His eyes flashed.
'Care about it!' he repeated enthusiastically.
She smiled and rose to her feet.
'Leave me now,' she begged. 'I want to speak to one of those men for a minute. You can dine with me in the Grill-room at the Milan at seven o'clock, in morning clothes. Till then,au revoir!'
*****
The spirit of adventure warmed Lavendale's blood that night. He ordered his dinner with unusual care, and he was delighted to find his guest sufficiently human to appreciate the delicacies he had chosen and the vintage of the champagne which he had selected. Their conversation was entirely general, almost formal. They had both lived for some time in Paris and found mutual acquaintances there. As they neared the conclusion of the meal she was summoned to the telephone. She was absent only for a short time but when she returned she began to collect her few trifles.
'The car passed through Slough,' she said, 'a quarter of an hour ago. I think perhaps we had better be moving.'
Lavendale signed his bill and they left the hotel together.
'Nothing else you think you ought to tell me, I suppose?' he remarked, as they crossed the narrow street. 'I am rather in the dark, you know. The idea is, isn't it, that Jules is coming up to get the formula from some hiding-place in his room? Where shall we be?'
'Wait,' she begged.
They climbed the stairs in silence—the girl had purposely avoided the lift. Arrived on the third floor, she passed the door of number thirty-two and knocked softly at the adjoining one. There was, for a moment, no answer. At the second summons, however, the door was cautiously opened. The untidy secretary admitted them. In her soiled black dress, shapeless and crumpled, with her fat, peevish face and dishevelled peroxidized hair, she was by no means an attractive object. She pointed half indignantly to where Mr. Somers-Keyne was lying upon the couch, gazing towards them in incapable silence with a fatuous smile upon his lips.
'If it's from you he gets the money for this sort of thing,' she said sharply, 'why, I wish you'd keep it, and that's straight. How are we to get on with our work or anything, with him in that condition?'
'Scondition'sh all right,' Mr. Somers-Keyne insisted, making a weak effort to rise.
Miss de Freyne frowned for a moment as she appreciated the situation. Then she waved him back.
'Don't try to get up, Mr. Somers-Keyne, she begged. 'We can manage without you. Lie down and rest for a little time.'
Mr. Somers-Keyne sank back with a sigh of content.
'Very shorry,' he murmured. 'Tree'sh awfully annoyed with me. Promished go down and shee him sh'evening.'
'Is this fellow one of your helpers?' Lavendale asked.
She nodded.
'In a small way. Never mind, we don't need him to-night. Come here.'
She led him to the side of the wall nearest the adjoining apartment. Her fingers felt about the pattern of the paper. Presently she found a crack, pushed for a moment and a sliding door rolled back. She stretched out her hand through the darkness and turned a small knob. A wardrobe door swung outwards. They looked into the shadowy obscurity of the adjoining room. Lavendale whistled softly.
'This is all very well,' he said, 'but how can we watch Jules whilst the door is closed?'
She pointed to two or three little ventilation holes near the top of the wardrobe. Lavendale applied his eye to one of them and nodded.
'That's all right,' he admitted. 'There's just enough light. Listen!'
They could both of them hear the quick, eager footsteps of a man lightly shod, stealthy, ascending the last flight of stairs. Her fingers gripped his arm for a moment. An excitement more poignant than any begotten by their hazardous adventure suddenly thrilled him. The greatest adventure of all was at hand....
The footsteps paused, the door slowly opened. It was Jules who entered. He stood looking around for a moment, then unexpectedly fingered the switch which stood upon the wall. The apartment was flooded with light. Jules stood in the centre of it, distinctly visible. He was paler even than usual, and his eyes were a little sunken, but he had lost, somehow or other, that bearing of graceful servility which had distinguished him in his former avocation. An expression of subdued cunning had taken its place. He looked around the apartment searchingly. His eyes rested for a moment upon a small print at the further end of the room, which was hanging upon the wall in a crooked position. As his eyes fell upon it, he frowned. He seemed suddenly to stiffen into a new attention. He glanced once more around him as though in fear and picked up his overcoat from the bed. Before they could realize what his intentions were, he had left the room, closing the door behind him.
'What does that mean?' Lavendale whispered.
She pushed open the wardrobe door. A little breath of fresher air was grateful to both of them. Then she turned and pointed towards the opposite wall.
'It was that print,' she murmured. 'It must have been a signal to him that he was being watched. You see, it is on one side. I am perfectly certain that when I was here this morning it was straight.'
'A signal from whom?'
She had no time to answer him. They could hear the door of the next room open. Their eyes met.
'Mr. Somers-Keyne!' he exclaimed.
They stepped back into the wardrobe. Her fingers felt for the spring. Suddenly they both heard, within a few inches of them, on the other side of the wall, the sound of a click. She pressed the spring in vain. Then she stepped back and turned on the electric light in the room.
'Try the door,' she whispered.
Lavendale tried it. As they both expected, it was locked. She drew a master-key from her pocket and opened it swiftly. They were out in the corridor now, empty and silent. They could not even hear the sound of any one moving about in Mr. Somers-Keyne's room. Lavendale stood before the latter's door and listened. There was a mumbling as though of smothered voices, then suddenly an angry exclamation.
'Sick of the lot of you, that's what I am! Here's the old man dictates his rubbish for about an hour a day and talks drivelling, drunken piffle for the rest of it! Where's my salary coming from, that's what I want to know?'
They heard Jules apparently trying to soothe her.
'My dear Miss Brown, in a few days, if you will only be patient——'
'Patient! Who's going to be patient with that old drunkard blithering around all the time? I've had enough!'
They heard the sound of stamping footsteps and Mr. Somers-Keyne's sonorous voice.
'Flora, my dear, mosht unreasonable, I'm sure. Shimply asked you go out for a few minutes while Mr. Jules and I dishcuss important matter.'
'And I'm going out for a minute,' Miss Brown shouted, suddenly opening the door, 'and you may thank your stars when you see me again!'
She appeared upon the threshold, holding a slatternly hat upon her head with one hand and sticking hatpins in with the other. She stared insolently at Lavendale and his companion, and brushed her way past them.
'Here's visitors for you,' she called out over her shoulder. 'You'll have to get rid of them now before you start on your precious business.'
She flopped down the stairs. The newcomers stepped across the threshold. Jules stared at them in surprise. Mr. Somers-Keyne nodded his head ponderously. His mind seemed to be still running upon Miss Brown's departure.
'A mosht ungrateful young woman,' he declared. 'Mish—er—de Freyne, your shervant. Thish gentleman is the tenant of the roomsh you looked over other day. Mr. Lavendale, don't like you. Don't want you here. Ashked me questions about you, Mish de Freyne. Not a nice young man at all. You lishen to me a moment.'
