CHAPTER XXIXAt six o'clock that same evening Colonel Treves issued from the front door of his fine Tudor residence at Freshwater, and made his way down the drive. The weather had cleared, there was a golden light in the west, and the Colonel, wearing a tweed suit, walked briskly towards the lodge-keeper's cottage. He told himself that he had come there entirely upon business—merely to give the man certain personal orders. The truth of the matter was, however, that he could no longer stay in the house. He was expecting his son; he was looking forward to meeting his boy Bernard with a keener and happier interest than he had felt for many years. During recent months all his old love for his only offspring had returned. He was an old man, and the son who for many years had disappointed him had now grown to be a real Treves, and a man of honour. A smile flitted across his fine, kindly face. He believed that he had at last discovered the reason of Bernard's altered behaviour. The boy who had been tragically cashiered from the army, who had, indeed, been almost proved guilty of cowardice in the face of the enemy, had righted himself; and not only had he won the confidence of his superiors, but he had been entrusted with delicate and difficult duties.When Colonel Treves reached the lodge-keeper's single-storied abode, he held the man in conversation for some minutes, but his eyes turned incessantly towards the sloping road that led past his gate. When at last he saw a khaki-clad figure on a bicycle, he turned to his elderly employée:"Adams," he said, "is that Mr. Bernard coming along?""Yes, sir," answered the man, after a minute or two's scrutiny.When John reached the drive, the Colonel was at the gate to meet him."Well, Bernard, boy, so there you are," he exclaimed, gripping the young man's hand. "I just happened to be doing a little business here with Adams, and caught sight of you. Come in, boy, come in. How do you think Mr. Bernard's looking, Adams?" he said, turning to the old servant."He's looking fine, sir," answered the man. "I've seldom seen him looking so well.""Leave your bicycle with Adams," said the Colonel; "you can take me up to the house. I am not quite so brisk as I used to be." And he slipped his arm through John's and went up the drive, talking happily and cheerfully as he went. John had always felt drawn towards him; it was impossible for him not to feel admiration and pity for this splendid old fellow. He experienced a sense of pleasure that his visit could give the old man such genuine delight."Now, Bernard, boy," said the Colonel, "I have a word to say to you before we go in the house. I have a surprise waiting for you there, but before we go in I want to ask you one thing?""What is it?" John asked quietly."It's this, Bernard, boy; you haven't been trusting me. You haven't relied upon me as a son should rely on his father.""In what way, sir?""You'll find that out, Bernard, boy, when we get indoors," said the Colonel enigmatically.John questioned him closely, but he could learn nothing, and presently Gates, the old butler, drew open the door, greeted John with a smile, and took his hat and gloves."Your suit-case arrived this morning, sir," he informed John. "I have taken it to your room.""It's the south room, Bernard, boy," intervened the Colonel; "it's the first time you've had the honour of sleeping in the room that used to be your mother's. But this is a special reunion, Bernard. I had to do something to mark the occasion."He took John's arm again, and together they ascended to the library, the room in which John had first made his acquaintance. There was something on the Colonel's mind which gave him pleasure, and filled him with an air of humorous mystery."When you've seen who's in the library, Bernard," he said, as they drew near the green baize-covered door, "you'll understand what I mean about trusting me better in the future."He drew open the door."Come in, Bernard, boy; come in."John followed him into the big, handsome apartment, with its mullioned windows and its fine view of the sea. There was some one standing by the hearth with back to the fire-place, and John suddenly caught his breath and stood still. Elaine Treves was there, smiling at him, and as he entered the room she came forward, holding out both hands in greeting."Bernard," she exclaimed, a light of happiness radiating her gentle beauty; "you didn't expect to find me here, did you?"John's surprise was complete. Thoughts of Elaine had been with him during the greater part of his ride, but he remembered Treves's secret in regard to his wife, the fact that he had always kept his marriage from his father's knowledge. He was therefore astonished to find Elaine installed under her father-in-law's roof. She looked very much at home, and John wondered consumedly how she had managed to come there. He also foresaw new difficulties for himself; nevertheless he was delighted to see her, her freshness, her beauty, her winning confidence in himself all tended to please him. It took him very few minutes to observe that her presence brightened Colonel Treves's home amazingly. It was obvious to John that she had already won her way into the old fellow's heart, and as Elaine reached up and shyly kissed him, the Colonel smiled upon them both with an air of infinite benevolence."Now," exclaimed Colonel Treves, rallying John half an hour later, when Elaine had gone to dress for dinner. "Now do you see why I asked you to trust me?""I think I do," said John, somewhat awkwardly."Here, you young rascal, you go and marry a charming girl, who would bring credit and honour to my family, and you hide her away from me, pretending all the time that I am the strict and cruel father. That shows how greatly you misunderstood me, Bernard boy. Why, if I had chosen a wife for you myself, I couldn't have made as good a choice as you made in marrying Elaine. She's been here three days, Bernard, and already I feel towards her as to my own daughter. I always feared you would make a fool of yourself in marrying." He paused and looked at John with his dim eyes. "Sometimes, Bernard boy," he said, with a touch of wistfulness in his tone, "I cannot understand the change that has come over you, the improvement. But it's the good blood coming out, eh—the Treves blood. I always hold that blood tells, and in your case my conviction has been proved more than right. Now, Bernard, how long can you stay with me this time?""Only to-night, sir, I am sorry to say.""Come, come," protested the old Colonel, "I'd expected a week at least." As he spoke the door opened, and Elaine entered the room dressed for dinner. For the first time John saw her in evening apparel. Her dress was of an inexpensive pale yellow material, muslin or silk, John did not know which, and did not care. Her dark hair was beautifully coiffeured, her cheeks glowed with colour, and there was a light of happiness in her eyes.Colonel Treves glanced at the clock on his desk."Why, it's nearly seven!" he exclaimed. "I had no idea it was so late. I must run away and change. You'll want to get out of those puttees, Bernard," he said, glancing at John."Thank you," said John. "I am in the south room, sir?"The Colonel nodded, and John, wondering exactly where the south room might be, went out of the library. He walked along the corridor, and chanced upon a house-maid."Which is my room, please?" he said.The housemaid preceded him along the passage, and opened a door, switched on the electric light.John thanked her, and found himself in an imposing bedroom, beautifully furnished in the French style. His suit-case had been unstrapped and was upon a stand at the foot of the bed. Laid neatly out upon the bed itself were his clothes for the evening. A fine apartment, thought John, and at that moment a knock fell upon the door."Come in," he called. The door opened quietly, and Elaine stepped into the room. She advanced across the room in the most natural manner in the world. There was a light in her fine grey eyes, and she was visibly and quite frankly delighted to be alone with John. John, for his part, saw in a flash the awkwardness of the position chance had imposed upon him. In his sudden surprise in finding Elaine under Colonel Treves's roof he had overlooked atête-à-têteof this kind. He had indeed hardly had time to think of the matter at all."Bernard, are you really pleased to see me?""Delighted," John answered, wondering what other word he could use, for, as a matter of truth, he was delighted and appalled at the same time. He felt that the situation involving him would require the utmost finesse, if he meant to escape satisfactorily. His own nerves were strung up to a high pitch of tension, and it came as a surprise to him that Elaine should act as though their presence together in that stately sleeping apartment was the most natural event in the world."Do you like my dress, Bernard?"She came towards the glittering dressing-table and turned slowly for his inspection. Her attitude, her confidence were exquisitely attractive to John. Her wifely anxiety to win her husband's approval was the prettiest thing he had ever seen. And once again the splendid rich duskiness of her hair, the gentle glow of her cheeks, the fine contours of her well-turned lips, and the fairness of her skin won his admiration. But it was not this, it was in no sense her radiant and girlish beauty that had evoked John's feelings. Mrs. Beecher Monmouth possessed beauty, but she lacked utterly the frankness and generous natural trust, the appealing femininity, in fact, which is always potent in the winning of a man's love. For it was love, and love only that John felt for this girl who was Bernard Treves's wife, who was nothing to him, and could never be anything.To ease the situation he told her lightly that her dress suited her to perfection."You said when we first met, Bernard, that this primrose colour suited me best, so I put it on to-night.""Only to please me?" asked John.Elaine nodded."Of course I like to please your father, too, Bernard," she went on. "I think he is wonderful; just the beau ideal of a fine, upright soldier. I cannot understand how you could ever have doubted his generosity.""I didn't doubt him," John answered. "I only misunderstood him, and acted like a fool.""But in regard to our marriage. If you had told him months ago, I am sure he would have been just as pleased as he is now. Why didn't you, Bernard?""I don't know," John answered. "But I am sure he would have been pleased if I had been sensible enough to trust him."Elaine seated herself upon an ottoman, an old-fashioned circular piece of furniture which decorated the middle of the apartment. For a minute she let her eyes wander over the refined luxury of the room, then said quietly and thoughtfully:"So this used to be your mother's room, Bernard?"John drew in his breath slowly. "Yes," he answered, and, as he spoke, he felt suddenly and acutely the falsity of his position. He was upon dangerous ground, and he felt again intense dislike at having to deceive this woman, who was everything in the world to him."I think it was so dear of your father," resumed Elaine thoughtfully, "to let us have this room." John cast a swift look in her direction. "He could not have paid us a greater compliment," Elaine went on.She was entirely absorbed in her thoughts. To her it was the most natural thing in life that the Colonel should honour his son and his son's wife by allotting to them this fine apartment. In doing so he was tacitly informing the young couple that Elaine in her turn was to be the lady of the house. But so far as John was concerned, Elaine's quiet acceptance of himself and of this fact filled him with consternation. He felt himself enmeshed and hopelessly bewildered. This was not his room only, but Elaine's. It had not entered his mind to look into the wardrobe; he had not even noticed the pair of ladies' gloves which lay upon the dressing-table. But now as he turned away, so that Elaine might not read his glance, his eyes fell upon her gloves for the first time. A moment of acute crisis had arisen. Nevertheless he still fenced, peeking a way out of the situation."I cannot understand," he said, "how you managed to get into touch with my father after all."Elaine laughed brightly."I have been wondering when you would ask that, Bernard. It was all owing to the old butler, Mr. Gates. He came to 65, Bowles Avenue. It seems that you