word, but led the
way down the corkscrew steps and through a little lobby at the bottom
into the twilight gloom of the church.  There he stopped before me, his
sleeves covering his hands, his eyes cast down.

I had expected reproaches, but he made none.  "My daughter," he said,
and his voice was sad and humble, "if you would save yourself, you will
make for the frontier without delay.  It is not three kilometres from
here by the forest track.  By this your companion is far away, if he
has not already been taken.  I will give you the key of the forest door
by which Brother Josef admitted you.  Do not fail to lock it behind
you: you can push the key under it.  Now pay attention to what I say!
Opposite the forest door you will see a path leading through the woods.
Five minutes' walk along it will bring you to a road, the continuation
of the road which runs past the monastery on the other side of the
garden.  Never mind about the road, but cross it and continue along the
path.  After about two kilometres it divides at a birch copse.  Take
the left-hand fork: it leads to a farmyard gate.  The frontier line
passes through this farm.  Go through the yard, and when you have
reached the farmhouse, you will be in Holland.  The farmer, Jan van
Rossum, a Dutchman, is a friend of mine.  If you mention my name, he
will give you a bed for the night.  You can trust him: he has no
tenderness for the Germans.  But you must not start until it is certain
that our lame visitor has left.  Wait here for me a little, since we
are no longer in the enclosure, and if anyone should come, hide in the
tower lobby."

I dropped to my knees.  "Father," I whispered, "I have deceived you.
But what is worse, I made you tell a lie for my sake.  I can't abuse
your generosity any further unless you tell me I am forgiven."

"Don't kneel to me, my child," he answered gently.  "I stand in need of
forgiveness far more than you.  More than twenty years of my manhood I
have passed in this peaceful retreat, priding myself on my freedom from
the temptations of the world.  But God in His Infinite Wisdom has seen
fit to chasten my arrogance and self-complacency.  He has decreed that
in my old age I should cause our holy rule to be broken and lie to our
Superior in Christ.  I bear you no resentment, my daughter, for, had
you told me the truth in the beginning--to my shame I confess it here,
before the Blessed Sacrament--I doubt if I should have acted
otherwise...."  He clasped his hands together and, with head bowed
down, pressed his lips upon his joined fingers.  "As yet I have no
contrition for what I did," he murmured brokenly.  "Pray for me, my
daughter, and perhaps God will hold it to my account that before I
became a Capuchin in Germany, I was a naval officer...."  With that he
drew his cowl before his eyes and vanished through the tower door.

The tears were streaming down my face as I rose from my knees.  The
conflict of emotion revealed in his outburst had touched me profoundly.
I was distraught, too, with fears for Nigel, and oppressed by the
prospect of attempting the flight across the frontier alone.

And then a figure, close-hooded, glided out from behind a pillar and
stood at my side.

I had to make a tremendous effort not to scream.  But at the same
instant the cowl was dropped, and I found myself staring with
incredulous eyes into a familiar face.  Its cheerful grin was
altogether out of keeping with the monkish robe.  "Stout fellow, your
friend," Nigel observed.  "He gives me a good feel...."

"Nigel," I whispered, "I can hardly believe it's you.  They said you
were miles away...."

"So I was," he retorted, "and a devilish stiff run I had for it, to get
back to where I left you.  Towards Charlemagne's Ride the woods were
fairly creeping with the greencoats.  When I found you had gone, I
started to prospect, and, after dodging another line of beaters,
fetched up on the road which runs past the monastery.  From behind a
corn-stook I saw Clubfoot pass in a car, and it occurred to me that he
might be better informed as to your whereabouts than I was.  So I
followed him until I reached the monastery and saw his car standing
outside on the road.  I nipped into the church..."--he pointed behind
him--"by the public entrance.  It was just before the service and,
seeing that no one was about, I helped myself to this habit which I
found hanging on a hook in the sacristy, and hid in one of the
side-chapels.  I've been there ever since.  Then, when you appeared..."

He broke off as a tall, cowled figure loomed up in the sanctuary and
genuflected before the altar.  Swiftly Nigel drew me back into the
shadow under the organ gallery.

"It's Father Vedastus," I said, and went to meet him.

As the Father came down the aisle I saw that a long brown cloak hung
over his arm, and that he carried a paper package in his hands.  On
catching sight of the monkish silhouette behind me, he stopped dead.

"Father," I cried softly, "it's my friend.  He's found me after all!"
I looked round.  Nigel approached.  "This is Nigel Druce," I explained.

Pater Vedastus was smiling.  "So that's where Brother Antonius's habit
went to," he remarked drily.  "The dear old man took it off to sweep
out the sacristy.  He is telling everybody that the devil must have
flown away with it.  But if, as I presume," he went on, addressing
Nigel, "you propose to accompany this lady across the frontier the
habit will serve you well.  The members of the Community are familiar
figures in this part of the Reichswald, and in the robe of the Order
you are less likely to attract attention.  See, I have brought a cloak
for your friend."  He handed me the cloak, hooded and of heavy brown
serge like his habit.  "You can leave the things with van Rossum," he
suggested.  "And here"--he gave Nigel the paper package--"I have put up
such scraps of meat and bread as I could find!  I fear you must be
famished, both of you...."

Nigel stowed the parcel away in his pocket.  "We can never thank you
enough, sir," he said warmly.

The Capuchin sighed.  "It must be nearly five-and-twenty years since
anybody called me 'Sir,'" he observed pensively.  He handed me a great
key which he drew from his sleeve.  "The key of the forest door," he
announced.  "The lame gentleman has taken his departure, the Community
have retired for the night, and all seems quiet in the forest.  I've
explained to your friend," he continued, turning to Nigel, "exactly how
to reach the frontier.  I must warn you that, during the last few days,
patrols of troops have been seen in the forest.  But they keep mostly
to the roads, and if you follow out my instructions, you should get
across without great difficulty.  Now be off with you, my children, and
God speed you on your journey!"

Then Nigel spoke up: "You've gone the limit in helping us, sir," he
declared, "but we've got to consider your position a little.  This man,
Grundt, who was here to-night, is a terrible enemy.  We don't budge
from here, Miss Dunbar and I, until you're safely back in your cell,
with a good substantial alibi."

Pater Vedastus shook his head ruefully.  "I'm afraid the rule of St.
Francis takes no account of alibis," he rejoined.  "I shall go to the
Father Superior to-morrow and make a clean breast of the matter."

Nigel stuck out his chin.  "That's your affair, sir.  Grundt is mine.
I shouldn't presume to interfere in your dealings with your spiritual
skipper...."

The Pater started and gazed severely at the speaker.  "So you were
eavesdropping?"

"I'm afraid I couldn't help myself," Nigel replied.

The bearded face relaxed.  "Then you will understand my interest," said
the Father.  "Tell me, is England going to fight?"