He staggered to his feet. Jules stood in the background. There was something of the old obsequiousness about his manner. Mr. Somers-Keyne swayed for a moment upon his feet. Then Lavendale felt a sudden inspiration. He turned on his heel.
'Excuse me for one moment,' he whispered to the girl by his side.
He turned away with no show of haste, though the eyes of both men seemed to follow him. Then he ran down the stairs on tiptoe, taking them three at a time as he neared the ground floor. The motor-car was drawn up outside, there was no sign of any one else in the street. He sprang to the other side of the way and saw at once the object of his pursuit, hurrying down towards the Embankment. He followed her as stealthily as possible. Without looking around she increased her own pace, crossed the Embankment and leaned for a moment over the wall. A few yards further on were the steps and a little pier, and close by a small tug was waiting. Lavendale, who was within reach of her now, stretched out his hand and seized her shoulder.
'I want you, Miss Brown!' he exclaimed.
She turned and confronted him, her face mottled and flushed with the unusual exercise, a strand of her unwholesome-looking hair hanging down to her shoulder.
'Now what's wrong with you?' she shouted. 'Can't you leave me alone? I'm not coming back.'
'Where are you going?' he asked.
'That's none of your business,' she snapped. 'Let me pass.'
He glanced at the tug and his hand closed upon her wrist. He was a strong man, but she almost succeeded in wrenching herself free.
'Look here, Miss Brown,' he said, 'the game's up. I want that paper you're keeping for Jules.'
She suddenly showed her teeth. Her face was like the face of a wild animal. She struggled so violently that they swayed towards the parapet. Her left hand slipped into the bosom of her gown. Before he could stop her, her fingers were making pulp of the paper which she had drawn up in crushed fragments. She threw it over the parapet into the black water. Then she ceased to struggle. She laughed hysterically and leaned back against the wall. The water near where the fragments of paper had fallen was all churned up—the little tug had hurried off.
'Clever, ain't you?' she mocked. 'Any need to hold on to me any more?'
He released her wrist. The car had come thundering down the little street. It suddenly pulled up with a grinding of brakes. Suzanne sprang lightly out.
'The formula?' she cried.
He pointed downwards to the water.
'Destroyed!'
Her sigh was almost one of relief.
'Was there a tug here?' she asked eagerly.
He nodded.
'It made off when they saw us struggling.'
'He told the truth, then!' she exclaimed. 'Jules shot himself as soon as he realized that the game was up—there in the room before me, a few minutes ago. He told me with his last breath that the formula was on its way down the river to Germany.'
Lavendale smiled grimly.
'It's on its way down the river, right enough,' he assented, 'but I don't think it will reach Germany.'
Lavendale paused in the act of struggling with his tie, and looked steadfastly into the mirror in front of him. He had heard no definite sound, yet some queer intuition seemed to have suddenly awakened within his subconscious mind a sense of the mysterious, something close at hand, unaccountable, minatory. His flat was empty and the catch of the front door secure, yet he knew very well that he was being watched. He turned slowly around.
'What the mischief——'
He broke off in his sentence. A small man, dressed in black clothes, imperturbable, yellow-skinned, and with Oriental type of features, was standing to attention, a clothes-brush in his hand. His dark, oval eyes rested for a moment upon the crumpled failure of Lavendale's tie. Without a word he took another from an open drawer, came softly across the room and reached upwards. Before Lavendale knew what was happening, the bow which had been worrying him for the last five minutes was faultlessly tied. He glanced into the mirror and was compelled to give vent to a little exclamation of satisfaction.
'That's all very well, you know,' he said, turning once more around. 'The tie's all right, but who the devil are you, and what are you doing in my rooms?'
The man bowed. Again the Oriental seemed to assert itself in the subtle ease with which he almost prostrated himself.
'Sir,' he explained, 'I am the friend of your servant Perkins.'
'Then perhaps you can tell me where on earth Perkins is?' Lavendale demanded.
'He is in the hospital, sir,' the man answered. 'He met with a slight accident while he and I were together. I am his messenger. I undertook to bring you news of him and to do what I could, in my poor way, to fill his place for this evening. He lent me his key. It was in that manner I was able to gain entrance here.'
'An accident?' Lavendale repeated. 'What sort of an accident?'
'I chose an idle word, perhaps,' the other confessed. 'It was indeed more a matter of sudden illness. Perkins and I lunched together at the Chinese Restaurant in Piccadilly Circus. As we left the place, he faltered; he fainted in the passage. I called a taxicab and took him to the hospital. It was not a great affair, they said, but it was better that he should rest there. So I came to you.'
'And who the dickens may you be?'
'My name is Niko. I came from Japan with General Kinish, military attaché to the Japanese Embassy. He has gone to the Italian Front and left me without a situation.'
'You're all right at ties, any way,' Lavendale admitted, glancing once more into the mirror. 'All the same, I think I can get along without a man until Perkins comes back.'
His hands sought his trousers pockets but Niko shook his head gravely.
'It is impossible,' he protested. 'Perkins may be away for a week. I shall wait upon you until he returns. It is best.'
'Well, have it your own way,' Lavendale remarked. 'Better answer that bell, then. If it is a lady, show her into the sitting-room.'
Niko glided away and returned in a moment.
'The lady,' he announced, 'is in the sitting-room.'
He held up Lavendale's coat and the latter hastened from the room. Suzanne de Freyne was standing facing the door as he entered, her theatre cloak thrown back. He took her hands.
'You are adorably punctual!' he exclaimed.
'Tell me,' she asked, a little abruptly, 'how long have you had your valet?'
'About five minutes, I believe,' he answered. 'He is a substitute. My own man was taken ill at luncheon-time. Why do you ask?'
'Because he is the first person,' she explained, 'who has succeeded in puzzling me in one particular way since I can remember.'
He looked at her as though for an explanation, and in a moment she continued.
'I flatter myself that I never forget a face. Your valet is perfectly well-known to me and yet I cannot tell you who he is.'
Lavendale glanced uneasily towards the door.
'I shan't keep him,' he said. 'I hate prejudices, but I am full of them. The fellow's a Jap, of course.'
Suzanne did not reply for a moment. Her attention seemed to have suddenly wandered. Then she turned around with a little laugh.
'I am hungry, my friend!' she exclaimed. 'Let us go. And yet, remember this. Temporary servants are bad things for people who follow our profession.'
They left the room. Niko was standing with the front door wide open, his master's hat and gloves in his hand.
'I will be here at seven o'clock in the morning, sir,' he promised, 'and bring news of Perkins.'
Lavendale nodded. The door was closed softly behind them. At the bottom of the stairs he glanced up.
'Wish I could get rid of the ridiculous idea I have about that fellow,' he remarked.
'Is there anything in your rooms of particular—I will not say value, I will say interest?' she inquired.