gave that address once at the Savoy Hotel in case Mr. Dacent Smith sent for you suddenly. Gates went to the Savoy to find you, to give you a message from your father, and the Savoy people gave him my address. I answered the door to Gates myself, and in the course of his inquiries about you, I told him who I was. He had never heard of me before and was very much surprised. Naturally, when he came back here, he told your father.""I see," said John, "and my father invited you here?"Elaine nodded."Not only invited me, but he has been absolutely charming to me.""I don't see anything very extraordinary in that," returned John."Oh, but I might have been the most horrid sort of creature. He knew nothing whatever about me.""He only needed to look at you," John answered, "to see that—that I had made an ideal marriage.""I have made him tell me everything about your boyhood, Bernard."John winced. He had no wish to discuss a boyhood that was naturally a blank to him."I believe I know more about your schoolboy days than you do yourself," smiled Elaine."I shouldn't wonder," said John with a smile.Despite himself, against caution and his better judgment, he was beginning to enjoy the scene. He was still at the dressing-table, and in the depths of the mirror he could see behind him Elaine's reflection, a delicate and beautiful picture, seated on the ottoman behind him, looking at him with admiring and loving eyes, believing in him, and trusting him."Bernard!" Her tone was low and intimate."Yes.""Come and sit beside me.""Oh, I don't know whether I can," said John; "I've—I've got a letter to write." He was quick at inventing excuses."You can't care much for me, Bernard, if you bother to write a letter, after not seeing me for so long." She rose and came towards him. He felt foolish and awkward when she took his hand in hers, led him to the ottoman and seated him beside her. "Tell me what you have been doing all these long days.""Oh, all sorts of things," John answered."Did you ever think of me?""Often," John answered, truthfully."Have you been loving me? Look into my eyes and say it, Bernard."John turned his face towards hers. He saw love in her eyes; love that was offered to himself alone; and as he sustained the radiant tenderness of her gaze a wild impulse came to him to cast discretion to the winds. He hovered on the verge of telling her frankly and bluntly that he was not her husband. Nevertheless he longed to tell her that she was the one woman in all the world for him, that she had won his deepest love, and that he was prepared to break down all barriers, to risk everything if——. Then suddenly he caught himself up. His lips were sealed. As an honourable man, even if he admitted his true identity, he must not utter his love."Why are you looking at me so strangely, Bernard?" There was a puzzled and anxious light in her eyes."Was I?""You suddenly drew your brows together and looked at me so furiously that I thought I must have offended you.""You could never offend me.""I don't think you love me after all." She was holding his hand in hers, looking wistfully up into his face. "Do you?"John slid his fingers away from her touch and rose. He began to pace the floor uneasily. As always, he was seeking a way out, racking his brains for a solution. But there was only one method of escape, and that lay in sudden and ignominious flight."Look here, Elaine!" he said, suddenly and brutally. "It has occurred to me that I ought to go away again to-night, immediately after dinner!"She rose and looked at him with startled eyes. John went on, clumsily:"Something important has turned up!""Oh, but, Bernard, that would be too cruel. I have hardly seen you!" She came to him quickly and laid her hands on his shoulders. There was entreaty in her fine eyes, upraised to his. "You'll stay just to-night," she implored, wistfully, "just for my sake."John put her away from him almost roughly; his voice was hoarse and low."It's impossible, Elaine!"She stood for a moment regarding him with steady gaze. A long, tense silence lay between them. Then she spoke, quietly, and with a dignity that somehow wrung John's heart."Then all your protestations of love for me mean nothing at all!""They mean everything," said John, in the same low tone."And yet you repulse me as if you hated me?""I don't mean to act cruelly.""If you had any regard for me at all, you'd stay. It isn't the first time, Bernard, that you—you've humiliated me!"John looked into her face that had grown suddenly tragic. He saw in a moment how completely justified she was in her attitude. He had protested his love for her only a few minutes earlier, and had then snatched at something that must have seemed to her the thinnest of excuses for hurrying away—for leaving her."If you loved me really, Bernard, you'd stay." Her voice was very low. "However, I have suffered the humiliation of your refusal. I shall not make the same mistake again." She turned and walked slowly towards the door. John saw that she could scarcely restrain her tears; her head was uplifted—she was superb in her dignity. For the life of him John could not refrain from striding a few paces towards her."Elaine!" he implored, in a voice that rang with emotion. "Don't misjudge me. And as for humiliating you, I'd do anything in the world rather than do that! Look here, Elaine, you think I don't love you?"She turned quietly and looked at him."I have every proof of it! In London you refused to stay with me; it is the same here. Your words say one thing—your actions another!""You will be able to make some excuse to your father for not occupying the same room with me——"In that moment, with her face pale, her head erect, a strange light in her eyes, she was more than ever beautiful. In John's eyes she was the fairest and finest-looking woman that ever breathed. Something made him put out his hand and grip her fingers."Elaine!"She strove with surprising strength to release herself."No, Bernard, don't!"Then John's elaborate and well-sustained defences fell. He forgot everything in a sudden wild rush of passion."I don't love you, Elaine?" he cried."You never loved me——" she began. And in that moment John's arms swept about her. He forgot everything—the world faded. He and the fairest of women—the woman of his love—were together, and he was kissing her as he had never kissed any woman.... Elaine's weak protests faded; astonishment swept over her, and gave place to a wonderful and radiant happiness."My God!" breathed John; "if you only knew how much I loved you!""Bernard—Bernard—Bernard!" she whispered. Then, to her infinite astonishment, John wrenched himself free; he put his hands to his brows, and fell back several paces, like a man who has received a stunning blow between the eyes."Elaine," he said, with clenched fists, his face suddenly pale, his eyes wild—"forget that I held you in my arms! Forget what I said! Forget everything!" His voice rose almost to a shout.A moment later he had rushed out of the room, and had drawn the door behind him.CHAPTER XXXAlmost as John closed the door of the south room Gates began to strike, in rising and rhythmic cadences, the great dinner-gong that stood in the hall. The elderly butler turned as John halted at his side."Is that the dressing-bell, Gates?" he asked."No, Mr. Bernard, the dressing-bell went at the usual time, sir."John looked at him in surprise. He had heard nothing. During that scene in the room upstairs, when he had lost possession of himself, the sound of the bell had passed unheard. John felt no wonder at that; even now his thoughts whirled through his brain. His temperament was naturally cool, equable, and determined. Never in his life could he recollect having completely forgotten himself, as he had forgotten himself with Elaine a few minutes earlier. The power of love, indeed, had reduced him to the common standard. His nerve, his self-possession, his swift power of decision—all the gifts, in fact, that commended him to Dacent Smith, had deserted him in a flash. For a brief moment—for a space of a moment—he had forgotten everything, save the fact that he loved a woman.He stood now thinking of these things, and was amazed at the blind passion that had seized him. He began to condemn himself bitterly and savagely. His deception of Elaine stood before him as a monstrous thing. The thought that he occupied another's man shoes, and had thus led her to pour out a love which she would have otherwise concealed, struck him as a criminal proceeding upon his part. He was obliged to confess to himself that he had dallied with the situation, that he had not acted firmly enough. On the other hand—a small voice whispered this—his deception of Elaine was not his fault; he had not wittingly deceived her. He had, indeed, acted all through as an honourable man. This last thought gave him a certain amount of comfort as he crossed the great hall and entered the drawing-room. Colonel Treves was the sole occupant of the room, and was standing with his back to the white marble fire-place, his hand resting on the stick he used as support. John noticed that in evening clothes the old man looked more imposing and distinguished than ever. The Colonel drew out his watch."Where's Elaine?"John explained that he had left Elaine upstairs a few moments ago, and presently Elaine, a little pale, came into the drawing-room. No glance passed between her and John. With a courtly air, Colonel Treves advanced towards her and crooked his elbow."May I have the honour?" he said.Elaine slipped her arm into his. In her pale primrose dress, with her well-coiffeured dark hair emphasising the whiteness of her neck, she looked scarcely more than a child. John noticed with admiration that her head was held erect. She smiled and talked graciously to the Colonel as he led her into the dining-room and placed her upon his right hand. For John there was no smile.Just as the south room and the drawing-room were strange to John, so also was the dining-room. He seated himself opposite Elaine at the head of a long gleaming white table. Gates moved from place to place softly and noiselessly. Colonel Treves, who was happier than he had been for years, made a perfect host. His happiness intensified John's own loneliness. A sensation of being a pariah came upon him; he felt that he would have given ten years of his life to be actually sitting there in the flesh as the real son of the fine old man who headed the table.As to Elaine, and his relations with Elaine, he dared not let his mind dwell upon that subject. He was attempting to indicate by his attitude his complete contrition for what had occurred. He tried to catch Elaine's eye. She looked at him, but there was something enigmatical in her expression that he was unable to understand. Her good breeding was such that to the outward eye—to the Colonel's eye, in fact—their relationship was exactly as it had been before, and yet John knew that a barrier had risen between them.Elaine maintained her air of stately reserve during the rest of the evening, and at ten o'clock, when she rose to go to her room, the Colonel politely conducted her to the door. As he closed it upon her he turned and looked towards John."You are a lucky man, Bernard!" he exclaimed.He came slowly across the room, using his stick, as was his general habit."I hope some day, my boy," he said, "when this place is yours, Elaine will reign here as graciously and be as well beloved as your dear mother was.""I am sure she will, sir," answered John quietly.The old man slid his arm through his."You shall take me up to the library. We can smoke there, and make ourselves comfortable."In the library that night John heard much of Colonel Treves's past history, much of the family history, of the man whose identity he was wearing, and the more he heard of Bernard Treves the more he realised what a complete and utter waster that young man was. Often of late he had thought of Treves in the nursing home, and wondered what were the conditions of his detention there. Dacent Smith was always reticent upon that point. The sinking of thePolidorthrough the agency of Treves had been a black and irredeemable crime. A time was bound to come when the young man must answer for that piece of black treachery against his country. Looking at the matter in the most charitable light, John regarded Treves, as evidently Dacent Smith regarded him, that is, as a feeble, will-less creature, whose reason had been unseated, at