Nigel shrugged his shoulders.  "This week-end should have decided it.
The First Fleet, mobilised for manoeuvres was due to disperse.  If the
dispersal orders have been cancelled, I take it that the Cabinet
intends to stand by France."

Pater Vedastus was strangely excited.  "Haven't you read this morning's
paper?" he demanded.

"I haven't seen a newspaper since Saturday."

"Hold that!"  He thrust the taper he carried into Nigel's hand and,
delving into a hidden pocket of his habit, dredged up a German
newspaper.  "I took morning Mass at Materborn village church to-day,"
he explained, "and the Kster--how do you say that? my English is so
rusty; ah yes, the sacristan--gave me this paper."

He unfolded the journal and handed it to Nigel, pointing to a paragraph
with his finger.  In a hushed voice Nigel read out:


"_'London.  Sunday night.  Official.  Orders have been given to the
First Fleet, now concentrated at Portland, not to disperse for
manoeuvre leave for the present.  All ships of the Second Fleet are
remaining at their home ports in proximity to their balance crews.'_"


Nigel crushed the paper up in his hands.  His hands were shaking and
his face was pale with excitement.  "Poor old Vivian!" he murmured.
"So we pulled it off, after all!"

"You think it means war, then?" the friar inquired.

Nigel started out of a brown study.  "Yes, unless Germany and Austria
give way...."

Pater Vedastus sighed.  "How excited the wardrooms must be!  Twenty-two
years' service I had to my record with the Fleet when I heard the call
of the religious life, and I never saw a shot fired in all that time."
He relapsed into abstracted silence.  "But you mustn't delay, my
children," he said presently.  "It's time you were off.  I shall not
forget you in my Masses, and you,"--almost for the first time since we
had left the organ loft his eyes rested on my face--"remember, you
promised to pray for me!"

Nigel was gazing intently at the Capuchin.  His eyes were very blue.
"Father," he declared very earnestly, and I noticed that he no longer
called him 'Sir,' "Father, this lady here has promised to marry me.
Would you, that is to say..."--he stumbled over his words--"before we
say good-bye to you, I want you to hear us exchange that promise--I
have a special reason for asking--and perhaps give us your blessing, if
you will..."

I stared at him in wonder.  I had never discerned any trace of
religious feeling in him before.  Besides, what could be the "special
reason" of which he spoke?

He turned to me, "Olivia, you don't object?"

He was so eager that I let him have his way.  "Not if it will make you
happier, Nigel," I answered.

The Father's bass chimed in.  "My son," he asked, "are either of you
Catholics?"

"No," was the firm reply, "but I've set my heart on this.  We haven't
yet reached the end of our journey, and you will bless us as the
knights of old were blessed when they went forth to war.  We shan't
desecrate your blessing, shall we, Olivia?"  He put his hand in mine
and led me forward.  "I, Nigel Druce, do solemnly promise to take you,
Olivia Dunbar, as my wedded wife.  Do you, Olivia, promise to take me
for your husband?"

The scene was strangely impressive.  The brooding silence of the little
chapel draped itself about us.  Above our heads the last rays of
daylight kindled the colours in the stained-glass windows, but below
all was sombre, and the friar's tall figure was blurred by the shadows
of the aisle.  I was moved in spite of myself, and it was in a husky
voice that I responded: "Yes."

Then, hand in hand, we knelt.  Raising his large hand aloft, the
Capuchin made the sign of the Cross over us, and blessed us in a
whisper:

"_Benedicat vos Omnipotens Deus, Pater, et Filius, et Spiritus Sanctus.
Amen._"

"And now, sir," said Nigel, as we rose up, "please go to your cell.  We
can find our way out alone."

"So be it," he replied.  "May Almighty God have you two in His keeping!
And ask Him in your prayers that I may be guided aright in the
difficult times that stand before."  Rather shyly he put out his hand,
and Nigel grasped it.  Then, with an abrupt motion, the Pater turned
about, his sandals clacked softly on the flags of the nave, and the
gloom of the sanctuary swallowed up the gaunt and lonely figure.




83

The baffling of the Beast


It was getting on for half-past nine when at length we stole forth from
the chapel.  The solemn hush of dusk rested over the monastery garden.
The bats were twinkling to and fro, and in front of the little
burial-ground the cypresses with their looped-up branches stood out
like the furled umbrellas of some Eastern pageant against the greenly
glowing sky.  To any one who had observed the two hooded figures flit
noiselessly along the twilit path to that inconspicuous door in the
garden wall, we must have seemed like the wraiths of departed friars
escaped from the tomb.

In the forest it was already quite dark, but we could distinguish the
path opposite the gate snaking its way whitely under the trees.  Nigel
was moody and absorbed.  I could see that something had upset him,
although I found myself at a loss to fathom the cause of his
depression.  The news we had read in the paper surely proved that the
copy of our precious report had reached London: whatever happened to us
now, Nigel had, at any rate, fulfilled his mission, and I should have
looked to find him exulting in our success.

I made no attempt to break in upon his thoughts, but trudged after him
in silence along the narrow path.  The evening was close, and for
greater ease, as my heavy serge cloak was oppressively heavy, I threw
it back, letting it dangle from my shoulders.  All was profoundly still
in the woods about us, but the distant throbbing of a car, which
reached our ears from time to time, announced the proximity of a road,
probably the road on the other side of the monastery of which Pater
Vedastus had spoken.

We had not been walking long when Nigel slackened his pace to wait for
me.  As I came up I saw that beyond him the path went dipping down
between high banks to a deep cutting.  Here the trees were sparser, and
when at the bottom Nigel stopped again I perceived in the grey
half-light a forest track, running left and right, with patches of
brown water in its ruts wanly reflecting the evening sky.

"This is where we cross the road," said Nigel in a low voice.  "Don't
linger, in case there's any one about.  Dart straight over and up the
path on the other side.  I'll lead the way...."

He paused an instant to peer out from behind the protecting bank, then
sprang out.  Two bounds saw him across.  I followed: and forthwith sank
up to my ankles in slime.  At the same instant I heard the stutter of a
motor-engine, and a car hove in sight round a curve in the road not
fifty yards away.

Frantically, I dragged my feet clear of the clinging mud, and with the
next step was bogged again.  My cloak fell off, and though I snatched
it up and flung it about me at once, it was too late: I had been seen.
There was a loud hail from the car, the scream of brakes, and then a
burst of vivid flame as a pistol clanged through the cutting.  I heard
the bullet whistle past my head and spit viciously into the bank.
Darting forward, Nigel grabbed my hand and hauled me, by sheer muscular
force, on to the road's firm centre.  In a second we were across and
between the steep banks of the path on the other side.  As we went I
had a glimpse of the car, all blazing lamps and gleaming bonnet, in the
act of stopping, and Clubfoot, erect in the tonneau, brandishing a
pistol and shouting orders.  While the car was yet under way two men in
plain clothes tumbled out and started after us.  As we reached the
path, the pistol roared again.