'I suppose I have the usual amount of valuables,' he admitted, 'but Perkins is a very careful servant, and I am sure he would never have sent any one who wasn't reliable. As regards my papers and that sort of thing, they are all locked up in a safe with a combination lock.'
She did not pursue the subject and it faded quickly from Lavendale's mind. They dined in a quiet corner at the Milan and they talked of many things, chiefly the war.
'Do you realize,' he asked her, towards the end of their meal, 'that you are still a complete mystery to me?'
She nodded affably.
'Yes?'
'You know what I mean, of course,' he went on. 'Three weeks ago we joined hands for a moment. We were—may I not use the word?—associates. We were not, perhaps, completely successful in our enterprise, but at least we prevented that marvellous secret from ever reaching an enemy's hands. Then you disappeared. I heard nothing from you until your voice startled me down the telephone to-night—you want to dine with me. Well, I am your slave and here I am, but tell me, where have you been all this time?'
'In France,' she answered.
'And what have you been doing?'
'Attending to my own business.'
'And what is that?' he asked coolly.
She raised her eyebrows but her air of offence was obviously assumed. She lit a cigarette and watched the smoke for a minute. He was absorbed in the study of her hands—her unusually firm yet delicate fingers, ringless save for one large, quaintly-cut emerald.
'In my life,' she said, 'I have no confidants.'
'That seems a pity,' he replied. 'We might be useful to one another.'
'I am not so sure,' she answered thoughtfully. 'For instance, although we speak together in English, my soul is French. I am for France and France only. England is our very dear ally. England is a splendid and an honourable nation, but it is France's future welfare in which I am concerned, and not England's. You, on the other hand, are Saxon. England and America, after all, are very close together.'
'Greatest mistake of your life,' he assured her. 'I have a great respect for England and a great liking for English people, and I believe that she was dragged into this war without wanting it, but, on the other hand, as I told you once before, I am for America and America only. England has asked for what she is getting for a good many years. If even she gets a good hiding it won't do her any harm.'
'But America is so far outside,' she observed.
'Don't you make any mistake,' he answered promptly. 'The world grows smaller, year by year. The America of fifty years ago has become impossible to-day. We have our political interests in every country, and, however slow and unwilling we may be to take up our responsibilities, we've got to come into line with the other great Powers and use the same methods.'
'You may be right,' she confessed. 'Very well, then, you are for America and I am for France. Now tell me, as between Germany and England how are your sympathies?'
'With England, without a doubt,' he pronounced. 'Mind, I am not a rabid anti-German. I am not in the least sure that a nation with the great genius for progress that Germany has shown is not to some extent justified by taking up the sword to hew a larger place in the world for her own people. But that does not affect my answer to your question. My sympathies are with England.'
She flicked the ash from her cigarette. She was looking a little languidly across the room towards a table set against the wall.
'If your sympathy were a little stronger,' she remarked quietly, 'I could show you how to render England an incalculable service.'
'Tell me how?'
'First of all,' she continued, 'look at those three men and tell me what you think of them?'
He turned a little in his place and glanced towards the table which she had indicated. One of the three men who were seated at it was obviously a foreigner. His hair was grey towards the temples, although his moustache was almost jet-black; his cheek-bones were high, his teeth a little prominent. He wore evening clothes of the most correct cut, his shirt and links were unexceptionable. His two companions were men of a different stamp. The one who seemed to dominate the party was a huge man, clean-shaven, with puffy face and small eyes. He wore a dark flannel suit of transatlantic cut. He was drinking a large whisky and soda and smoking a cigar, and had apparently eaten nothing. His companion was of smaller build, with flaxen moustache and hair, and dressed in light grey clothes and yellow boots. On the face of it, the trio were ill-assorted.
'Well, I should say,' Lavendale remarked, 'that the dark man in the corner chair was a foreigner—a Russian, for choice. The other two are, of course, American business men. The face of the big man seems familiar to me.'
'You've probably seen his picture in the illustrated papers,' she told him. 'That is Jacob P. Weald. He was once called, I believe, the powder king.'
Lavendale nodded. His manner had become more interested.
'Of course,' he murmured. 'And that's Jenkins, the secretary to the Weald Company. I wonder who the third man is?'
'His name is Ossendorf—the Baron Cyril Ossendorf. He is apersona grataat the Russian Embassy and he owns great estates in Poland.'
'Stop!' Lavendale exclaimed. 'This is getting interesting. He is buying munitions, of course.'
'Marvellous!' she murmured.
'Don't chaff me—it's really interesting.'
'Yes,' she admitted, 'it is interesting even from its external point of view. You are right. The Baron is probably giving, or has given, an enormous order for ammunition. Yet there is something behind that little conference, if only we could probe it, more interesting than you would believe, my friend.'
She paused. He waited eagerly, but she was silent for an unusually long time.
'You were suggesting,' he ventured to remind her, 'a few minutes ago, that there was some way in which intervention——'
She leaned a little towards him. Her hand rested for a second upon his.
'I have come to the conclusion,' she said, speaking very softly, 'that one of us, either you or I, must kill Ossendorf.'
He began to laugh and then stopped suddenly. A little shiver ran through him. For a single second her face was almost the face of a tigress. He felt that his laugh was a mistake.
'You are in earnest!' he muttered.
She rose from the table, gathered up her belongings and allowed him to arrange her cloak about her shoulders.
'Except that I retract that possible alternative,' she said calmly. 'I shall deal with Ossendorf myself.'
'But I don't understand,' he persisted.
'How should you?' she answered, smiling.
'By the by, where are we going? We spoke of a music hall, didn't we?'
'I have a box at the Empire,' he told her.
She was stepping by him into the taxi when she suddenly paused. Her frame seemed to become rigid.
'The Empire,' he told the driver.
She turned suddenly around.
'Your rooms,' she directed. 'Tell him to drive at once to your rooms.'
He was startled, but he obeyed her without hesitation. A moment later he took his place by her side.
'That valet of yours!' she exclaimed.
'What about him?'
'I told you that I knew his face. I have just remembered.'
'Well?'
'A year ago he was an attaché at the Japanese Embassy. His name is Baron Komashi.'
Lavendale was mystified.
'Are you sure?' he asked incredulously.
'Perfectly certain,' she insisted.
'But why on earth should he be a friend of Perkins and willing to act as my valet?'
'It's the eternal game,' she declared, 'and they are clever at it, too, the Japs. Tell me, have you any papers of special value about just now?'
'Yes, in my safe,' he admitted, 'but no one else has an idea of the combination.'
'Combination!' she scoffed. 'Niko Komashi, too! Tell me, are these papers political which you have inside that safe?'
'In a measure, yes!' he assented.
They had reached the street in which his rooms were situated.
'There is no light in my room,' he said, as they ascended the stairs. 'Niko must have done his work and gone home.'