any rate temporarily, by the drugs which were a mania with him.The fact that Manwitz and Cherriton had plied him with these drugs showed only the bold unscrupulousness of the German methods. The German Intelligence Department had used Bernard Treves, and had moulded him to its purpose as though he had been of wax. And had not Dacent Smith brilliantly substituted John for Treves, untold disasters would have ensued."Bernard!" The Colonel's voice startled John out of his thought. "Bernard, I have seen Gosport lately."John wondered who Gosport might be."Yes," went on the Colonel. "I was hasty with you, but I have made everything right. I have made up my mind to leave everything to you after all. What do you say to that?""It is very generous of you, sir," John answered. He knew that it was utterly impossible that a penny of the Colonel's possessions should ever be his."No, no, it is only right," responded the Colonel. "You have married well. You have rehabilitated yourself in every way, and I find you more what a Treves should be every time we meet." He suddenly gripped John's hand in his. "You have given me great happiness, Bernard, and one of the reasons I made haste to change my will is that the doctor has given me rather a bad report of myself. I don't think you'll have to put up with me for very long, Bernard!""Don't say that, sir!" answered John, quickly and impulsively."I fear it is the truth," said the Colonel; "but I can face the next world with a far better grace than I could have done a year ago."He was thinking of the fine old house and the properties which a year ago might have fallen into the hands of a worthless son. Now, as by a miracle, that son had become a man—a man of honour—and a Treves. The two things were synonymous in the Colonel's eyes, and the future, whatever it might be, however soon darkness might come, held for him no terrors.It was after eleven that night when the Colonel went to his room."I'll sit up and write a few letters at your desk, if I may, father," said John, after escorting the elder man to the door of his bedroom.He went back to the library, shut himself in, and dropped into a chair at the hearth. What Elaine was doing, what were her thoughts, he could not guess. He wondered if she was waiting for him, expecting him to come and ask for forgiveness. Perhaps some time in the dim future, when the whole truth was told, she might forgive; but for the present he knew that nothing he could do would right him in her eyes.He sat in the arm-chair, dozing and thinking, until dawn came.When the breakfast gong rang next morning Elaine descended and found the Colonel alone at the table. The old man looked disturbed, but in no way depressed."You will have to content yourself with me, Elaine," he said, "now that Bernard has deserted us again. He left me a note saying that important business has arisen, and ran away before I was down. But of course," added the old man as an afterthought, "you know all about it."Elaine inclined her head, and said nothing. Colonel Treves put out his hand and laid it on her slender fingers."When the war is over, you and my boy Bernard will live here together, and be as happy as crickets.""It is very, very dear of you to say so, father." Sudden tears glistened in her eyes. She clasped the Colonel's old, frail fingers in hers. In that moment it seemed to her that he was the only friend she possessed in the world.So far as John was concerned, Elaine dared not let herself think. The strange scene in the south room had burnt itself into her brain. John's tremendous anxiety to get away from her, together with the undoubted fact that he loved her, was bewildering beyond solution. The thought that her husband had reverted to the drug habit had long been discarded. None of the symptoms that had marked him in the early days of their marriage were present—he was as another man in her eyes. She loved him—she was afraid, and she was bewildered. Every post that came found her anxiously awaiting a letter from John. But none came; two eventless days passed. But upon the evening of the second day after John's departure a dramatic mischance that had been impending—that had, indeed, been inevitable from the beginning—occurred.Elaine had made her way alone into the grounds. Her mood was one that called for solitude, and in the quiet of the long, fir-treed avenue, the drive which led from the mansion to the road, she found the seclusion she needed. The evening was clear, and through tree-stems the ocean, glassily blue and empty of shipping, spread to the far horizon. The scene was calm, reposeful—everything, in fact, a troubled spirit could require.Presently, however, the entrance gate at the end of the drive was pushed open. A young man in a green felt hat and wearing stiff Sunday clothes came into the drive and walked slowly forward. Elaine, as the stranger drew near, noticed that he was a youth, little more than twenty, wearing a service-rendered badge. The young man wore his green hat slightly on one side—his complexion was fresh, his cheeks ruddy, and his general expression one of amiable stupidity.Elaine glanced at him and was about to pass, thinking he carried a message to the house, when the visitor halted in his walk and sheepishly lifted his hat. As he halted he drew from his pocket a crumpled, rather grimy-looking envelope."Is that Colonel Treves's house, miss?""Yes," said Elaine."I've got a letter for there, miss," went on the young man; "it's addressed to Mrs. Treves.""There is no Mrs. Treves," Elaine answered; then quickly remembering, she smiled the gracious smile that was always so attractive to John. "I'm Mrs. Bernard Treves."The young man handed her the letter, and instantly Elaine's casual air vanished, for the address was in her husband's handwriting, and had been scrawled hurriedly in pencil.She tore open the envelope and read the single sheet of notepaper within.DEAR ELAINE, ran the note,I want you to give the bearer of this ten shillings. Then, if you can, and as soon as you can, you must raise ten pounds and let him bring it here to me. General Whiston and a person called Dacent Smith have been keeping me prisoner here. The suggestion is that I amnon compos mentis.I don't know whether my father's in it or not, so on no account mention this letter to him. Whatever you do, don't fail me; I have been suffering the tortures of the damned here. The young man who brings this can get to me, and there is a nurse here who can help me to get away if I can get hold of ten pounds. Remember this, Elaine, you are my wife, and I hope you aren't siding with my father against me. I can't stand the torture of being here any longer, so I look to you to act quickly. You can act quickly enough when you want to. I am nearly off my head with being deprived of the medicine I used to take. The bearer of this would get into trouble if found out, so don't forget to treat him well.Your affectionate husband,BERNARD TREVES.As Elaine slowly read this letter for a second time the colour fled from her cheeks. Her heart-beat quickened almost to suffocation—she could make nothing of it.Her eyes travelled to the head of the missive and read:"St. Neot's Nursing Home, Ambleside Road, Ryde.""St. Neot's Nursing Home—St. Neot's Nursing Home." Under her breath she uttered the words in a dazed, stupefied fashion.It seemed impossible that her husband, who had been with her only forty-eight hours before, could be incarcerated there. Then the strangeness of the letter! ... She read it again, shrinking instinctively from its tone. Here was her husband as she had known him from the beginning—querulous and domineering.For a minute she wondered if there had been some extraordinary and unexplainable mistake, but she knew his handwriting. Nevertheless, with a great effort to steady herself, she looked into the face of the messenger."If you will come to the house," she said, "I shall be pleased to give you something for being so kind as to bring this to me.""Thank you, miss.""Are you one of the servants at St. Neot's Home?""No, miss. I work for the dairy that supplies them."Again Elaine glanced at the crumpled letter in her fingers. There was no possibility of forgery—and yet how came it that Dacent Smith should wish to detain her husband? She recalled that the brilliant Chief of the secret service had had nothing but praise for Bernard.Again she looked quickly into the young man's face."Have you seen Mr. Treves lately?""I saw him this morning, miss."It seemed ridiculous to put the question, to dally still with the idea of forgery. Nevertheless, she put it."Could you describe Mr. Treves to me?""Yes, miss. He's a good-looking gentleman. Tall, dark hair——""Thank you," said Elaine, interrupting him—and her last doubt vanished.Something had happened to Bernard since yesterday morning, since his departure from the house without saying good-bye to her. He had evidently been seized and incarcerated in the nursing home against his will. Yet, even now, as she strove to accept the fact, her instinct rebelled against it. The thing seemed so motiveless, so utterly outside the natural order of events; and Bernard must have been seized almost immediately after he left his father's house, for she noted that his letter was dated the day before.She again questioned the young man."How long has Mr. Bernard Treves been at St. Neot's Nursing Home?""The first time I saw him there, miss, was about two months ago, when he asked me to get him something at a chemist's; but he must have been there more than a month before that. I should think, miss, he's been there going on for three months or thereabouts.""Three months!""About that, miss."Elaine looked at him with widened eyes. The thing was impossible and incredible. Nevertheless, she dared not let the matter rest where it was. She decided to act, and to act instantly. As yet no suspicion of the truth had dawned upon her.CHAPTER XXXIAt the very hour when Elaine received the strange letter signed "Bernard Treves," a letter which awoke all her defensive feminine instincts, John occupied a chair in the little mess-room at Heatherpoint Fort. The occasion was one of deep and portentous significance. At the head of the table, where Mrs. Beecher Monmouth had so recently taken tea with Lieutenant Parkson, General Whiston was seated in state. His big, commanding figure bulked largely in the chair usually occupied by Colonel Hobin. Beneath the General's eyes was a map of the South Coast defences—an elaborate, minutely particularised map, which in a layman's eyes would have been almost undecipherable.The General held a blue pencil over a particular section of the Solent; his eyes, however, were fixed upon the countenance of a naval captain who sat at his left hand, a little farther down the table. Opposite the naval captain was Colonel Hobin, and next to Hobin sat old Commander Greaves.John occupied an insignificant position next to Greaves, and near the end of the table there was a vacant chair."Is there no possibility, Captain," inquired General Whiston, speaking to the naval officer, "of altering the mine-field in the time at our command?"Before the naval officer lay a small Admiralty chart of the Solent clustered with a multitude of red crosses."Well," he said, deliberating upon the situation, "this is a pretty elaborate field, and it would take us quite two days to make an effective new arrangement. Of course, we could mine the free channels, but that prevents us coming in."He went into technical details.General Whiston cast a glance at John."You are quite sure your friends Voules and Company intend to strike on the twenty-eighth?""All the evidence I have been able to get points to that, sir," answered John promptly."The twenty-eighth is the day after to-morrow," put in Greaves."Mr. Dacent Smith," said John, "had an idea that the attack might be postponed, but he has now come round to my view."As a matter of fact, John had that day amply convinced his chief that the German blow was to fall on the date originally prescribed. Since leaving Colonel Treves's house, and since his embarrassing interview with Elaine, John had made certain valuable discoveries, all of which pointed to the imminence of the German attack on the South Coast defences. With infinite subtlety von Kuhne had managed to institute nefarious schemes in a dozen different directions. The night of the twenty-eighth had been marked out in the German general's mind with the clockwork