We had, perhaps, thirty yards advantage of our pursuers.  The path
mounted sheerly up, but we were at the top before we heard them panting
behind us.  Now we were in the dark woods again.  Immediately, Nigel
quitted the path and struck a course parallel with it among the trees.
An excited voice yelled: "This way, Herr Doktor, this way!" to which,
in accents hoarse with rage, came back the answer: "Don't wait for me,
zum Teufel, go on, go on!"

Their voices faded into the distance as we raced madly through the
forest.  "It's ... more than ... two kilometres!" I gasped out, as we
blundered noisily along in the blackness, knowing that I, at least,
could not sustain that crazy pace.  But Nigel never slackened speed.
With my heart pounding, with an agonising pain in my side, with the
perspiration rolling down my face, I struggled forward in his wake.

It was not until a dense belt of undergrowth, with brambles
shoulder-high, stretched an impenetrable barrier before us that my
companion halted.  With a gesture he motioned me down.  Crouching
behind a bush, we lay, looking towards a faint lightening in the
surrounding obscurity which, not more than fifty paces away, marked the
trace of the path we had left.  Very soon we heard the rustling of
feet, and two dim figures went by at a shambling run.

Nigel raised a warning finger at me, and for perhaps two minutes we
waited in absolute silence.  Then his voice, softer than a sigh,
breathed in my ear: "We've just one ghost of a chance.  If these are
Clubfoot's men from Berlin, they won't know the forest.  We're going to
gamble on their missing that left-hand fork which leads to van Rossum's
farm.  Ready?"  He helped me to my feet, and at a stealthy jog-trot we
regained the path.

Spent as I was with fatigue and lack of food, that brief breathing
spell did little to rest my weary limbs.  I was past speech, past hope,
past sensibility almost, and Nigel with his arm linked in mine was
literally supporting me, when at length, as we burst out upon a small
clearing, the smooth face of some oak palings loomed up.  They met in a
V, and on either side of them the path branched.

There was no sign of the pursuit, and the gentle tremor of the slim and
silvery birches within the copse was the only sound as we took the
left-hand fork.  Both of us, I think, realised that we had reached the
last lap, and we hurried forward with a sort of desperate eagerness.
Then suddenly, as we turned the angle of the copse, we saw before us a
gate, set in a stone wall, spanning the path ahead.

At the same moment a twig snapped noisily under my foot.  Instantly,
from the darkness under the trees, a sharp challenge: "Halt!  Wer
geht?" rang out, and a soldier stepped smartly into the centre of the
track, his rifle, with bayonet fixed, threateningly advanced.

That burly figure, barring the path, was the death of all our hopes.
Behind it, not thirty paces distant, the gate seemed to beckon us to
safety.  We both stopped irresolute.  I felt the quick, warning
pressure of Nigel's hand upon my arm: then he went boldly forward.
"Gelobt sei Jesus Christus, Freund," he said gravely--and I remember
marvelling to find he had contrived to pick up the Capuchin greeting.

The sentry lowered his rifle.  He was, as I recall it, a loutish
peasant type, with fat cheeks bulging out beneath the brass strap of
his Pickelhaube.  "So," he remarked in some kind of thick, drawling
patois, "di Patres, was?"

I knew that, to have eluded detection for so long as he had, Nigel
Druce must possess unusual gifts for sinking his identity in a given
rle.  But until that night in the Reichswald I had never realised what
a superb character actor the stage lost in him.  Without a second's
hesitation he sprang into the part he had assumed and played it with a
_maestria_ which filled me with admiration.  In the twinkling of an
eye, he had it pat, every detail--voice, demeanour, gait, even, as it
seemed to me, mentality, too--adjusted to the livery he wore.  He was
the young German friar to the life, excitable like all Germans,
unpractical and world-shy as young clerics mostly are: the
interpretation impressed me as being flawless and convincing.

His eyes were round with fright, and he was chattering with
well-simulated fear as he laid his hands upon the sentry's tunic.
"Thanks be to our holy Sankt Franziskus that we've found you," he
gibbered.  "We're been attacked in the forest, good Brother Anselmus
here and I, by a gang of desperadoes armed with revolvers..."

The soldier started.  "Na ja," he said uneasily, "there were shots a
while back...."

"Murderous ruffians in a car, they were, no doubt belonging to the gang
that killed the gendarme at Cleves last night.  You must have heard
about it?"

"Na und ob," was the phlegmatic rejoinder.  "The greencoats have been
buzzing like bees round and about the forest since dawn...."  With an
adroit movement he disengaged himself from the other's frantic clutch.
His rifle now rested butt-end on the ground; but he was still between
us and the gate.  "When I heard the shooting just now, I made sure
they'd bagged a prisoner.  But you were attacked, you say?  Which way
did the revolver Fritzies go?"

With every semblance of abject panic, my shameless young man wrung his
hands.  "But, du lieber Himmel," he lamented, "they're at our heels...."

The sentry recoiled and brought his rifle to the ready.  "So?" he
growled apprehensively.

"They chased us through the woods.  At any moment now they may burst in
upon us...."

"How many of them are there?"

"Half a dozen at least.  The leader is a big brute, a lame man...."

"I will summon reinforcements," said the soldier importantly.  He put a
whistle to his lips and blew three piercing blasts.

"O weh, O weh," gibbered Nigel, "we shall be murdered before your
comrades arrive!"  He turned quickly to me.  "Run to the farm, Brother
Anselmus, and alarm the good van Rossum...."  His eyelid fluttered, and
he made an almost imperceptible backward movement of the head.

I perceived his drift and took a resolute step forward.

"Halt!" boomed the guard.  "No crossing of the frontier, by special
order of the Herr Hauptmann...."

"Mensch," came in a hysterical wail from Nigel, "d'you want us all to
be butchered like the gendarme?  This lame man, who is the leader,
shoots to kill, I warn you.  The good Brother will but arouse the
farmer and his men and come straight back.  Go, Brother Anselmus,
hurry...."

So saying, he sought to hustle me past the soldier.  The man, however,
hoarsely muttering "Back!" elbowed me aside and at the same time raised
his rifle.  He was staring past me into the woods, where, as I now
became aware, some one was crashing through the brush.  The next
moment, Clubfoot, hobbling grotesquely, came lurching at a smart pace
from among the trees.  "Halt da!" he roared, his voice, for very
breathlessness, rattling in his throat, and advanced plunging over the
grass bordering the path.  And then he was brought up short by the
sentry who, with a shout of "Hande hoch!" covered the intruder with his
rifle.