'Yes,' she murmured, 'he has done his work, without a doubt. He has a knack of doing that.'
Lavendale produced his latch-key. The rooms appeared to be empty and in darkness. In the sitting-room he unlocked his safe and peered in. One by one he examined his papers. Everything was in perfect order. He turned back to his companion.
'Nothing has been disturbed,' he announced confidently.
She came over towards him, put her head for a moment inside the safe and immediately withdrew it.
'Niko has been through these papers during your absence,' she declared. 'If everything is there, it is because he had no need to steal. He has examined or made copies of what he chose.'
'How do you know this?' he asked incredulously.
'It is quite simple,' she explained. Even the cleverest man in the world seems always to forget one thing. Niko forgot that his clothes and fingers, even his breath, have always that peculiar Oriental perfume. What is it like—half almond-blossom, half sandalwood?'
'I remember I noticed it when he came in,' Lavendale agreed quickly.
'Put your head inside that safe again,' she directed.
He obeyed at once. When he emerged, his face was troubled. He locked the door mechanically.
'You are right,' he said.
They were silent for a moment. Lavendale was contemplating the lock in a dazed manner. He turned to Suzanne. She had seated herself in his easy-chair and had thrown back her cloak.
'You were going to tell me,' he reminded her, 'about this fellow Niko. You had an idea about him.'
'Mine is no idea,' she replied. 'It is a certainty. The man who posed this evening as your temporary valet, the man who in your absence has opened your safe, why, it is Baron Niko Komashi. He belongs to one of the most aristocratic families of Japan.'
'But he is a member of the Servants' Club!' Lavendale expostulated. 'He was a friend of Perkins—my servant!'
'Ostensibly,' she said dryly. 'He came over here as first secretary to the Embassy. Then he disappeared. No one quite knew what had become of him. I once had a suspicion. Now I know. You and I, my friend, are bunglers at the game he plays.'
Once more Lavendale was looking at the lock—unscratched, bearing so signs of having been tampered with.
'The thing is a miracle,' he muttered.
'Tell me—unless you would rather not,' she asked, leaning a little forward, 'was there any document in that safe likely to be of particular interest to the Japanese Secret Service?'
Lavendale's face was dark with mingled shame and humiliation.
'There was just the one document that should have been kept from them at all costs,' he declared bitterly. 'Two years ago I wrote a series of articles for an American Sunday paper upon our military unpreparedness. I don't know that they did any particular good, but, anyway, it's a subject I have studied closely. That paper I had my fingers on just now contains every possible scrap of information as to our standing army, our volunteer forces, our artillery, our possible scheme of defence on the west and the east, our stock of munitions, and our expenditure of same per thousand men. There was also an air and naval report and a scheme for mining San Francisco Harbour.'
She leaned back in her chair and laughed.
'Most interesting! I can quite understand how Niko's eyes would gleam! ... What's that?'
She turned her head suddenly. Lavendale, too, had started, and with a swift movement forward had touched the switch and plunged the room into darkness. They heard the soft click of the latch and the opening and closing of the front door. They heard the soft footsteps of the intruder across the hall. The door of the room in which they were was quietly opened and closed. Still with that same amazing stealthiness, a small, dark figure crossed the room and stood before the safe. Then there was a pause, several breathless moments of silence. Niko's instinct was telling him that he was not alone. Once more Lavendale's finger touched the switch and the lights blazed out. Niko was standing, the knob of the safe in his hand, his head turned towards them.
The sudden light had a common effect upon all of them. Suzanne for a moment held her hand in front of her eyes. Niko blinked slightly. Then he drew himself up to his full height of five feet four. He stood in front of the safe with his eyes fixed upon Lavendale, something about his face and attitude bearing a curious resemblance to a statue carved in wax. Lavendale coughed.
'You remind me, Baron Komashi,' he said, 'of an old English proverb—the pitcher that goes once too often to the well, you know. Was it something you had forgotten that brought you back? No, stay where you are, please.'
Niko remained motionless. Lavendale moved to a long, open cupboard which stood against the wall, opened it and groped about amongst its contents for a moment. Then he swung the door to and slipped some cartridges into the little revolver which he had taken from the top shelf. Niko's muscles suddenly seemed to relax. Ever so slightly he shrugged his shoulders. It was the gesture of a supreme philosophy.
'There's no need for a row,' Lavendale went on. 'The game you and I are playing at, Baron Komashi, requires finesse rather than muscle. By a stroke of genius you have read a certain document in that safe. That document is naturally of interest to the representative of the one country with whom America might possibly quarrel.'
Niko bowed his sleek head.
'I have read the document,' he confessed. 'It was my business here to read it. And now?'
'There you have me,' Lavendale admitted. 'It is a document, without a doubt, of great interest to you, and your Government will highly appreciate a résumé of its contents. At the same time, the only way to stop your making use of your information is to kill you.'
The man's face was like the face of a sphinx. Suzanne leaned a little further back in her chair and crossed her legs.
'It is a fortunate century in which you pursue your career, Baron,' she observed, 'and perhaps a fortunate country. These little qualms about human life which I can clearly see are influencing Mr. Lavendale, scarcely exist, even now, amongst your people, do they?'
'We are as yet,' Niko replied suavely, 'free, I am thankful to say, from the cowardice of the west.'
'If I asked you for your word of honour,' Lavendale continued, 'that you would not use that information?
'I might give it you,' Niko acknowledged, 'but my country's service is a higher thing than my personal honour, therefore it would do you no good. I shall be frank with you. There is no way you can prevent my report being duly made except by killing me. I am here, a self-confessed robber. If I were in your place, I should shoot.'
'The cowardice of the west, you see,' Lavendale remarked, throwing his revolver upon the table. 'You had better get out of the room. I might change my mind.'
For a moment Niko made no movement. Suzanne rose to her feet and lit a cigarette.
'As a matter of curiosity,' she asked, 'tell us why you returned, Baron?'
He bowed.
'The Empire performance is not over until half-past eleven,' he explained, 'and it is barely ten o'clock. I had some faint misgivings as to the resetting of the lock. I came back to examine it. That is my answer. You speak now of curiosity. I, too, have curiosity. Will you tell me how you knew that I had opened the safe?'
She smiled and lifted her handkerchief for a moment to her lips. Niko's head was bent as though in humiliation.
'It is so hard to outgrow one's errors,' he sighed.
He looked towards Lavendale and Lavendale pointed impatiently towards the door. He took a step or two in that direction, then he paused.
'Sir,' he said, looking back, 'because your methods are not mine, believe me that I still can appreciate their mistaken chivalry. The information I have gained I shall use. No promise of mine to the contrary would avail you. But there is, perhaps, some return which I might offer, more valuable, perhaps, to mademoiselle, yet of some import to you also.'