precision which was a second nature to him. And John believed that nothing would shake his resolution. Mrs. Beecher Monmouth's particular work of the early part of that night was to see that Lieutenant Parkson was not at his post. All her potent charms were to be expended to that end. That she would succeed in her task was, in von Kuhne's and the lady's own eyes, a foregone conclusion. As to Manwitz, he was to be mysteriously occupied with certain men of his Majesty's forces whose business it was to operate the boom between Ponsonby Lighthouse and Windsor Fort. Cherriton's particular duty upon the eventful night John had not been able to discover. The tall German still occupied the isolated cottage he had recently taken on the Downs near Freshwater. Since John's visit to the cottage he had not had further meeting with this particular formidable enemy.In thinking of his visit to the cottage, however, John was conscious that the man's attitude upon that day had been singular in the extreme. What had been in Cherriton's mind he did not know, and he was, of course, totally unaware that sentence of extermination had been passed upon him. It is no stretch of imagination to say that in visiting the cottage he had, without knowing it, walked within the very shadow of the grave."Friend Cherriton is no mean antagonist," thought John, pondering upon the German's personality as he sat in the little mess-room.Now that the great blow was so soon to fall, Dacent Smith—an unusual circumstance with him—had left his post in London and come to the Isle of Wight. General Whiston and Captain Throgmorton, who respectively commanded the counter military and naval measures, found the pleasant, keen-eyed Chief of Intelligence an invaluable ally. His intuitive knowledge of the German character proved to be of the utmost assistance. He had been studying Germany and the German secret service for twenty years, and what he did not know about Teutonic psychology, chicanery and guile, was not worth knowing.Dacent Smith, however, never made the mistake of under-estimating his enemy. Von Kuhne's blow would, he conceded, be a well-wrought and scientifically delivered attack. There was one slight thing, however, which von Kuhne had possibly overlooked—he had possibly overlooked the important fact that the Isle of Wight is after all an island, and that in gathering his forces upon this particular portion of His Majesty's dominions he was isolating himself from chances of escape in case of failure.Dacent Smith thought a good deal upon this subject during his first day at Heatherpoint Fort. But when he presently resumed his chair at the end of the table in the little mess-room, opposite General Whiston, his pleasantly good-humoured face showed nothing of the intense mental activity within.General Whiston lifted his eyes as Dacent Smith took his seat."Well, have you found out anything else for us?""Nothing," answered Dacent Smith, "except further confirmation that von Kuhne will make his attempt the day after to-morrow. He has disposed his forces with a good deal of ingenuity. This end of the Isle of Wight is at present dotted with amiable Britishers who happen to be Germans!"A curious smile flitted across the face of John's Chief."It must have been very gratifying," said he, "to Captain Cherriton, Manners, and von Kuhne to say 'British subject' to our good-looking policeman as they stepped on board the boat at Lymington. Manners, so I hear, was the only one of a dozen who came that way who showed the slightest trace of nervousness. I think we shall have to reckon, General," he concluded, "upon von Kuhne providing something pretty forceful and daring!"The naval captain whose eyes were still occupied with the chart of the Solent, lifted his keen gaze. "Something in the nature of our own adventure at Zeebrugge and Ostend, do you think?"Here he turned his red-starred chart face downwards. On its back were twenty or thirty neatly-pencilled lines."That," he said, pushing the chart towards Dacent Smith, "is my forecast of what is going to happen in this area during the next forty-eight hours. If your date is correct, I think my forecast will be pretty well right. What do you think, General?"Throgmorton's incisive, clean-cut features turned towards Whiston."I think it's a devilish clever piece of work!" answered General Whiston, generously.Dacent Smith's eyes lifted from the pencilled forecast. His vivid gaze rested for a minute in admiration on Throgmorton's handsome, well-wrought features."Some day, young man," thought he, "you will be ruler of the King's Navy."He pushed back the chart towards the naval officer; then turned towards John."You can go, Treves," he said, "with the General's permission."Whiston nodded.John saluted and withdrew from the room.As Manton passed out into the asphalted courtyard he met Chief Gunner Ewins."Well, Ewins," he said, "what about your wife's dangerous illness?""She wasn't ill at all, sir. I can't make it out—I've just got a letter from her to-day, saying she's as well as ever she was.""Of course, she never sent the wire," explained John."Who could have sent it?" said Ewins, looking at John with puzzled eyes; "it's a silly sort of joke to play on anybody, sir.""Very silly," John admitted. "It looked as if somebody wanted to get you out of the fort for a day or two. That's why the Colonel wouldn't grant you leave. He didn't think you were playing a trick on him. He thought some one was playing a trick on you. How are your guns, Ewins?""Nicely, sir, thank you," answered the chief gunner. "But I'm sorry we've missed our nine-inch practice this week.""You won't miss much by that," John answered. "You'll shoot as well as ever when the time comes."He knew how soon the time would come, though Ewins did not.John descended the steps of the fort, took his bicycle, and, with due observance of ceremonies, passed through the great gate that had recently all but intimidated Mrs. Beecher Monmouth.An hour later, John, still pedalling steadily, descended the winding road into Brooke. At the outskirts of the village he placed his bicycle against a gate, climbed into a field, and, by a detour, made his way to the back of Doctor Voules's house. In the darkness he walked softly forward under the shadow of the doctor's garden wall He had made only a few paces when a voice came to him out of the gloom."Who's that?" demanded the voice, in a guarded whisper."Treves," answered John. "Is that you, Watson?""Yes, sir," came the answer.John drew himself to the top of the garden wall and looked down upon a corporal in uniform."Anything happened?" John asked."Yes," answered Watson; "three men came to the house after dark, stayed a little while, and went away again, sir."As a matter of fact, half an hour earlier Doctor Voules and two tall young men had stealthily mounted the wall and entered the house by the back way. Corporal Watson had been concealed in the garden and witnessed this visit, and Voules's and his friends' departure in the same stealthy manner."They are evidently trying to give the impression that the house is uninhabited, sir," the corporal amplified.John, who had climbed into the garden and was standing by him, gave a few further instructions as to Voules's abode, presently mounted his bicycle and rode away. Three quarters of an hour later, in a small clump of trees on the heather-clad cliff-top near Freshwater, he spoke to another soldier. This man, with three others, had been detailed to watch Cherriton's cottage."The captain's been in his cottage all the evening, sir," said the man to John, "and the big, fat man's been with him."Having satisfied himself as to the whereabouts of Cherriton and Manners, John cycled on and entered the Freshwater Hotel. Here he put through a trunk-call to Newport. When he had been connected with a particular number he inquired into the telephone:"Is that you, Gibb?""Yes, sir," came the answer."Do you know who is speaking?""It's Mr. Treves, isn't it?""Yes," John answered.Having satisfied himself that he was in touch with the gloomy-looking waiter at the Newport Hotel, he put a discreet inquiry. He had parted with certain Treasury notes to the benefit of the gloomy waiter. The waiter, thereafter feeling himself a small but important wheel in a piece of vast machinery, made himself busy and active in John's service."Is anybody at home, Gibb?""She's not been out all day, sir, and went to bed immediately after dinner. She told her maid that she had a lot to do to-morrow, and asked to be called at eight."These details were, for the moment, enough to satisfy John."You know where to ring me up, Gibb, if anything exceptional occurs."John, having concluded his duties for that day, pedalled slowly back to the fort. The night was overcast, the air close, and as he led his bicycle up the long white road to the gates, he could hear the waves softly falling at the foot of the cliffs in the bay below him. No other sound broke the stillness, and when the outer sentinel suddenly barred his path and a challenge rang out on the close air, John was startled out of a mood of dreams.He passed the second and the third sentries, a wicket in the great gate of the fort opened and admitted him, and, having reported himself to the Colonel, he went straight to his room. For the better part of that night his mind occupied itself with the momentous doings of the morrow. The cloud that had gathered itself about that end of the island was about to break. What would happen to himself and others on the morrow he could not forecast. But one thing he knew—the long, hidden contest between Voules and Dacent Smith would reach its culmination. Each man, with his pawns, had manoeuvred, moved, finessed and counter-moved. The subtlety of Dacent Smith had been pitted against the precision and military skill of von Kuhne. What was to be the end? John did not know, and at that moment his mind was only secondarily occupied with the point; he was thinking, not of to-morrow, but of yesterday, of his interview with Elaine, of his abrupt separation from her, of his apparent brutality and harshness.He wondered at himself, that he, a capable, alert and non-sentimental young man, an individual who had withstood the seductive blandishments of Mrs. Beecher Monmouth, he wondered to find himself deeply and passionately in love with a girl whose knowledge of artifice was of the slightest. Elaine's genuine trust in him, her belief in his integrity, her delight in the improvement in his character, all helped to enchain John's deepest affections.As he lay now in the quiet and darkness of his room, he felt he dared not let his mind dwell upon the future. He had tricked and duped Elaine, and some day she would be bound to find him out.What would happen then? What would happen when she learned the truth?"There is nothing for it," John pronounced suddenly and emphatically. "I must tell her myself—I must confess the whole thing from the beginning."Having arrived at this decision, he saw himself making the confession, though he could not see what her attitude would be. He could visualise, always standing between them as an impassable and sinister barrier, the man whose identity he had borne for so many months. Bernard Treves—hisalter ego, hisdoppel-gänger—had become what he had probably been from the first—his evil genius. From the very first he had disliked Treves; he had later grown to despise him. The man was contemptible beyond words.At this point John took himself resolutely in hand—or, rather, he thought he took himself resolutely in hand. What really happened was that he put away thoughts of Elaine, hiding them courageously and tenderly in the deeps of his mind, for the sole reason that to think of her, to think of the hopeless situation between them, meant nothing but misery and bitterness.At eight o'clock, when John appeared in the little mess-room, Colonel Hobin was alone at breakfast, at the head of the table."Well, Treves," he said, "if your predictions are right, this is going to be the day of our lives!""I think I am right, sir," John answered."We shall see," answered the Colonel. "Pass the marmalade, please."John passed the marmalade. He noticed the Colonel's hand was steady—none of the nervous irritability that characterised him usually was apparent—and the old soldier's eyes had taken on a new masterful expression of command—the countenance of a good captain on the bridge in face of a great oncoming storm.