Panting and blowing, Clubfoot halted, plainly discernible in such light
as yet lingered in the clearing.  He had lost his hat, and a wad of
gauze, made fast to his shaven poll by means of strips of adhesive
plaster, recalled our last meeting.  His face, abundantly scratched and
bleeding, was drenched with perspiration.  About his neck an automatic
dangled from a lanyard.

"Ass, idiot, sheepshead!" he bellowed, waving his stick at the guard.
"Put down that rifle, verdammt!"  He came on again.

"It's the lame man, their ringleader," said Nigel in purposely thrilled
accents.  "D'you see his revolver?  Be careful, my friend.  He's
dangerous!"  As he spoke, behind his back he signed to me vigorously to
make for the gate.

The light in the clearing was going fast, and the two men on the path
hid me from view.  Under cover of them I began to edge away.  As I went
I heard Grundt's hoarse snarl echo across the open.  "Wait till I get
my hands on you, you thieving English spy!"  His voice rose to an
exasperated squeal: "I'm On His Majesty's service, you dolt.  You stop
me at your peril.  I can have you shot for this, you hound.  That man's
a spy, and I hold a warrant for his arrest!"

"You tell that to the Herr Unteroffizier," came the sentry's reply in
his thick German.  "In the meantime, my boy, stick up your hands, or I
blow your ugly head off...."

Favoured by the dimness, I had reached the gate unseen.  Beyond loomed
up the mass of a great barn with the roof of the farmstead, sunk in
darkness and silence, not a stone's-throw away.  Once through the gate,
I turned to see whether Nigel was following.  As I did so, Clubfoot's
voice, part roar, part scream, like the cry of an angry elephant,
reverberated through the clearing.

I saw him snatch at the pistol that rested on his chest.  As his hand
was raised, his arm was struck up and, with a report that went rolling
endlessly along the quiet forest aisles, the shot departed in the air.
A figure had sprung out from the bushes at his back and had him by the
throat.  Shouts now resounded from among the trees.  Clubfoot was
plunging madly in the grip of his assailant.

"Well done, comrade," I heard the sentry cry.  Then, "You there, stand
still, will you? or I fire!"

"Himmelkreuzsakrament...!"

Grundt's bellow of rage, trumpeted furiously into the night, cut across
the guard's warning.  But he had ceased to struggle.  He remained,
panting audibly, his wrists firmly grasped behind him by the soldier
who stood there.

All the woods were now astir with footsteps.  The measured, slightly
unctuous voice, which Nigel had adopted for his rle, rang hollow
through the glade: "Guard him well, friends," he said, "while I fetch
the good van Rossum and his men with ropes to bind your prisoner."  He
took a pace backwards.  "And you, wretched man," he added, addressing
Grundt in solemn tones, "blaspheme not, but repent of your sins.  And
Brother Anselmus and I will remember you in our prayers!"  With that he
turned and, hands tucked modestly in his capacious sleeves, walked with
slow deliberation towards the gate.

A strangled shriek of rage rang out.  Despite our peril, I was smiling.
For once I regretted the gathering darkness that prevented me from
seeing Clubfoot's face.  A gabble of incoherent words broke from the
cripple's lips.

"Stop him ... don't let him escape ... I'll show you my papers ... let
go my hands, verdammt...!"

I knew that Nigel Druce was brave; but not until that moment did I
realise what nerves of steel were his.  He never hurried his pace, but
with head bowed down as though in meditation, marched composedly to
where I cowered, in a tremor of anxiety, under the shadow of the high
barn.  With a steady hand he unlatched the gate and passed through.
"Now quick!" he whispered.  His face wore a delighted grin.

I gave one look back.  The figures, indistinct now in the shades of
night, were as we had left them: the sentry, firm as a rock, straddling
the path, with rifle levelled; opposite him Grundt, still shouting
incoherently, the outline of a Pickelhaube behind.

It was the last glimpse I was to have of Clubfoot, and I have never
forgotten it.  The failing light obscured his features; but the rugged
silhouette was unmistakable, and every line of it spelt menace and
defiance.  With his head raised challenging in the air, and all that
massive body in an attitude of enraged revolt, he was like a wild beast
held back in its spring; and, on the very threshold of safety, I
trembled, wondering whether he might not yet leap forth and rend me.

As I turned to follow Nigel, a party of soldiers burst from the woods
and surrounded the prisoner and his captors.  But we did not wait on
further developments.  We darted through the yard.  A ray of light now
fell through the half-open door of the farmhouse, and by its radiance I
saw that above the lintel a shield, divided into two parts, was
painted.  The near side showed the German colours, black, white, red:
the farther--how my heart bounded at the sight!--the Dutch, red, white,
blue.  One pace, and we were in Holland!

There was no one about.  "No time for van Rossum," Nigel whispered, and
whisked his habit over his head.  He tossed it, together with my cloak,
under the farmhouse porch.  Then we ran across the yard and out through
a gate on to a road running through a rickyard.  Suddenly a light
showed between the haystacks, and an oldish man, bearded and
forbidding, confronted us.  He was wearing nothing but his coat and
trousers, and his bare feet were thrust into clogs, as though he had
been aroused from his bed.

"Van Rossum?" Nigel asked.

The bearded man eyed him suspiciously.  "Ja!" he replied impassively.

"We are friends of Pater Vedastus...."

The farmer nodded ponderously.  "I know the Pater: he is a good man,"
he answered in his thick German.

"Then you'll help us?  He said you would...."

"Ja," was the toneless reply.

"We're in Holland here, nicht wahr?"

"Ja!"

"Is there any chance of the German frontier guards coming over in
pursuit of us?"

At that moment there was the clatter of accoutrements among the ricks.
The farmer pointed and, twenty yards away, we saw a file of soldiers in
vaguely unfamiliar silhouette doubling towards the yard gate.

"Dutch," explained the farmer.  "I roused them when I heard the shot."
He raised his hand to enjoin silence.  "They're only just in time...."

A terrible hubbub had broken out in the quadrangle of low buildings
surrounding the farmhouse.  Voices were raised in angry discussion.

"The friends of the Pater are my friends," van Rossum declared gravely.
"Don't linger.  The Dutch officer has a German wife."  He indicated the
path running through the rickyard.  "Follow that: it leads to Beek, the
first frontier village."

Nigel held out his hand.  "Pater Vedastus has good friends," he said,
with his bright smile.

"We who live on the frontier don't like our neighbours," the farmer
replied impassively.  He nodded casually and plodded off in the
direction of the house, swinging his lantern.  The din of the dispute
continued in the distance.

A minute later we emerged upon a quiet country road.  Facing us was a
barn, its door plastered with notices.  They were all in Dutch.

"Oh, Nigel," I sighed blissfully, "safe at last!"

"Yes," he answered absently; and with that we set off at a swinging
pace along the road.

His voice had a sombre ring; and I noticed that he had ceased to smile.