Suzanne leaned a little forward. Her cigarette burnt idly between her fingers.
'In this great conflict,' Niko continued, 'whose reverberations shake the earth, Japan watches from afar off. There are few who know the reason, but there is a reason. Let that pass. My country lays no seal upon my lips. What I know I pass on to you. A hundred million cartridges and five thousand tons of heavier ammunition, which might otherwise have reached Russia, are lying now at the bottom of the ocean. This is the doing of one man, a man in the pay of Germany, a man who is the greatest traitor the world has ever known.'
'Ossendorf!' Suzanne cried.
Niko bowed and moved towards the door.
'Mademoiselle has suspected, perhaps,' he concluded. 'It is I who can assure her that her suspicions are just. The greatest plant in America is kept producing munitions by day and night, bought with Russian gold but never meant to reach their destination. It is well?'
He looked at Lavendale, his hand upon the door. Lavendale nodded curtly.
'It is well,' he said.
*****
Mr. Jacob P. Weald smoothed out the document which he had been examining and drew a deep sigh of satisfaction.
'Say, Ed,' he remarked, turning to his secretary, who was smoking a cigar at the other end of the room, 'that's worth a cool million apiece for us, that contract.'
'Hope there's no hitch,' the other replied anxiously. 'What's this young fellow from the Embassy want?'
'Nothing to hurt us,' Weald assured him. 'We're all right with the authorities all round. I'm glad, Ed, we did the square thing. We've had it straight from the British War Office to go right along ahead and give Russia everything we can turn out. Well, Russia's going to have it, and, by gum, there's enough ammunition provided for in that contract to make mincemeat of the whole German Army!'
There was a knock at the door of the sitting-room and a servant announced Mr. Ambrose Lavendale. Lavendale, following closely behind, shook hands at once with the two men.
'I've heard of your plant, Mr. Weald,' he said pleasantly. 'Wonderful things you've been doing in the way of producing ammunition, they tell me. Been unlucky some with your shipments, though, haven't you?'
'That's so,' the other admitted, 'but that's not our fault. We don't come in there. Our friends have their own steamships, eleven of them, bought for the job.'
'Lost two out of three already, haven't they?' Lavendale remarked.
'Say, you seem some wise, young man,' Mr. Weald said pleasantly. 'However, I got the note from the boss. What can we do for you?'
'A very small thing,' Lavendale replied. 'I understand that Baron Ossendorf is coming here to sign that contract at twelve o'clock.'
'You're dead right, sir,' Mr. Weald admitted, 'and there's a magnum of the best standing there in the ice, waiting for the psychological moment.'
'Mind my being present and asking him one question—just one?' Lavendale inquired.
'We ain't likely to object to anything you want to do, young fellow,' Mr. Weald assured him. 'Ed Jenkins there—he's secretary of the company—and I, have got no crooked ideas about this business. We are going to bring a few million dollars into our own pockets, but we are going to do it on the straight. What our Ambassador over here says, goes, and his note asks us to take you into this.'
There was a knock at the door. Ossendorf was announced and promptly entered. He held out a hand each to Weald and Jenkins. Then he glanced inquiringly at Lavendale.
'This is a young friend of ours from the American Embassy,' Mr. Weald explained. 'Mr. Ambrose Lavendale—Baron Ossendorf. He's a kind of witness that all's right and above-board.'
Baron Ossendorf bowed and held out his long, elegantly-shaped hand.
'I am delighted, Mr. Lavendale,' he said, 'delighted that you should be a participator in our little business this morning. Between Russia and America there have always been the most cordial sentiments of friendship. It is a pleasure to us to think that we are able, at these terrible times, to be of service to one another.... You have the contract, Mr. Weald? Ah!' he added, glancing at it through his eyeglass, 'I see that this is the draft which I have already perused. Nothing remains, then, but for me to sign it.'
He dipped his pen in the ink, stooped down and there was a moment's silence whilst his pen spluttered across the paper. Mr. Weald began to cut the strings of the magnum of champagne.
'Just one moment,' Lavendale interposed. 'There is a little condition, Baron, which it is not proposed to put officially into the agreement, a very small matter, but may I suggest it to you?'
Ossendorf turned his head. His eyes had narrowed a little.
'By all means, sir.'
'The contract,' Lavendale continued slowly, 'is for the whole production of the Weald Plant for six months, with option of continuance until the end of the war. Shipments are to be made weekly by steamers whose names are given there, steamers practically acquired by the Russian Government.'
'You are well informed, my young friend,' Ossendorf admitted quietly.
'It has been suggested,' Lavendale said, speaking slowly and looking Ossendorf in the face, 'that you should change the wireless operator on all those vessels for a person approved by the British Government.'
There was a moment's deep silence. Mr. Weald had paused with his knife already pressed against the last string of the bottle. Jenkins was standing with his mouth open, a little dazed. Ossendorf shrank back as though he had received a blow. It was obvious that he retained his composure with an effort.
'What do you mean?' he demanded.
'Simply this,' Lavendale replied firmly. 'Already theIrisand theSouthern Star, with enough ammunition on board to have supplied an army, have gone to the bottom. I mean, sir, that every one of those remaining nine boats on which is to be packed the whole production of the greatest ammunition plant in America, is doomed to go to the bottom.'
Two great drops of sweat had broken out on Ossendorf's forehead. His face seemed suddenly to have grown thinner. His mouth was open. He glared at Lavendale, but he was utterly incapable of speech. The latter turned to Weald.
'Mr. Weald,' he said, 'this contract for your entire output can be signed within twenty-four hours, either by a representative of Russia other than Baron Ossendorf, or by the secretary of the British Munition Board. This man Ossendorf is a paid traitor—the Judas of the war.'
Mr. Weald was incapable of coherent speech.
'You mean,' Jenkins faltered, 'that he is in the pay of Germany?'
'Ask him!' Lavendale suggested scornfully.
Ossendorf seemed to wither up. He staggered to his feet and groped to the door. Suddenly something flashed in his hands, clasped tightly between them. There was a loud report, the room seemed filled with smoke. They all three looked in a dazed manner at the figure stretched upon the carpet, face downwards, the shoulders still twitching slightly. Lavendale stood with his finger upon the bell.
'Sorry to have interfered, Mr. Weald,' he said, 'but your stuff's wanted somewhere else—not at the bottom of the sea.' ...
Ossendorf's body was carried away. It was very well understood that the matter was to be hushed up. Lavendale lingered with Mr. Weald, who was walking restlessly about the room, still scarcely able to realize what had happened.
'Poor devil!' he kept on muttering. 'Poor devil!'
Lavendale laid his hand firmly upon his compatriot's shoulder.