CHAPTER XXIX
At six o'clock that same evening Colonel Treves issued from the front door of his fine Tudor residence at Freshwater, and made his way down the drive. The weather had cleared, there was a golden light in the west, and the Colonel, wearing a tweed suit, walked briskly towards the lodge-keeper's cottage. He told himself that he had come there entirely upon business—merely to give the man certain personal orders. The truth of the matter was, however, that he could no longer stay in the house. He was expecting his son; he was looking forward to meeting his boy Bernard with a keener and happier interest than he had felt for many years. During recent months all his old love for his only offspring had returned. He was an old man, and the son who for many years had disappointed him had now grown to be a real Treves, and a man of honour. A smile flitted across his fine, kindly face. He believed that he had at last discovered the reason of Bernard's altered behaviour. The boy who had been tragically cashiered from the army, who had, indeed, been almost proved guilty of cowardice in the face of the enemy, had righted himself; and not only had he won the confidence of his superiors, but he had been entrusted with delicate and difficult duties.
When Colonel Treves reached the lodge-keeper's single-storied abode, he held the man in conversation for some minutes, but his eyes turned incessantly towards the sloping road that led past his gate. When at last he saw a khaki-clad figure on a bicycle, he turned to his elderly employée:
"Adams," he said, "is that Mr. Bernard coming along?"
"Yes, sir," answered the man, after a minute or two's scrutiny.
When John reached the drive, the Colonel was at the gate to meet him.
"Well, Bernard, boy, so there you are," he exclaimed, gripping the young man's hand. "I just happened to be doing a little business here with Adams, and caught sight of you. Come in, boy, come in. How do you think Mr. Bernard's looking, Adams?" he said, turning to the old servant.
"He's looking fine, sir," answered the man. "I've seldom seen him looking so well."
"Leave your bicycle with Adams," said the Colonel; "you can take me up to the house. I am not quite so brisk as I used to be." And he slipped his arm through John's and went up the drive, talking happily and cheerfully as he went. John had always felt drawn towards him; it was impossible for him not to feel admiration and pity for this splendid old fellow. He experienced a sense of pleasure that his visit could give the old man such genuine delight.
"Now, Bernard, boy," said the Colonel, "I have a word to say to you before we go in the house. I have a surprise waiting for you there, but before we go in I want to ask you one thing?"
"What is it?" John asked quietly.
"It's this, Bernard, boy; you haven't been trusting me. You haven't relied upon me as a son should rely on his father."
"In what way, sir?"
"You'll find that out, Bernard, boy, when we get indoors," said the Colonel enigmatically.
John questioned him closely, but he could learn nothing, and presently Gates, the old butler, drew open the door, greeted John with a smile, and took his hat and gloves.
"Your suit-case arrived this morning, sir," he informed John. "I have taken it to your room."
"It's the south room, Bernard, boy," intervened the Colonel; "it's the first time you've had the honour of sleeping in the room that used to be your mother's. But this is a special reunion, Bernard. I had to do something to mark the occasion."
He took John's arm again, and together they ascended to the library, the room in which John had first made his acquaintance. There was something on the Colonel's mind which gave him pleasure, and filled him with an air of humorous mystery.
"When you've seen who's in the library, Bernard," he said, as they drew near the green baize-covered door, "you'll understand what I mean about trusting me better in the future."
He drew open the door.
"Come in, Bernard, boy; come in."
John followed him into the big, handsome apartment, with its mullioned windows and its fine view of the sea. There was some one standing by the hearth with back to the fire-place, and John suddenly caught his breath and stood still. Elaine Treves was there, smiling at him, and as he entered the room she came forward, holding out both hands in greeting.
"Bernard," she exclaimed, a light of happiness radiating her gentle beauty; "you didn't expect to find me here, did you?"
John's surprise was complete. Thoughts of Elaine had been with him during the greater part of his ride, but he remembered Treves's secret in regard to his wife, the fact that he had always kept his marriage from his father's knowledge. He was therefore astonished to find Elaine installed under her father-in-law's roof. She looked very much at home, and John wondered consumedly how she had managed to come there. He also foresaw new difficulties for himself; nevertheless he was delighted to see her, her freshness, her beauty, her winning confidence in himself all tended to please him. It took him very few minutes to observe that her presence brightened Colonel Treves's home amazingly. It was obvious to John that she had already won her way into the old fellow's heart, and as Elaine reached up and shyly kissed him, the Colonel smiled upon them both with an air of infinite benevolence.
"Now," exclaimed Colonel Treves, rallying John half an hour later, when Elaine had gone to dress for dinner. "Now do you see why I asked you to trust me?"
"I think I do," said John, somewhat awkwardly.
"Here, you young rascal, you go and marry a charming girl, who would bring credit and honour to my family, and you hide her away from me, pretending all the time that I am the strict and cruel father. That shows how greatly you misunderstood me, Bernard boy. Why, if I had chosen a wife for you myself, I couldn't have made as good a choice as you made in marrying Elaine. She's been here three days, Bernard, and already I feel towards her as to my own daughter. I always feared you would make a fool of yourself in marrying." He paused and looked at John with his dim eyes. "Sometimes, Bernard boy," he said, with a touch of wistfulness in his tone, "I cannot understand the change that has come over you, the improvement. But it's the good blood coming out, eh—the Treves blood. I always hold that blood tells, and in your case my conviction has been proved more than right. Now, Bernard, how long can you stay with me this time?"
"Only to-night, sir, I am sorry to say."
"Come, come," protested the old Colonel, "I'd expected a week at least." As he spoke the door opened, and Elaine entered the room dressed for dinner. For the first time John saw her in evening apparel. Her dress was of an inexpensive pale yellow material, muslin or silk, John did not know which, and did not care. Her dark hair was beautifully coiffeured, her cheeks glowed with colour, and there was a light of happiness in her eyes.
Colonel Treves glanced at the clock on his desk.
"Why, it's nearly seven!" he exclaimed. "I had no idea it was so late. I must run away and change. You'll want to get out of those puttees, Bernard," he said, glancing at John.
"Thank you," said John. "I am in the south room, sir?"
The Colonel nodded, and John, wondering exactly where the south room might be, went out of the library. He walked along the corridor, and chanced upon a house-maid.
"Which is my room, please?" he said.
The housemaid preceded him along the passage, and opened a door, switched on the electric light.
John thanked her, and found himself in an imposing bedroom, beautifully furnished in the French style. His suit-case had been unstrapped and was upon a stand at the foot of the bed. Laid neatly out upon the bed itself were his clothes for the evening. A fine apartment, thought John, and at that moment a knock fell upon the door.
"Come in," he called. The door opened quietly, and Elaine stepped into the room. She advanced across the room in the most natural manner in the world. There was a light in her fine grey eyes, and she was visibly and quite frankly delighted to be alone with John. John, for his part, saw in a flash the awkwardness of the position chance had imposed upon him. In his sudden surprise in finding Elaine under Colonel Treves's roof he had overlooked atête-à-têteof this kind. He had indeed hardly had time to think of the matter at all.
"Bernard, are you really pleased to see me?"
"Delighted," John answered, wondering what other word he could use, for, as a matter of truth, he was delighted and appalled at the same time. He felt that the situation involving him would require the utmost finesse, if he meant to escape satisfactorily. His own nerves were strung up to a high pitch of tension, and it came as a surprise to him that Elaine should act as though their presence together in that stately sleeping apartment was the most natural event in the world.
"Do you like my dress, Bernard?"
She came towards the glittering dressing-table and turned slowly for his inspection. Her attitude, her confidence were exquisitely attractive to John. Her wifely anxiety to win her husband's approval was the prettiest thing he had ever seen. And once again the splendid rich duskiness of her hair, the gentle glow of her cheeks, the fine contours of her well-turned lips, and the fairness of her skin won his admiration. But it was not this, it was in no sense her radiant and girlish beauty that had evoked John's feelings. Mrs. Beecher Monmouth possessed beauty, but she lacked utterly the frankness and generous natural trust, the appealing femininity, in fact, which is always potent in the winning of a man's love. For it was love, and love only that John felt for this girl who was Bernard Treves's wife, who was nothing to him, and could never be anything.
To ease the situation he told her lightly that her dress suited her to perfection.
"You said when we first met, Bernard, that this primrose colour suited me best, so I put it on to-night."
"Only to please me?" asked John.
Elaine nodded.
"Of course I like to please your father, too, Bernard," she went on. "I think he is wonderful; just the beau ideal of a fine, upright soldier. I cannot understand how you could ever have doubted his generosity."
"I didn't doubt him," John answered. "I only misunderstood him, and acted like a fool."
"But in regard to our marriage. If you had told him months ago, I am sure he would have been just as pleased as he is now. Why didn't you, Bernard?"
"I don't know," John answered. "But I am sure he would have been pleased if I had been sensible enough to trust him."
Elaine seated herself upon an ottoman, an old-fashioned circular piece of furniture which decorated the middle of the apartment. For a minute she let her eyes wander over the refined luxury of the room, then said quietly and thoughtfully:
"So this used to be your mother's room, Bernard?"
John drew in his breath slowly. "Yes," he answered, and, as he spoke, he felt suddenly and acutely the falsity of his position. He was upon dangerous ground, and he felt again intense dislike at having to deceive this woman, who was everything in the world to him.