84

"Come! says the drum"


By the time we arrived at the inn to which Nigel brought me, in a
rambling, red village, two or three miles on the Dutch side of the
frontier, I had reached that pitch of exhaustion where falling asleep
is like dropping through a hole in the world.

I have a vague remembrance of ham and eggs and coffee, and of a
compassionate, chubby woman who kept on appearing, quite unaccountably
in a gold crown and ermine robes--(I was too tired to reason it out
then, but next day I saw the large oleograph of Queen Wilhelmina upon
the parlour wall); of a clean, white-washed bedroom, which Nigel told
me was next to his; of casting coat and waistcoat and shoes aside to
collapse, half-dressed, upon the bed, and of sliding forthwith into
deep and delicious sleep.

But not into oblivion.  Strange phantoms pursued me through the dreams
that haunted my slumber.  I fancied myself back in the study at
Schlatz, correcting proofs in my corner, with my dear Lucy Varley
placidly knitting under the lamp, and the little Doctor reading the
_Kreuz-Zeitung_ in the armchair.  Suddenly the window burst open, and a
pallid figure rushed in, crying "Save me, save me!"  It was Vivian
Abbott, with his tawny hair and wary, fearless eyes.  But when, in my
dream, I looked at him more closely, I perceived that one of his feet
was encased in a monstrous, misshapen boot: and there was Grundt
confronting me, his huge form shaken with silent laughter.

Then I dreamed that I was at Schippke's once more, surrounded by the
Prince and other officers in their sky-blue tunics.  Rudi was not
there, but presently the Pellegrini, resplendent with her gorgeous hair
and shining white frock like a bride, came threading her way through
the crowd.  "I've got a lovely surprise for you," she said, but my
heart sank, for her face was livid, evil.  As she spoke the ranks
parted, and I saw Rudi dead on a stretcher with blood on his golden
curls, and a revolver clasped in his limp hand.  I shrieked, and
instantly a gigantic, hairy paw stretched up out of the press and
descended upon me.  I fled away.

Now I was running through a forest inky-black, amid trees so tall that
their branches vanished in the sky.  As I hastened along there came to
my ears the note of the bird I had heard at daybreak in the woods:
toc-toc, toc-toc!  And then I was seized with the terrifying certainty
that this was no bird-call, but the rhythmic tapping of a stick.
Fearfully, I glanced round and saw Clubfoot hobbling after me.  We were
in the narrow stone passage now, dim and endless, and without a door,
of which I had dreamed before, the night after our first encounter in
the garden at Schlatz.

His face was distorted with rage, his nostrils twitching, his eyes
hotly blazing.  "Olivia, Olivia!" he kept calling, and all the time his
stick rapped the flags.  He was gaining on me: he had grasped me by the
shoulder.  I tried in vain to scream....

Shuddering from head to foot, I sat up.  The white walls of my room had
a bluish tinge in the russet shades of dawn filtering in through the
window.  Below in the smoky greyness a cock crowed stridently.

Some one was tapping insistently at the door.  I heard Nigel's voice,
hurried, uneasy.  "Olivia, Olivia..." it cried softly.  I got up and
unlocked the door, then, conscious of my dshabill, jumped into bed
and pulled the clothes over me.

Nigel entered quickly.  "You screamed," he explained, "so I came to see
what had happened...."  Catching sight of my face--I suppose I still
looked terrified--he sat down on the bed and took my hands in his.
"Why," he declared, "your hands are as cold as ice...."

I flung my arms about him and hugged him to me.  "Oh, Nigel," I
exclaimed, "I've been so frightened.  I've had such an awful nightmare.
But now you're here I know that it was only a dream...."

He gathered me up in his arms.  "You poor child!  You're trembling all
over...."

I drew back to survey him, wondering to find him fully dressed.
"Nigel, don't tell me you haven't been to bed?"

He tried to smile at me.  His face was deathly pale.  "I had some
writing to do...."

"It could have waited.  You should have got some sleep.  To whom had
you to write so urgently to-night?"

He paused, looking away.  There was something very odd about his
manner.  "To you among other people," he replied.

"To me?"

He was silent, his face averted.

"To me?" I repeated.

He nodded, his eyes steadfastly averted from mine.  "But, Nigel dear,"
I persisted gently, "why to me?"

He hesitated, clearing his throat.  His expression was desperately
miserable.  "To say good-bye..." he answered huskily.

"_To say good-bye?_" I echoed in a dazed voice.  Now that we were in
safety, could it be that he had changed his mind?  A woman can always
tell when a man tires of her, they say.  But I knew so little about it:
this was the first man I had ever cared a rap about.  "And you were
going to write to me?" I said.  "Couldn't you ... wouldn't it have been
more honest to come to me yourself?"

He caught his breath.  "I hadn't the courage.  If I'd gone to you and
told you, I was afraid I shouldn't be able to go through with it...."
He put his hands on my shoulders and faced me squarely.  "Olivia,
dearest heart, I've got to go back!"

The caress in his voice told me everything which in that particular
instant I wanted to know.  He was the first, the only lover of my life,
and for that one fleeting second of time the most important thing in
the world to me was the rapturous discovery that he still cared.  I
twined my arms about his neck and drew him to me.  "Oh, Nigel," I
whispered, "and I thought you were trying to break it off...."

"God forbid, my darling," he murmured brokenly, "if you're willing to
wait..."

And then the full purport of his words became clear to me.  Our strange
betrothal in the Capuchin chapel, his sombre fit thereafter, persisting
even after we were in safety: now I perceived the meaning of it all.
"Nigel," I burst out in an agony of fear, "you're never going back
_there_?"  I made a vague gesture in the direction of the woods.

"Don't make it harder for me than it is already," he pleaded sadly.

"But ... but he's waiting, hunting for you, there, across the frontier,
Clubfoot, this ruthless savage!  You'll be arrested immediately.  Why,
why, why?"  I was distraught.

"I shall make my way back through Charlemagne's Ride," he said gravely.
"There'll be no great danger about that.  The getting into Germany is
simple enough: it's the getting out that's the difficulty...."

"Why should you want to go back?" I clamoured frantically.  "What for?
If this news in the paper is true, the copy of the report has reached
London, hasn't it?  And even if it hasn't, we shall be there ourselves
with the original within the next twenty-four hours.  Your work in
Germany is over.  What earthly reason can you have for wishing to
return?"

He gazed fixedly into my eyes.  "If it weren't for you, Olivia," he
answered earnestly, "I, too, should count my mission at an end.  But
you've promised to be my wife, and that makes a tremendous
difference...."

"Why, for Heaven's sake?"