'Look here, Mr. Weald,' he said, 'there are good and bad of every nation—Germans, Americans, English, or French. This man was outside the pale. He was a black and dastardly traitor, the pariah of humanity, he trafficked with the lives of human beings, he was a murderer for gold. If anything, his end was too merciful.'
Mr. Weald nodded reflectively. Lavendale's words were convincing. His eyes wandered towards the champagne bottle upon the sideboard. He was feeling the strain.
'In that case,' he murmured, 'perhaps——'
Mademoiselle Suzanne de Freyne was travelling back to England in hot haste. On the French train she received courtesies rarely extended in these days to any solitary passenger, and at Boulogne she was hurried from the gangway of the steamer back on to the dock and into an evil-looking, four-funnelled British destroyer. Almost as she set foot on board, they moved away from the landing-stage. An officer came forward to meet her and saluted.
'The Captain's cabin is at your disposal, Miss de Freyne,' he announced. 'We have an invalided General on board, but we've tucked him up in a bunk. Afraid we shall give you a bit of a shaking up.'
'I am a very good sailor,' Suzanne assured him. 'It is delightful that I am able to come across with you. Time counts for so much, these days.'
'We haven't any stewardess,' the young officer remarked, as he threw open the door of the cabin. 'You'll ring the bell for anything you want, though. Parsons is an awfully good fellow. And you'll excuse me, won't you? I'm on duty.'
He hurried up on deck, and in a few moments the destroyer was clear of the harbour and tearing across the Channel into the sombre blackness of the night. Huge waves, with a thunderous roar, swept her decks. The spray leapt high above the tops of her squat funnels, from which flashed little jets of flame. Suzanne, driven from the cabin by the craving for air, stood half-way up the companion-way, looking into the blackness. Here and there, a star seemed to reel across the face of the sky and more than once a cloud of spray swept over her head. Unhesitatingly, as though driven by some superhuman hand, they ploughed their way through the black wall of space to their destination. After the turmoil of the Channel, their slow gliding up to the side of the dock seemed almost ghostlike. Suzanne felt almost as though she herself were breathless as she stood at last upon the soaking deck. There were a couple of dim lights and a few shadowy figures upon the quay. The young officer who had spoken to her at Boulogne, stood by her side.
'We are throwing a gangway across for you, Miss de Freyne. I'm afraid we gave you rather a rough crossing.
'I do not mind it,' she declared. 'I was only anxious to come quickly. Do you know if I shall be able to get on to London at once?'
'There will be a special for the General,' he told her. 'They'll probably take you, too.'
The gangway was thrown across. The young man saluted, and Suzanne stepped on to the rain-sodden dock. An official stepped up to her at once.
'Miss de Freyne?' he inquired.
'Yes?'
'There is a special waiting here for General Matravers. I have had instructions to attach a coach for you.'
'That is very delightful!' she exclaimed. 'Shall I follow you?'
The man piloted her across the track and handed her into an ordinary first-class compartment attached to the waiting train.
'Sorry we've had to give the saloon to General Matravers,' he explained. 'Will you have any tea or coffee, or anything to eat?'
She gave an order to the refreshment boy whom he summoned, and threw herself down with a sigh of content into the corner seat. Presently a tall man in khaki, with his arm in a sling and leaning upon a stick, came up the platform, followed by two junior officers. He was shown at once into the saloon and a little murmur of animated conversation arose. Five minutes later the train glided away, leaving the two junior officers disconsolate upon the long, wooden platform; passed through the two stations, and, gathering speed at every moment, rushed away northwards.
Suzanne had more than once boasted that she had no nerves. She finished her coffee and sandwiches, lit a cigarette and curled herself up in her corner. For a few moments she looked out into the darkness, watching the scanty lights. Then her eyes turned, entirely by chance, towards the door which connected her carriage with the saloon. They had no sooner rested upon it than a queer, inexplicable sense of uneasiness crept over her. She tried to look away from it, to look out of the opposite window, to interest herself in the evening paper. She read a line or two, then found herself slowly lowering the sheet, found herself peering over the top towards that closed door of dark red mahogany with its brass handle. She threw the paper down, walked to the end of the carriage and back again. She must be going mad, she told herself. The only occupant of that saloon was a wounded soldier of great distinction, a General whose deeds in the earlier stages of the war had made history. He was alone there without even an A.D.C., and in any case the door was probably locked. What cause of uneasiness for her could there be in his proximity? She fought against her fit of nerves valiantly, but she found herself tearing the paper into small pieces, crumbling the remains of her roll between her fingers, sipping desperately the remnants of her cold coffee. And all the time her eyes seemed glued upon that brass door-knob. If it should move! She set her teeth to keep from screaming. When the thing really happened, it seemed to bring, to a certain extent, release from her hysterical fears. Yet for the first few seconds it paralyzed her. The handle turned, slowly and deliberately. The door was pushed open towards her. A man looked in, stooping by reason of his height, a lean, gaunt man clad in the uniform of a General. He looked at her for a moment without speech. Then he came into the compartment and closed the door behind him.
'What do you want?' she asked hoarsely.
He saluted mechanically.
'I am General Matravers,' he announced. 'May I sit down?'
She glanced at the communication cord—it was on the distant side of the carriage. Why she should have been afraid of him she could not tell, yet she felt as though she had never been in such danger in her life as when he took the seat opposite to her.
'I am General Matravers,' he repeated. 'You have heard of me, perhaps?'
'But naturally,' she assented. 'We have all read of your wonderful exploits at Mons.'
He moistened his lips with his tongue. His face seemed curiously dried up, his eyes were hard, his features grim and bony. He presented somehow a queer impression of lifelessness.
'Mons!' he muttered ruminatingly. 'You've never been to Hell, have you, young lady?'
'Not yet,' she answered, watching him closely.
'That was the beginning of it,' he went on. 'We need a Dante, young lady, to sing to us of those days, when the winds were driven from the face of the earth by the screeching of the shells and the roar and the clash of the guns, and they seemed to be always nearer.... Every foot of ground was red with blood, the blood of our dear soldiers, and one thought of the people at home.... I know men who lost their reason at Mons.'
'It must have been terrible,' she faltered.
He sat opposite to her, nervously opening and closing the interlocked fingers of his hands.
'You know why I am coming home?' he asked abruptly. 'Medals enough here, you see, for a field-marshal, and I am sent home in disgrace.'
She murmured something to which he paid no attention whatever.
'I left my two A.D.C.'s at Folkestone,' he went on, 'forbade them to enter the train. They are worried about me. Perhaps they are right. You see, it was at—but we don't mention names—my headquarters last week. It was the night before our advance. You read about that. I won't mention the name of the place. We called it a partial success. But for the thing I am going to tell you, it might have been the turning point of the war. The attack failed—my fault.'
'I read that your division did splendidly,' she remarked.