"I think it was so dear of your father," resumed Elaine thoughtfully, "to let us have this room." John cast a swift look in her direction. "He could not have paid us a greater compliment," Elaine went on.
She was entirely absorbed in her thoughts. To her it was the most natural thing in life that the Colonel should honour his son and his son's wife by allotting to them this fine apartment. In doing so he was tacitly informing the young couple that Elaine in her turn was to be the lady of the house. But so far as John was concerned, Elaine's quiet acceptance of himself and of this fact filled him with consternation. He felt himself enmeshed and hopelessly bewildered. This was not his room only, but Elaine's. It had not entered his mind to look into the wardrobe; he had not even noticed the pair of ladies' gloves which lay upon the dressing-table. But now as he turned away, so that Elaine might not read his glance, his eyes fell upon her gloves for the first time. A moment of acute crisis had arisen. Nevertheless he still fenced, peeking a way out of the situation.
"I cannot understand," he said, "how you managed to get into touch with my father after all."
Elaine laughed brightly.
"I have been wondering when you would ask that, Bernard. It was all owing to the old butler, Mr. Gates. He came to 65, Bowles Avenue. It seems that you gave that address once at the Savoy Hotel in case Mr. Dacent Smith sent for you suddenly. Gates went to the Savoy to find you, to give you a message from your father, and the Savoy people gave him my address. I answered the door to Gates myself, and in the course of his inquiries about you, I told him who I was. He had never heard of me before and was very much surprised. Naturally, when he came back here, he told your father."
"I see," said John, "and my father invited you here?"
Elaine nodded.
"Not only invited me, but he has been absolutely charming to me."
"I don't see anything very extraordinary in that," returned John.
"Oh, but I might have been the most horrid sort of creature. He knew nothing whatever about me."
"He only needed to look at you," John answered, "to see that—that I had made an ideal marriage."
"I have made him tell me everything about your boyhood, Bernard."
John winced. He had no wish to discuss a boyhood that was naturally a blank to him.
"I believe I know more about your schoolboy days than you do yourself," smiled Elaine.
"I shouldn't wonder," said John with a smile.
Despite himself, against caution and his better judgment, he was beginning to enjoy the scene. He was still at the dressing-table, and in the depths of the mirror he could see behind him Elaine's reflection, a delicate and beautiful picture, seated on the ottoman behind him, looking at him with admiring and loving eyes, believing in him, and trusting him.
"Bernard!" Her tone was low and intimate.
"Yes."
"Come and sit beside me."
"Oh, I don't know whether I can," said John; "I've—I've got a letter to write." He was quick at inventing excuses.
"You can't care much for me, Bernard, if you bother to write a letter, after not seeing me for so long." She rose and came towards him. He felt foolish and awkward when she took his hand in hers, led him to the ottoman and seated him beside her. "Tell me what you have been doing all these long days."
"Oh, all sorts of things," John answered.
"Did you ever think of me?"
"Often," John answered, truthfully.
"Have you been loving me? Look into my eyes and say it, Bernard."
John turned his face towards hers. He saw love in her eyes; love that was offered to himself alone; and as he sustained the radiant tenderness of her gaze a wild impulse came to him to cast discretion to the winds. He hovered on the verge of telling her frankly and bluntly that he was not her husband. Nevertheless he longed to tell her that she was the one woman in all the world for him, that she had won his deepest love, and that he was prepared to break down all barriers, to risk everything if——. Then suddenly he caught himself up. His lips were sealed. As an honourable man, even if he admitted his true identity, he must not utter his love.
"Why are you looking at me so strangely, Bernard?" There was a puzzled and anxious light in her eyes.
"Was I?"
"You suddenly drew your brows together and looked at me so furiously that I thought I must have offended you."
"You could never offend me."
"I don't think you love me after all." She was holding his hand in hers, looking wistfully up into his face. "Do you?"
John slid his fingers away from her touch and rose. He began to pace the floor uneasily. As always, he was seeking a way out, racking his brains for a solution. But there was only one method of escape, and that lay in sudden and ignominious flight.
"Look here, Elaine!" he said, suddenly and brutally. "It has occurred to me that I ought to go away again to-night, immediately after dinner!"
She rose and looked at him with startled eyes. John went on, clumsily:
"Something important has turned up!"
"Oh, but, Bernard, that would be too cruel. I have hardly seen you!" She came to him quickly and laid her hands on his shoulders. There was entreaty in her fine eyes, upraised to his. "You'll stay just to-night," she implored, wistfully, "just for my sake."
John put her away from him almost roughly; his voice was hoarse and low.
"It's impossible, Elaine!"
She stood for a moment regarding him with steady gaze. A long, tense silence lay between them. Then she spoke, quietly, and with a dignity that somehow wrung John's heart.
"Then all your protestations of love for me mean nothing at all!"
"They mean everything," said John, in the same low tone.
"And yet you repulse me as if you hated me?"
"I don't mean to act cruelly."
"If you had any regard for me at all, you'd stay. It isn't the first time, Bernard, that you—you've humiliated me!"
John looked into her face that had grown suddenly tragic. He saw in a moment how completely justified she was in her attitude. He had protested his love for her only a few minutes earlier, and had then snatched at something that must have seemed to her the thinnest of excuses for hurrying away—for leaving her.
"If you loved me really, Bernard, you'd stay." Her voice was very low. "However, I have suffered the humiliation of your refusal. I shall not make the same mistake again." She turned and walked slowly towards the door. John saw that she could scarcely restrain her tears; her head was uplifted—she was superb in her dignity. For the life of him John could not refrain from striding a few paces towards her.
"Elaine!" he implored, in a voice that rang with emotion. "Don't misjudge me. And as for humiliating you, I'd do anything in the world rather than do that! Look here, Elaine, you think I don't love you?"
She turned quietly and looked at him.
"I have every proof of it! In London you refused to stay with me; it is the same here. Your words say one thing—your actions another!"
"You will be able to make some excuse to your father for not occupying the same room with me——"
In that moment, with her face pale, her head erect, a strange light in her eyes, she was more than ever beautiful. In John's eyes she was the fairest and finest-looking woman that ever breathed. Something made him put out his hand and grip her fingers.
"Elaine!"
She strove with surprising strength to release herself.
"No, Bernard, don't!"
Then John's elaborate and well-sustained defences fell. He forgot everything in a sudden wild rush of passion.
"I don't love you, Elaine?" he cried.
"You never loved me——" she began. And in that moment John's arms swept about her. He forgot everything—the world faded. He and the fairest of women—the woman of his love—were together, and he was kissing her as he had never kissed any woman.... Elaine's weak protests faded; astonishment swept over her, and gave place to a wonderful and radiant happiness.
"My God!" breathed John; "if you only knew how much I loved you!"
"Bernard—Bernard—Bernard!" she whispered. Then, to her infinite astonishment, John wrenched himself free; he put his hands to his brows, and fell back several paces, like a man who has received a stunning blow between the eyes.
"Elaine," he said, with clenched fists, his face suddenly pale, his eyes wild—"forget that I held you in my arms! Forget what I said! Forget everything!" His voice rose almost to a shout.
A moment later he had rushed out of the room, and had drawn the door behind him.
CHAPTER XXX
Almost as John closed the door of the south room Gates began to strike, in rising and rhythmic cadences, the great dinner-gong that stood in the hall. The elderly butler turned as John halted at his side.
"Is that the dressing-bell, Gates?" he asked.
"No, Mr. Bernard, the dressing-bell went at the usual time, sir."
John looked at him in surprise. He had heard nothing. During that scene in the room upstairs, when he had lost possession of himself, the sound of the bell had passed unheard. John felt no wonder at that; even now his thoughts whirled through his brain. His temperament was naturally cool, equable, and determined. Never in his life could he recollect having completely forgotten himself, as he had forgotten himself with Elaine a few minutes earlier. The power of love, indeed, had reduced him to the common standard. His nerve, his self-possession, his swift power of decision—all the gifts, in fact, that commended him to Dacent Smith, had deserted him in a flash. For a brief moment—for a space of a moment—he had forgotten everything, save the fact that he loved a woman.
He stood now thinking of these things, and was amazed at the blind passion that had seized him. He began to condemn himself bitterly and savagely. His deception of Elaine stood before him as a monstrous thing. The thought that he occupied another's man shoes, and had thus led her to pour out a love which she would have otherwise concealed, struck him as a criminal proceeding upon his part. He was obliged to confess to himself that he had dallied with the situation, that he had not acted firmly enough. On the other hand—a small voice whispered this—his deception of Elaine was not his fault; he had not wittingly deceived her. He had, indeed, acted all through as an honourable man. This last thought gave him a certain amount of comfort as he crossed the great hall and entered the drawing-room. Colonel Treves was the sole occupant of the room, and was standing with his back to the white marble fire-place, his hand resting on the stick he used as support. John noticed that in evening clothes the old man looked more imposing and distinguished than ever. The Colonel drew out his watch.
"Where's Elaine?"
John explained that he had left Elaine upstairs a few moments ago, and presently Elaine, a little pale, came into the drawing-room. No glance passed between her and John. With a courtly air, Colonel Treves advanced towards her and crooked his elbow.
"May I have the honour?" he said.
Elaine slipped her arm into his. In her pale primrose dress, with her well-coiffeured dark hair emphasising the whiteness of her neck, she looked scarcely more than a child. John noticed with admiration that her head was held erect. She smiled and talked graciously to the Colonel as he led her into the dining-room and placed her upon his right hand. For John there was no smile.
Just as the south room and the drawing-room were strange to John, so also was the dining-room. He seated himself opposite Elaine at the head of a long gleaming white table. Gates moved from place to place softly and noiselessly. Colonel Treves, who was happier than he had been for years, made a perfect host. His happiness intensified John's own loneliness. A sensation of being a pariah came upon him; he felt that he would have given ten years of his life to be actually sitting there in the flesh as the real son of the fine old man who headed the table.