Very gently, as was his way, he drew me down and pillowed my head
against his breast.  "Listen, dearest," he said quietly.  "It's war
this time.  These people mean to fight.  If that report were not
enough, to-day's news--I have seen the Rotterdam papers here--amply
confirms it.  The Emperor is back in Berlin: Austria is massing troops
on the Danube: there has been a panic on the Berlin exchange: the
Vienna Bourse is shut.  By this time to-morrow Austria will have
started hostilities against Servia, and the peace of Europe will have
been definitely broken.  And Germany is preparing to mobilise.  Some
German Customs officers from Goch were drinking downstairs here
to-night, and from what they were saying amongst themselves, it's quite
clear to me that the unofficial warnings for 'War Danger,' as they call
it, the first stage of mobilisation, have already gone out...."  He
paused, a far-away look in his eyes.  Outside, in the grey mists of
morning, the village was stirring to life.  From end to end barnyard
challenged barnyard with triumphant crowings, and beneath the window a
farm cart went rumbling by.

"This is our moment," he said, "the high noon of the Secret Service.
In normal times they ignore us, snub us, repudiate us, stint us of
funds; but when diplomacy breaks down and war comes, they rely on us to
keep them posted.  Wars are decided during the mobilisation period.
The fate of nations depends on the success with which their leaders are
able to cover up their concentration and prevent their strategic plan
from being prematurely disclosed through the forward march of the
troops.  Once war is declared, the Secret Service can sit back for a
breathing spell and let events take their course.  But mobilisation is
its opportunity to justify years of patient preparations, of
expenditure without apparent results.  I'm on the spot.  I can get
across into Germany into the very thick of mobilisation.  It's my
chance, Olivia.  _I've got to go back!_"

I was growing desperate.  I had to put a stop to this mad enterprise, I
told myself.  The tears were very near the surface as I answered him.
"Why should you?" I cried hotly.  "You've done your part, and more than
your part.  There are other men in the Service besides you.  Why should
you risk your life again?"

"To win back my good name," he said tensely.  His voice was unsteady.
He paused an instant to control it, then added: "I've thought it all
out, Olivia.  I could never let you marry me with that stain on my
record.  Active service is my one chance of rehabilitating myself, of
regaining the commission they took away from me.  If war breaks out
within a day or two, as I think it will, no agent will have such
opportunities as will then be mine.  To-day I can still go back:
to-morrow it may be too late.  Have I the right to hesitate?"

I was sobbing now, for I knew that I had failed.  "Oh, my dear," I
cried, "what do I care about your commission?  If you fall into
Grundt's hands he will have no mercy.  If they should kill you, what
will become of me?"  And I broke down utterly.

He took me in his arms again and kissed my eyes, trying to console me
with loving words.  If the war crisis passed he would soon be back in
England, within ten days or a fortnight: meanwhile, he would
communicate with me through a special channel he had proposed in a
letter he had written to his Chief, which he gave me.  If war broke
out...  The blue eyes shone with their old light as he assured me of
his ability to "keep clear of old Clubfoot."

  "_The mouse that only turns to one poor hole_
  _Can never be a mouse of any soul._"

he quoted gaily, with that debonair air which became him so well.  I
divined that he was only trying to cheer me up, and that, under his
laughing mask, he was almost as moved as I: the inexpressible
tenderness of his eyes told me as much.

But he was still keeping something back, and presently, when I was
calmer, it came out.

We were to part at once, within half an hour.

Numb with grief, I listened to him: by that time, I think, all my tears
were shed.  Now that this thing had been decided, it mattered little to
me when we parted or how.  It was clear, he said, that, almost hourly,
the political situation was growing more critical, and he could not
afford to risk the frontier control being suddenly tightened up.  Once
mobilisation was proclaimed, and perhaps twenty-four hours before the
formal notices went out, the barriers would come down.  He dared not
delay.  His plan was to make a wide detour of the frontier on foot,
reaching his objective on the far side of the forest towards the close
of day.  Then at nightfall he would slip across the line through the
ravine which emerged into Charlemagne's Ride.

In half an hour's time, at five o clock, the first tram left the
village for Nymwegen, about eight miles distant, the nearest big town,
where I could get the train for the Hook.  He gave me German money and
written instructions for my journey.  He had settled our score at the
inn on the previous night.  The sooner I was clear of the frontier the
better, he declared, for Clubfoot was quite capable of crossing into
Holland in search of us.  As it would be difficult to procure an outfit
and change my clothes _en route_ without attracting attention, Nigel
suggested that I should travel in my disguise straight through to
London, to my sister's house.  He advised me to sew the report and his
letter to his Chief in the lining of my jacket, and produced needle and
thread which he had borrowed for this purpose from the woman of the inn.

In fact, he had thought of everything, and seeing him so brave and
practical, I determined to try to put my grief away and show him a
courageous face at our parting.  Even at that late date--it was the
morning of the 28th of July--I did not clearly realise that Europe was
sliding over the precipice, inevitably, irresistibly; and I don't think
I anticipated, such was my confidence in Nigel's pluck and
resourcefulness, that our separation would be more than temporary, at
the worst a matter of a few weeks.  As we paced up and down the
_chausse_ at the end of the village, waiting for the big steam tram to
start, with the early morning mists rising from the fields and every
blade of grass sparkling with dew, it was a mercy that neither he nor I
could guess what the future had in store for us.

"And did you really intend to go away and leave me without saying
good-bye?" I asked him.

He pressed my hand.  "If it had come to the point, I don't think I
could have done it," he said.  "But I was afraid of myself.  Since I
met you life has been worth living again, dearest, and I didn't think I
should have the strength to let you go...."

I looked into his face.  "Tell me, Nigel, did you always mean to go
back, once you had brought me into safety?"

He shook his head.  "It came to me suddenly last night in the chapel.
Up to then, I suppose, I was only thinking of getting that document out
of Germany.  But when the Father showed me that newspaper, and I knew
we had won through, I suddenly seemed to see my duty like a bright
light piercing through the darkness in which I have walked for all
these years.  Look, like the sun there...."  And he pointed to the red
ball gleaming dully over the steaming plain.

"Then that was why you asked Pater Vedastus to bless us?"

He grew rather embarrassed.  "You must have thought me devilish
sentimental.  But I wanted to feel, when I am back there again"--he
made a gesture of the arm towards the blueish blur on the horizon where
the great forest lay--"that you are waiting for me...."

"Didn't you know it without that?"

He nodded wistfully.  "Yes, but..."  His voice grew warm: "Oh,
sweetheart, I wanted so desperately to go with you to England, this
England of ours that, when I came out of prison, I never wanted to see
again.  I thought that if I could hear you repeat your promise there
before the altar in the presence of that good old priest, it would give
me strength to do what was right...."  He broke off abashed.

"I felt as though we were being married," I said.  "I'm glad you had
the idea, Nigel.  Now I know that we belong to one another for
always...."

Two large Dutch vrouws, with shawls and market-baskets, were hoisting
themselves into the empty tram.  The driver and conductor appeared on
the road.  We had halted, Nigel and I, under a lime tree a little
distance away.