Again he moistened his dry lips. His hands were shaking now by his side; he seemed like a man on the verge of paralysis.
'This is what happened,' he continued. 'I was at headquarters, my own headquarters. My orderly reported a Staff Officer from the French headquarters. He came in, a typical-looking young French soldier, wearing the uniform of one of their best regiments, one of those which I knew were in the division which was to join up with ours in the morning. He was tall and dark, with a thin, black moustache, long, narrow eyes, a scar on his right cheek, sallow, and with a queer habit of swinging his left arm. He brought me some intelligible, perfectly coherent verbal instructions, asked a few questions as to my plans for the next day, gave me a personal message from the French General commanding the division, saluted, got back into his motor-car and drove off. And I thought no more about it until we found out that our whole scheme of attack was known to the enemy, and that they were prepared for us at every point. He was a German. We were sold. Thousands of my men were lost through that. My fault. He was a German. Are you a German, young lady?'
'Ah, but no!' she exclaimed, shrinking a little back.
'You are not wholly English.'
'I am half French and half English,' she told him.
'The French are good people,' he went on, relapsing into his former far-away tone, 'very fine people. They can fight too, and they can tell Germans when they see them. That is why I am going home—because I couldn't. I've sworn that the next German I see, I'll kill. You're not a German, are you?'
'I told you just now,' she reminded him quietly, 'that I am half French and half English—mostly French. I am in the service of the French Government at the present moment, trying to help you, General.'
'Good girl,' he said absently. 'I thought there might have been a German in here when I heard some one moving. If I can't find one, I suppose I must shoot myself.'
He took out a little revolver and examined it. He opened the breech and she saw that it was fully loaded.
'May I look?' she asked.
He handed it to her at once. The window by which they sat was half down. She calmly threw it out. He looked at her in a mildly-vexed manner.
'You should not have done that, young lady,' he expostulated. 'I was very fond of that revolver. Besides, how am I to kill myself now?'
'I should wait,' she advised him. 'When you get to London you will easily find Germans—too many of them.'
He shook his head.
'But I've nothing to kill them with, and I've left my army behind. I am sent home,' he added, with a sudden hoarse pathos.
Her sense of personal fear had passed. She knew that the dangerous moment, if indeed there had been one, lay behind.
'There is so much work to be done in England,' she said.
He seemed to be looking through the carriage windows; his hands were twitching horribly.
'Those nights,' he muttered, 'when we thought that an hour's rest had come, and the red fires came spitting from our flanks just when we thought ourselves safe, when we thought them far and away behind——'
His words became unintelligible. He sat quite quiet. Presently, to her joy, she saw a carpet of lights on either side and knew that they were running into London.
'You had better get back to your saloon,' she said. 'We shall be at Charing Cross in a few minutes, and there will probably be some one to meet you.'
He rose obediently to his feet. The tears were in her eyes as he turned away with a stiff little salute, and, stooping low, disappeared through the doorway. Then she leaned back with a long-drawn sigh of relief. It was a strange little episode, another of the little adventures which gave colour to her life. She leaned out of the window and saw the last of him as they drew up. He was met by an officer and an elderly lady. She saw him pass out and take his place in a waiting motor-car. Then she stepped out herself, handed her bag to a porter and was conducted to a taxicab.
*****
Suzanne sat, the next afternoon, under the trees at Ranelagh with Lavendale. She leaned back in her chair and breathed a little sigh of contentment.
'And you, my friend,' she asked, 'what have you been doing?
'Nothing,' he answered. I am waiting for a man to arrive from America. His coming, I fancy, will provide me with work, but until then there is nothing for me. To pass the time while you were in France, I went over to Holland last week.'
She nodded.
'The one country left which may provide us with a sensation,' she remarked. 'I suppose that is why you went.'
'I made a few inquiries,' he replied. 'My own impression of the people was that they wanted peace very badly and Schnapps more than anything else in the world.'
She laughed softly. It was significant of his attitude towards her that he asked no questions of her own doings.
'I had a curious adventure on my way back from Paris yesterday,' she told him. 'I travelled up from Boulogne in a special with General Matravers.'
'Matravers?' he repeated. 'Isn't he one of the British Generals who have been sent home?'
'I believe so,' she assented, 'in fact I am sure of it. He told me the whole story on the way up. Afterwards he brought out a revolver and swore that he was going to shoot himself.'
'What on earth did you do?' he exclaimed.
'I took it away from him,' she replied. 'He wasn't in the least dangerous, really.'
'Look here,' Lavendale declared earnestly, 'I think it's quite time you left off this travelling about alone.'
She laughed gaily.
'But, my friend,' she protested, 'what would you have? Can a trusted agent'—she glanced around for a moment and lowered her voice—'of the French and English Secret Service engage a chaperon?'
'I don't care,' he answered, a little doggedly. 'It's all very well for us men to take a risk or two, but it's no sort of life for a girl——'
She checked him at once.
'You don't understand,' she interrupted. 'I am a daughter of France. Every drop of blood in my body, every part of myself, my soul, even, belongs to my country. The work I am doing I shall go on with, whatever it might cost me.'
He did not attempt to argue with her, the finality of her tone was too absolute.
'I suppose it is because of this spirit,' he said, 'that France is invincible. Tell me——'
He broke off in his sentence. Her fingers had suddenly gripped his arm, she had leaned forward in her place. Coming down the steps on to the terrace was a little group of soldiers in staff uniform. One of them, in the centre of the group, was obviously a foreigner, and, from the respect with which they all treated him, a person of distinction.
'Who are they?' she asked.
'I expect they are members of the military mission from France,' he explained. 'They are being entertained down here to dinner to-night by some officials from the War Office. The head-waiter told me about it. I tackled him about a table in case you cared to stay down.'
'But only one of them is a foreigner,' she observed.
He shrugged his shoulders.
'I really don't know anything more about it,' he said. 'I don't suppose any one does. Why are you so interested?'
She said nothing for a moment. The Frenchman was standing chatting amiably in the centre of the terrace, and Suzanne watched him with curious intensity. He was tall, he had a slight black moustache, his eyes were long and narrow, there was a scar on his right cheek. He was the very prototype of the man who had arisen in her mind a few hours ago, called into being by those hoarse, broken-hearted words of the ruined General.
'I must know his name,' she insisted.
He looked at her wonderingly.
'But, my dear——'
'I must know his name,' she repeated. 'Please help me. Don't ask me why.'
He rose at once.
'I'll do my best,' he promised her.
He disappeared into the house. The little party of men strolled backwards and forwards along the terrace. In about five minutes Lavendale reappeared. He smiled as he approached.
'I got hold of the dinner cards,' he announced in triumph. 'His name is Lieutenant-Colonel Leychelles.'