As to Elaine, and his relations with Elaine, he dared not let his mind dwell upon that subject. He was attempting to indicate by his attitude his complete contrition for what had occurred. He tried to catch Elaine's eye. She looked at him, but there was something enigmatical in her expression that he was unable to understand. Her good breeding was such that to the outward eye—to the Colonel's eye, in fact—their relationship was exactly as it had been before, and yet John knew that a barrier had risen between them.
Elaine maintained her air of stately reserve during the rest of the evening, and at ten o'clock, when she rose to go to her room, the Colonel politely conducted her to the door. As he closed it upon her he turned and looked towards John.
"You are a lucky man, Bernard!" he exclaimed.
He came slowly across the room, using his stick, as was his general habit.
"I hope some day, my boy," he said, "when this place is yours, Elaine will reign here as graciously and be as well beloved as your dear mother was."
"I am sure she will, sir," answered John quietly.
The old man slid his arm through his.
"You shall take me up to the library. We can smoke there, and make ourselves comfortable."
In the library that night John heard much of Colonel Treves's past history, much of the family history, of the man whose identity he was wearing, and the more he heard of Bernard Treves the more he realised what a complete and utter waster that young man was. Often of late he had thought of Treves in the nursing home, and wondered what were the conditions of his detention there. Dacent Smith was always reticent upon that point. The sinking of thePolidorthrough the agency of Treves had been a black and irredeemable crime. A time was bound to come when the young man must answer for that piece of black treachery against his country. Looking at the matter in the most charitable light, John regarded Treves, as evidently Dacent Smith regarded him, that is, as a feeble, will-less creature, whose reason had been unseated, at any rate temporarily, by the drugs which were a mania with him.
The fact that Manwitz and Cherriton had plied him with these drugs showed only the bold unscrupulousness of the German methods. The German Intelligence Department had used Bernard Treves, and had moulded him to its purpose as though he had been of wax. And had not Dacent Smith brilliantly substituted John for Treves, untold disasters would have ensued.
"Bernard!" The Colonel's voice startled John out of his thought. "Bernard, I have seen Gosport lately."
John wondered who Gosport might be.
"Yes," went on the Colonel. "I was hasty with you, but I have made everything right. I have made up my mind to leave everything to you after all. What do you say to that?"
"It is very generous of you, sir," John answered. He knew that it was utterly impossible that a penny of the Colonel's possessions should ever be his.
"No, no, it is only right," responded the Colonel. "You have married well. You have rehabilitated yourself in every way, and I find you more what a Treves should be every time we meet." He suddenly gripped John's hand in his. "You have given me great happiness, Bernard, and one of the reasons I made haste to change my will is that the doctor has given me rather a bad report of myself. I don't think you'll have to put up with me for very long, Bernard!"
"Don't say that, sir!" answered John, quickly and impulsively.
"I fear it is the truth," said the Colonel; "but I can face the next world with a far better grace than I could have done a year ago."
He was thinking of the fine old house and the properties which a year ago might have fallen into the hands of a worthless son. Now, as by a miracle, that son had become a man—a man of honour—and a Treves. The two things were synonymous in the Colonel's eyes, and the future, whatever it might be, however soon darkness might come, held for him no terrors.
It was after eleven that night when the Colonel went to his room.
"I'll sit up and write a few letters at your desk, if I may, father," said John, after escorting the elder man to the door of his bedroom.
He went back to the library, shut himself in, and dropped into a chair at the hearth. What Elaine was doing, what were her thoughts, he could not guess. He wondered if she was waiting for him, expecting him to come and ask for forgiveness. Perhaps some time in the dim future, when the whole truth was told, she might forgive; but for the present he knew that nothing he could do would right him in her eyes.
He sat in the arm-chair, dozing and thinking, until dawn came.
When the breakfast gong rang next morning Elaine descended and found the Colonel alone at the table. The old man looked disturbed, but in no way depressed.
"You will have to content yourself with me, Elaine," he said, "now that Bernard has deserted us again. He left me a note saying that important business has arisen, and ran away before I was down. But of course," added the old man as an afterthought, "you know all about it."
Elaine inclined her head, and said nothing. Colonel Treves put out his hand and laid it on her slender fingers.
"When the war is over, you and my boy Bernard will live here together, and be as happy as crickets."
"It is very, very dear of you to say so, father." Sudden tears glistened in her eyes. She clasped the Colonel's old, frail fingers in hers. In that moment it seemed to her that he was the only friend she possessed in the world.
So far as John was concerned, Elaine dared not let herself think. The strange scene in the south room had burnt itself into her brain. John's tremendous anxiety to get away from her, together with the undoubted fact that he loved her, was bewildering beyond solution. The thought that her husband had reverted to the drug habit had long been discarded. None of the symptoms that had marked him in the early days of their marriage were present—he was as another man in her eyes. She loved him—she was afraid, and she was bewildered. Every post that came found her anxiously awaiting a letter from John. But none came; two eventless days passed. But upon the evening of the second day after John's departure a dramatic mischance that had been impending—that had, indeed, been inevitable from the beginning—occurred.
Elaine had made her way alone into the grounds. Her mood was one that called for solitude, and in the quiet of the long, fir-treed avenue, the drive which led from the mansion to the road, she found the seclusion she needed. The evening was clear, and through tree-stems the ocean, glassily blue and empty of shipping, spread to the far horizon. The scene was calm, reposeful—everything, in fact, a troubled spirit could require.
Presently, however, the entrance gate at the end of the drive was pushed open. A young man in a green felt hat and wearing stiff Sunday clothes came into the drive and walked slowly forward. Elaine, as the stranger drew near, noticed that he was a youth, little more than twenty, wearing a service-rendered badge. The young man wore his green hat slightly on one side—his complexion was fresh, his cheeks ruddy, and his general expression one of amiable stupidity.
Elaine glanced at him and was about to pass, thinking he carried a message to the house, when the visitor halted in his walk and sheepishly lifted his hat. As he halted he drew from his pocket a crumpled, rather grimy-looking envelope.
"Is that Colonel Treves's house, miss?"
"Yes," said Elaine.
"I've got a letter for there, miss," went on the young man; "it's addressed to Mrs. Treves."
"There is no Mrs. Treves," Elaine answered; then quickly remembering, she smiled the gracious smile that was always so attractive to John. "I'm Mrs. Bernard Treves."
The young man handed her the letter, and instantly Elaine's casual air vanished, for the address was in her husband's handwriting, and had been scrawled hurriedly in pencil.
She tore open the envelope and read the single sheet of notepaper within.
DEAR ELAINE, ran the note,I want you to give the bearer of this ten shillings. Then, if you can, and as soon as you can, you must raise ten pounds and let him bring it here to me. General Whiston and a person called Dacent Smith have been keeping me prisoner here. The suggestion is that I amnon compos mentis.I don't know whether my father's in it or not, so on no account mention this letter to him. Whatever you do, don't fail me; I have been suffering the tortures of the damned here. The young man who brings this can get to me, and there is a nurse here who can help me to get away if I can get hold of ten pounds. Remember this, Elaine, you are my wife, and I hope you aren't siding with my father against me. I can't stand the torture of being here any longer, so I look to you to act quickly. You can act quickly enough when you want to. I am nearly off my head with being deprived of the medicine I used to take. The bearer of this would get into trouble if found out, so don't forget to treat him well.
BERNARD TREVES.
As Elaine slowly read this letter for a second time the colour fled from her cheeks. Her heart-beat quickened almost to suffocation—she could make nothing of it.
Her eyes travelled to the head of the missive and read:
"St. Neot's Nursing Home, Ambleside Road, Ryde."
"St. Neot's Nursing Home—St. Neot's Nursing Home." Under her breath she uttered the words in a dazed, stupefied fashion.
It seemed impossible that her husband, who had been with her only forty-eight hours before, could be incarcerated there. Then the strangeness of the letter! ... She read it again, shrinking instinctively from its tone. Here was her husband as she had known him from the beginning—querulous and domineering.
For a minute she wondered if there had been some extraordinary and unexplainable mistake, but she knew his handwriting. Nevertheless, with a great effort to steady herself, she looked into the face of the messenger.
"If you will come to the house," she said, "I shall be pleased to give you something for being so kind as to bring this to me."
"Thank you, miss."
"Are you one of the servants at St. Neot's Home?"
"No, miss. I work for the dairy that supplies them."
Again Elaine glanced at the crumpled letter in her fingers. There was no possibility of forgery—and yet how came it that Dacent Smith should wish to detain her husband? She recalled that the brilliant Chief of the secret service had had nothing but praise for Bernard.
Again she looked quickly into the young man's face.
"Have you seen Mr. Treves lately?"
"I saw him this morning, miss."
It seemed ridiculous to put the question, to dally still with the idea of forgery. Nevertheless, she put it.
"Could you describe Mr. Treves to me?"
"Yes, miss. He's a good-looking gentleman. Tall, dark hair——"
"Thank you," said Elaine, interrupting him—and her last doubt vanished.
Something had happened to Bernard since yesterday morning, since his departure from the house without saying good-bye to her. He had evidently been seized and incarcerated in the nursing home against his will. Yet, even now, as she strove to accept the fact, her instinct rebelled against it. The thing seemed so motiveless, so utterly outside the natural order of events; and Bernard must have been seized almost immediately after he left his father's house, for she noted that his letter was dated the day before.
She again questioned the young man.
"How long has Mr. Bernard Treves been at St. Neot's Nursing Home?"
"The first time I saw him there, miss, was about two months ago, when he asked me to get him something at a chemist's; but he must have been there more than a month before that. I should think, miss, he's been there going on for three months or thereabouts."
"Three months!"
"About that, miss."
Elaine looked at him with widened eyes. The thing was impossible and incredible. Nevertheless, she dared not let the matter rest where it was. She decided to act, and to act instantly. As yet no suspicion of the truth had dawned upon her.