Nigel caught up my two hands in his.  "God bless you for saying that,"
he murmured brokenly.  "Then you'll wait for me?

My eyes were moist.  "You know I will...."

"Even if it's months?"

"Even if it's years.  To the end of my life, Nigel!"  Only Fate knew,
God help me, what a true prophet I was.

Now we became aware that the driver was clanging his bell impatiently.
The conductor shouted from the platform.  "I suppose I'll have to go,"
I said despairingly.  We exchanged a wistful smile, realising that a
hand-clasp was all my disguise would allow, and walked slowly to the
tram.

"Oh, my dearest dear," I whispered, as I stood on the step, "take care
of yourself.  I shall die if you don't come back to me...."

I have often wondered since whether he had a premonition of what Fate
had in store for us.  For one instant those eyes, with their turquoise
sheen, rested on my face as though he wished to stamp my features on
his memory.  His expression in that moment was stern, grim almost, and
the touch of his hand in mine was like the touch of ice.  "Good-bye,
beloved," he murmured in a choking voice, and, dropping my hand, turned
away.  Then, with a jerk, the tram started and the tears blinded my
sight.  When I had dried my eyes, they showed me that spare, lonely
figure still standing as I had left it, face to the frontier and the
creaming line of the woods, head bowed, motionless, upon the dusty
_chausse_....

I never saw Nigel Druce again.




85

Aftermath


That is my story.

The last chapter is soon told....


I had an uneventful journey home until I reached the Hook.  There the
first person I saw on going on board the Harwich boat was Jim.  My
brother-in-law was returning from Berlin, of all places.  Dulcie,
distracted, as I knew she would be, at my disappearance, had sent him
out in search of me.  I shall never forget Jim's face when I went up to
him in my shabby boy's clothes and touched him on the shoulder.

He was very stiff with me at first, and no wonder.  In Berlin the
Embassy could tell him nothing about me, and referred him to the
police.  At Police Headquarters he was received by a very polite
gentleman who explained that, in police experience, most disappearances
of this kind were voluntary, and advised him to return to England and
await a letter from me.  Pressed for further enlightenment, the
official eventually produced the English police record of Nigel
Marston-Gore, and with a great show of consideration, informed my
horrified relative that, on the night of 21st July, the day I had
arrived in Berlin from Schlatz, Nigel had fetched me away from Kemper's
Hotel, where I had registered in a false name, and the pair of us had
left for an unknown destination.  Although I had rendered myself liable
to a severe penalty, the police did not wish to bring disgrace upon my
respectable family, and proposed to let the matter rest there.
Completely nonplussed, Jim took the next train back to London to report
to Dulcie.  He was extremely scandalised and, until he had heard my
story, inclined to be pompous; and recognising the hand of Grundt, I
could not but admire the uncanny knowledge of human nature displayed in
this device for putting a stop to inconvenient inquiries.

Then London, where the imperturbable stolidity of the City, with its
roaring traffic and large, good-humoured policemen, seemed to cast an
air of unreality about my strange adventure.  Dulcie, warned by
telegram, and between joy and curiosity almost hysterical, met us at
Liverpool Street with the car.  I appalled her by insisting, before I
did anything else, on going just as I was, in my old cloth cap and
shabby flannel suit, to the address on the letter Nigel had given me
for his Chief.

Dulcie stayed with the car while I made my way to that queer little
office which I was to come to know so well, perched high above the
curve of the Thames at Charing Cross.  I was rather nervous as to my
reception in my ragamuffin attire; but they must have been used to odd
visitors there: at any rate, my appearance seemed to attract no remark.
I presumed the Chief would know my name, but, in order not to bewilder
the messenger by announcing myself as "Miss Dunbar," I wrote a little
note.  I was ushered in at once.

A grim, oldish man, with tremendous shoulders and an indomitable air,
rose up from the desk to greet me.  With his beak-like nose, massive
chin, and fierce, imperious eye, I found him rather alarming.  But he
had a very kindly smile, and he smiled broadly when his glance fell
upon me.  "My word," he said drily, "this looks like business, eh?"

I borrowed the scissors from the desk to slit up the lining of my
jacket and remove the report and Nigel's letter.  The big man made no
comment as he took them from me, but merely asked me to sit down.  With
perfectly impassive features he drew the report from its envelope,
glanced at it, and laid it aside.  Then he opened Nigel's letter.

There was a twinkle in his steely grey eye when, his reading done, he
glanced up across at me.  "I took a chance on you," he remarked, "and
our friend tells me it came off.  Thank you!"

"Tell me," I said, and tried to cover up my frightful eagerness, "have
you heard from him yet?"

He shook his head.  "But if you leave your address with my secretary,
I'll see that you're informed as soon as there's any news.  He makes a
special point of that in his letter."  He picked up the report from the
blotter and fell to studying it abstractedly.  "You builded better than
you knew when you finished Abbott's job for him," he observed at last.

"You _did_ receive the copy that went by post, didn't you?" I could not
help asking.

"Yes," was the calm rejoinder, "and very glad we were to get it.  And
now," he added briskly, "though I'm sure you're longing to get back
into your pretty clothes, my dear, I'm going to fetch in one of my
young men who'll have some questions to ask you."  His hand moved to a
row of electric bells.

"I wish you'd tell me how you knew I was at Schlatz?" I put in.

He grinned.  "Once we had located Abbott," he answered, "we made it our
business to find out what English folk were in the town."

"Apart from him I think I was the only English person at Schlatz," I
volunteered.

"You were.  And you were the right one.  You see, we looked up your
family record.  And you ran true to form.  Now tell me about young
Druce...."


It was four days before I had word of Nigel, four days of torturing
anxiety, during which, it seems to me, I neither slept nor ate.  On the
Saturday evening following my return, I was sitting alone in the garden
at Dulcie's, listening to the thud of balls on the tennis-court next
door, and thinking about Nigel.  The sands of peace were running out.
All Europe was in a turmoil: Germany and Russia were mobilising: and I
seemed to hear the tramp of legions above the pleasant medley of
peaceful sounds from the neighbouring garden.  Then the telephone rang,
and I went indoors to answer it.

"A message for Miss Dunbar," said a well-bred voice, and then: "He's
all right, and he says you're not to worry."

"Oh, please," I pleaded, "won't you tell me where I can write to him?"

"I'm sorry, but we have no address."  A click: they had rung off.

Three days afterwards we were at war, and for the Allied peoples
Germany became a hermit land, more remote, more inaccessible, than
Tibet.  And my Nigel was shut up there.  In those early days officious
Germans flooded their British acquaintances with propaganda of all
kinds.  One of these brochures came addressed to me: from Schlatz, I
surmised.  Recognising its purpose, I was about to throw it away when a
scrap of writing on the margin of the cover caught my eye.  "My love,
my love, my love," was written there....