The little company of soldiers at that moment began to descend the steps. Suzanne rose to her feet and, standing under the shadow of the trees, she leaned forward. The man whom she had been watching with so much interest, was distinctly swinging his left arm. She gripped Lavendale by the elbow.
'Come with me,' she insisted. 'Come with me at once. Take me up to town.'
He obeyed promptly. They passed through the house and Lavendale ordered up his car.
'Where to?' he asked, as he took his place at the driving wheel.
'I must find General Matravers,' she declared. 'Drive up towards London. I must think as we go.'
They glided down the drive, over Hammersmith Bridge and up to the Park.
'Don't you belong to a club somewhere?' she asked. 'We must get a Who's Who.'
'Why, of course,' he answered. 'We can manage that easily enough.'
He pulled up presently outside the door of the Bath Club in Dover Street.
'If you'll wait here for half a moment,' he suggested.
She nodded and he sprang down and ran lightly up the steps. He was back again almost at once.
'The first name I came across,' he announced,—'17 Belgrave Square is the town address. Shall I drive there? It's quite close.'
She assented. In a few moments they arrived at their destination. Suzanne stood under the stone portico and rang the bell. In due course a butler appeared.
'General Matravers is not seeing anybody, madam,' was his prompt reply to Suzanne's inquiry. 'The doctor has ordered him complete rest.'
'My business,' Suzanne explained, 'is very urgent.'
'So every reporter who has been here to-day has told me,' the man replied a little wearily. No one has been allowed to see him.'
'Is Lady Matravers in?' Suzanne persisted.
'Lady Matravers is not receiving. Perhaps you would like to leave your name and a message, madam?' the man suggested.
A tall, dark-haired woman, who had been crossing the hall, paused. She came a few steps towards Suzanne.
'I am Lady Matravers,' she announced, 'Can I do anything for you?'
Suzanne pressed forward and the butler stood on one side.
'Lady Matravers,' the former said earnestly, I have the most important business with your husband. I know he is ill—I came up from Folkestone with him yesterday—and yet I must see him.'
'You were his companion in the special train?' Lady Matravers asked. 'He spoke of a young lady who travelled up with him.'
'I am the young lady,' Suzanne assented. 'I am in the Secret Service of France,' she went on, dropping her voice a little. 'Your husband told me some curious things last night. It is in connection with one of them that I wish to see him. It isn't for my own sake, Lady Matravers. It is for the sake of the country.'
The door was thrown open. General Matravers, leaning upon his stick, came into the hall. He was looking very white and shaken, but he seemed to recognize Suzanne. He looked at her doubtfully.
'It is the young lady whom I found last night in the carriage attached to my saloon,' he remarked, 'the young lady, my dear,' he added, turning to his wife, 'who threw my revolver out of the window.'
Lady Matravers glanced towards the servant who was lingering in the background and led Suzanne back into the room from which she herself had issued. The General followed her. A quiet-faced woman in nurse's uniform rose from a chair as they entered.
'If you are really the young lady who travelled with my husband from Folkestone last night,' Lady Matravers said kindly, 'I am very glad indeed to meet you. He has told me such very nice things about you. The doctor's orders are that he is not to be disturbed on any account, but if you wish to speak to him for a few minutes, here he is. I was just trying to persuade him to go to bed when you came.'
'Perhaps what I have come to say may do your husband more good than harm,' Suzanne assured her. 'General,' she added, turning towards him, 'do you mind describing to me once more the man who came to your headquarters masquerading as a French officer, an envoy from the French Brigadier-General?'
The General's face darkened.
'Describe him!' he exclaimed. 'Why, I can't get him out of my thoughts for a minute! He was tall, soldierly, dark, sallow, black moustache, narrow eyes, black hair cut short, a scar on his right cheek, and he had a habit swinging his left arm when he walked.'
'I need not ask you whether you would know him again,' Suzanne said, 'because I am sure you would. I may be very foolish and I may be making a very silly mistake, but there is a man over here now attached to the French Military Mission. He is being entertained to-night at Ranelagh by officials from the War Office. He leaves to-morrow, ostensibly for French headquarters, and he answers your description exactly.'
All the nervousness had left the General's manner. He was perfectly calm, a little eager. He picked up his cap and cane from a table.
'Where is he to be found?' he asked.
'If you will come with me,' Suzanne promised, 'I will take you to him.'
The nurse hastened towards them. The General pushed her aside. His tone had acquired a new firmness.
'Please understand, both of you,' he said, 'that no nurse or doctor's injunctions will keep me from doing my duty. My dear,' he added, turning to his wife and kissing her upon the forehead, 'this is not a matter in which you must interfere. If the young lady is mistaken, I shall come back at once. If by any chance she is right, it is imperative that I should go. I am at your service, madam.'
'I will take care of him,' Suzanne whispered to Lady Matravers.
They let him go, doubtfully but of compulsion. He took his place in the car and acknowledged his introduction to Lavendale with a stiff salute. They started off at once. For the first time Suzanne began to be a little nervous about the outcome of their journey.
'This man,' she explained, 'is being entertained at dinner at Ranelagh at the present moment. We can go down there and you can see from the open doorway of the dining-room whether there is any truth in my suspicions. If we are wrong——'
'You need have no fear, young lady,' the General assured her calmly. 'I am a member of Ranelagh and well-known there. It will be quite in order that I stroll round the place and glance in at the dining-room. If your suspicions are, as you suggest, ill-founded, no harm will be done. If they are true,' he added, his voice shaking for a moment, 'if really it is vouchsafed to me in this life to find myself face to face once more with that man——'
He broke off abruptly and muttered something under his breath. Not another word was spoken until they had turned in at the avenue and pulled up in front of the clubhouse. The General had become preternaturally calm. He waited, however, for Suzanne to precede him.
'If you will lead the way, young lady,' he suggested.
They crossed through the two rooms, out on to the terrace the other side, and turned towards the dining-room. The gardens were bright with flowers, and the glow of the sunset seemed still to linger about the place. One or two visitors who had dined early were already having their coffee under the trees. From a hidden spot the musicians were tuning their instruments. Suzanne felt her heart beat rapidly as they drew near the dining-room; the General, apparently unmoved, walked with measured tread, a commanding and dignified figure. A couple of young soldiers stood up as he passed, and he accepted their salute genially. Then he passed into the dining-room. Almost immediately in front of him, at the table usually reserved for the golfers' luncheon, the dinner-party was proceeding, and on the right-hand side of the host sat the distinguished Frenchman. He was facing the door and he glanced up at the entrance of the little party. Suzanne asked no questions. She felt her breath almost stop, a little sob choked her. The faces of almost every one in the room, the laughter, the murmur of conversation, seemed suddenly in her mind to have become arrested. More than anything else in the world she was conscious of this one thing—the man who sat there knew that his hour had come, knew that Fate was marching towards him in the shape of that grim, military figure.