Thereafter, the fog of war descended, and Nigel Druce was swallowed up
as utterly as though he had never lived.  Weeks of torture passed: the
Marne was fought and won; and the battle for the Channel Ports was
raging before I heard again.  A second mysterious telephone call, this
time to the hospital where I was working at Dover, informed me that
"he" was "doing very well," and asked to be remembered; just that, and
nothing more.  A month later I received a German newspaper, with a
Stockholm postmark.  At the foot of a column was scrawled: "My heart's
love to my heart's love.  God bless you, dearest!"

Thereafter, at irregular intervals, but usually about once a month, a
meagre message from the office, or a cryptic line of loving greeting,
forwarded by some such means as those I have described, told me at
least that he was still alive.  The hardest part of our separation was
that I could not write to him.  The office, where I called whenever I
was in town, professed, with how much truth I don't know, to be unable
to communicate with him.  Every message I received I acknowledged in
the Agony Column of _The Times_, in the hope that Nigel might see it.

And then all tidings ceased.  Up to the Armistice eight months had
elapsed since his last message.  It was a few days before the great
German offensive in France that I received it.  It came to me from the
office, a grubby fragment of paper, on which two lines were scribbled
in faded characters.  The paper was crinkled and reeked of chemicals;
it looked as if it had been written in sympathetic ink.

"Patience, sweetheart," it ran.  "I shall come back to you, never fear.
Fit and happy and longing to see you."

There was no signature--there never was.

Thereafter a blank.  At first, the office was hopeful: sometimes
agents, I was told, were unable to communicate for months at a stretch.
The weeks dragged on.  In the late spring Jim was killed, and I had
poor Dulcie's agony to add to my own.  I was distracted.  I pestered
the office.  They hinted at inquiries made through odd, subterranean
channels; but they would not let me inquire outside.

And then one day in June the Chief sent for me.  He was very gentle;
but he made it quite clear that I must give up hope.  If I wished I was
free to approach the Red Cross and the other organisations which
endeavoured to trace the missing: he would help me in any way he could.
I think he knew something; but whatever it was, he kept it to himself.
What he did tell me was that he had reason to believe that Nigel had
been in Occupied Belgium in March.  There had been a great drive
against our agents there.  Many had been shot.  It was greatly to be
feared...


I have tried every source in vain.  Silence.

Is it the silence of death?  I told him, that morning we said good-bye,
that I should die if he did not come back to me.  How sentimental it
sounds now!  We know, Dulcie and I, that in war women's is the harder
lot, to live: only the men are privileged to die....

I had so greatly hoped that peace would bring us news.  But the
Armistice was signed six weeks ago, and still there is no tidings.  It
is two days to Christmas when Bill is coming for his answer.

Last night I read through what I have written, and as I read I had the
feeling as though from my pages my Nigel stepped back into my life.

_I cannot believe that he is dead...._

Poor Bill!  Dulcie will be furious; but what can I do?



Postscript

_He is alive and on his way home to me....._

To-night I have had his wireless from Constantinople, so tender, so
full of love, that I seem to hear the echo of his dear voice crying out
to me from the air above the sleeping Downs.

The Chief brought me the first news.  This afternoon, the last day of
the old year which has brought peace back to the earth, I was digging
in my garden, easier in my mind since I had sent poor Bill away.  I
heard the gate clang, and looking up, saw that odd old man from
Whitehall standing on the path.

He had never been down to the cottage before.  At the sight of him my
heart seemed to stop.  Had he brought me proof of that certainty which
I would not admit to myself?

But his greeting gave me hope.  "Hullo there," he cried jovially, "are
you good at standing surprises?  Nice ones, I mean....?"

I stared at him blankly.  A mad idea had crept into my head, so crazy
that I was ashamed to voice it.

He thrust a sheet of foolscap into my hand.  "Read that!" he bade me.

It was the typewritten copy of a Constantinople despatch.

"American Red Cross at Angora," I read, "reports typhoid patient in
Turkish Ambulance, admitted under name of Jakob Koch, on return to
consciousness gave name as Nigel Druce, of British Intelligence Corps.
Evacuated Constantinople.  Message ends."


That cable was nine days old.  It had been delayed _en route_.  The
Chief had later news.  Nigel was in hospital at Constantinople.  From a
statement he had given to the British Mission there, it appeared that,
during the March offensive, he had been compelled to flee from Belgium
and had made his way down to the Balkans as a drover accompanying a
cattle train.  Thence he had drifted to Adrianople, where he was
arrested as a suspect and sent to a civilian internment camp in Asia
Minor.  He had escaped from there, but was wounded in the foot by a
sentry, and had lain hidden for months in a Turkish village, where
eventually a Red Crescent unit had found him delirious with typhoid.
He was now convalescent, and by this, the Chief added, on his way home
to England.

"He'll have something to tell us, I shouldn't wonder," the big man said
placidly, "and I'll have something to tell him.  I've been thinking
it's time he had a commission...."  He paused and cocked his grizzled
head at me.

I gasped.  "You mean ... you mean he'll be reinstated?"

He held me with his eye.  "So you know about that old business, do you?"

"He told me before he asked me to marry him," I replied.

The Chief grinned genially.  "So that's the way of it, eh?  Well, we're
making a fresh start.  The only fellow I know about is Nigel Druce, and
he's getting a commission in the Intelligence with the rank of Major.
And, by the way, have a look through the New Year's Honours in
to-morrow's papers.  I shouldn't wonder if you found his name there,
something to do with a D.S.O...."

I flung my arms round the old Chief's neck and kissed him.  "You've
made me so happy," I said.

"Wait," he put in.  "Since I can't get you a D.S.O., much as you have
deserved it, I've asked Cartier's to send you along a bangle...."

On that, of course, I had to kiss him again.

He was not greatly put out.  "Lucky beggar, Druce," he rumbled.  "What
I say about this job of ours is that the young fellows have all the
fun...."


And now I am waiting for my Nigel.




Books by

VALENTINE WILLIAMS


HIS "CLUBFOOT" BOOKS

  The Crouching Beast
  The Gold Comfit Box
  The Spider's Touch


HIS MYSTERY, SPY AND DETECTIVE BOOKS

  The Three of Clubs
  Death Answers the Bell
  Mannequin
  The Eye in Attendance
  The Red Mass
  The Key Man
  Mr. Ramosi
  The Knife Behind the Curtain
  The Clock Ticks On
  The Portcullis Room
  Masks Off at Midnight
  The Clue of the Rising Moon
  Dead Man Manor
      and
  Fog

  by Valentine Williams
  and Dorothy Rice Sims


HODDER AND STOUGHTON LTD., LONDON




[End of The Crouching Beast, by Valentine Williams]