CHAPTER XXXI
At the very hour when Elaine received the strange letter signed "Bernard Treves," a letter which awoke all her defensive feminine instincts, John occupied a chair in the little mess-room at Heatherpoint Fort. The occasion was one of deep and portentous significance. At the head of the table, where Mrs. Beecher Monmouth had so recently taken tea with Lieutenant Parkson, General Whiston was seated in state. His big, commanding figure bulked largely in the chair usually occupied by Colonel Hobin. Beneath the General's eyes was a map of the South Coast defences—an elaborate, minutely particularised map, which in a layman's eyes would have been almost undecipherable.
The General held a blue pencil over a particular section of the Solent; his eyes, however, were fixed upon the countenance of a naval captain who sat at his left hand, a little farther down the table. Opposite the naval captain was Colonel Hobin, and next to Hobin sat old Commander Greaves.
John occupied an insignificant position next to Greaves, and near the end of the table there was a vacant chair.
"Is there no possibility, Captain," inquired General Whiston, speaking to the naval officer, "of altering the mine-field in the time at our command?"
Before the naval officer lay a small Admiralty chart of the Solent clustered with a multitude of red crosses.
"Well," he said, deliberating upon the situation, "this is a pretty elaborate field, and it would take us quite two days to make an effective new arrangement. Of course, we could mine the free channels, but that prevents us coming in."
He went into technical details.
General Whiston cast a glance at John.
"You are quite sure your friends Voules and Company intend to strike on the twenty-eighth?"
"All the evidence I have been able to get points to that, sir," answered John promptly.
"The twenty-eighth is the day after to-morrow," put in Greaves.
"Mr. Dacent Smith," said John, "had an idea that the attack might be postponed, but he has now come round to my view."
As a matter of fact, John had that day amply convinced his chief that the German blow was to fall on the date originally prescribed. Since leaving Colonel Treves's house, and since his embarrassing interview with Elaine, John had made certain valuable discoveries, all of which pointed to the imminence of the German attack on the South Coast defences. With infinite subtlety von Kuhne had managed to institute nefarious schemes in a dozen different directions. The night of the twenty-eighth had been marked out in the German general's mind with the clockwork precision which was a second nature to him. And John believed that nothing would shake his resolution. Mrs. Beecher Monmouth's particular work of the early part of that night was to see that Lieutenant Parkson was not at his post. All her potent charms were to be expended to that end. That she would succeed in her task was, in von Kuhne's and the lady's own eyes, a foregone conclusion. As to Manwitz, he was to be mysteriously occupied with certain men of his Majesty's forces whose business it was to operate the boom between Ponsonby Lighthouse and Windsor Fort. Cherriton's particular duty upon the eventful night John had not been able to discover. The tall German still occupied the isolated cottage he had recently taken on the Downs near Freshwater. Since John's visit to the cottage he had not had further meeting with this particular formidable enemy.
In thinking of his visit to the cottage, however, John was conscious that the man's attitude upon that day had been singular in the extreme. What had been in Cherriton's mind he did not know, and he was, of course, totally unaware that sentence of extermination had been passed upon him. It is no stretch of imagination to say that in visiting the cottage he had, without knowing it, walked within the very shadow of the grave.
"Friend Cherriton is no mean antagonist," thought John, pondering upon the German's personality as he sat in the little mess-room.
Now that the great blow was so soon to fall, Dacent Smith—an unusual circumstance with him—had left his post in London and come to the Isle of Wight. General Whiston and Captain Throgmorton, who respectively commanded the counter military and naval measures, found the pleasant, keen-eyed Chief of Intelligence an invaluable ally. His intuitive knowledge of the German character proved to be of the utmost assistance. He had been studying Germany and the German secret service for twenty years, and what he did not know about Teutonic psychology, chicanery and guile, was not worth knowing.
Dacent Smith, however, never made the mistake of under-estimating his enemy. Von Kuhne's blow would, he conceded, be a well-wrought and scientifically delivered attack. There was one slight thing, however, which von Kuhne had possibly overlooked—he had possibly overlooked the important fact that the Isle of Wight is after all an island, and that in gathering his forces upon this particular portion of His Majesty's dominions he was isolating himself from chances of escape in case of failure.
Dacent Smith thought a good deal upon this subject during his first day at Heatherpoint Fort. But when he presently resumed his chair at the end of the table in the little mess-room, opposite General Whiston, his pleasantly good-humoured face showed nothing of the intense mental activity within.
General Whiston lifted his eyes as Dacent Smith took his seat.
"Well, have you found out anything else for us?"
"Nothing," answered Dacent Smith, "except further confirmation that von Kuhne will make his attempt the day after to-morrow. He has disposed his forces with a good deal of ingenuity. This end of the Isle of Wight is at present dotted with amiable Britishers who happen to be Germans!"
A curious smile flitted across the face of John's Chief.
"It must have been very gratifying," said he, "to Captain Cherriton, Manners, and von Kuhne to say 'British subject' to our good-looking policeman as they stepped on board the boat at Lymington. Manners, so I hear, was the only one of a dozen who came that way who showed the slightest trace of nervousness. I think we shall have to reckon, General," he concluded, "upon von Kuhne providing something pretty forceful and daring!"
The naval captain whose eyes were still occupied with the chart of the Solent, lifted his keen gaze. "Something in the nature of our own adventure at Zeebrugge and Ostend, do you think?"
Here he turned his red-starred chart face downwards. On its back were twenty or thirty neatly-pencilled lines.
"That," he said, pushing the chart towards Dacent Smith, "is my forecast of what is going to happen in this area during the next forty-eight hours. If your date is correct, I think my forecast will be pretty well right. What do you think, General?"
Throgmorton's incisive, clean-cut features turned towards Whiston.
"I think it's a devilish clever piece of work!" answered General Whiston, generously.
Dacent Smith's eyes lifted from the pencilled forecast. His vivid gaze rested for a minute in admiration on Throgmorton's handsome, well-wrought features.
"Some day, young man," thought he, "you will be ruler of the King's Navy."
He pushed back the chart towards the naval officer; then turned towards John.
"You can go, Treves," he said, "with the General's permission."
Whiston nodded.
John saluted and withdrew from the room.
As Manton passed out into the asphalted courtyard he met Chief Gunner Ewins.
"Well, Ewins," he said, "what about your wife's dangerous illness?"
"She wasn't ill at all, sir. I can't make it out—I've just got a letter from her to-day, saying she's as well as ever she was."
"Of course, she never sent the wire," explained John.
"Who could have sent it?" said Ewins, looking at John with puzzled eyes; "it's a silly sort of joke to play on anybody, sir."
"Very silly," John admitted. "It looked as if somebody wanted to get you out of the fort for a day or two. That's why the Colonel wouldn't grant you leave. He didn't think you were playing a trick on him. He thought some one was playing a trick on you. How are your guns, Ewins?"
"Nicely, sir, thank you," answered the chief gunner. "But I'm sorry we've missed our nine-inch practice this week."
"You won't miss much by that," John answered. "You'll shoot as well as ever when the time comes."
He knew how soon the time would come, though Ewins did not.
John descended the steps of the fort, took his bicycle, and, with due observance of ceremonies, passed through the great gate that had recently all but intimidated Mrs. Beecher Monmouth.
An hour later, John, still pedalling steadily, descended the winding road into Brooke. At the outskirts of the village he placed his bicycle against a gate, climbed into a field, and, by a detour, made his way to the back of Doctor Voules's house. In the darkness he walked softly forward under the shadow of the doctor's garden wall He had made only a few paces when a voice came to him out of the gloom.
"Who's that?" demanded the voice, in a guarded whisper.
"Treves," answered John. "Is that you, Watson?"
"Yes, sir," came the answer.
John drew himself to the top of the garden wall and looked down upon a corporal in uniform.
"Anything happened?" John asked.
"Yes," answered Watson; "three men came to the house after dark, stayed a little while, and went away again, sir."
As a matter of fact, half an hour earlier Doctor Voules and two tall young men had stealthily mounted the wall and entered the house by the back way. Corporal Watson had been concealed in the garden and witnessed this visit, and Voules's and his friends' departure in the same stealthy manner.
"They are evidently trying to give the impression that the house is uninhabited, sir," the corporal amplified.
John, who had climbed into the garden and was standing by him, gave a few further instructions as to Voules's abode, presently mounted his bicycle and rode away. Three quarters of an hour later, in a small clump of trees on the heather-clad cliff-top near Freshwater, he spoke to another soldier. This man, with three others, had been detailed to watch Cherriton's cottage.
"The captain's been in his cottage all the evening, sir," said the man to John, "and the big, fat man's been with him."
Having satisfied himself as to the whereabouts of Cherriton and Manners, John cycled on and entered the Freshwater Hotel. Here he put through a trunk-call to Newport. When he had been connected with a particular number he inquired into the telephone:
"Is that you, Gibb?"
"Yes, sir," came the answer.
"Do you know who is speaking?"
"It's Mr. Treves, isn't it?"
"Yes," John answered.
Having satisfied himself that he was in touch with the gloomy-looking waiter at the Newport Hotel, he put a discreet inquiry. He had parted with certain Treasury notes to the benefit of the gloomy waiter. The waiter, thereafter feeling himself a small but important wheel in a piece of vast machinery, made himself busy and active in John's service.
"Is anybody at home, Gibb?"
"She's not been out all day, sir, and went to bed immediately after dinner. She told her maid that she had a lot to do to-morrow, and asked to be called at eight."
These details were, for the moment, enough to satisfy John.
"You know where to ring me up, Gibb, if anything exceptional occurs."
John, having concluded his duties for that day, pedalled slowly back to the fort. The night was overcast, the air close, and as he led his bicycle up the long white road to the gates, he could hear the waves softly falling at the foot of the cliffs in the bay below him. No other sound broke the stillness, and when the outer sentinel suddenly barred his path and a challenge rang out on the close air, John was startled out of a mood of dreams.
He passed the second and the third sentries, a wicket in the great gate of the fort opened and admitted him, and, having reported himself to the Colonel, he went straight to his room. For the better part of that night his mind occupied itself with the momentous doings of the morrow. The cloud that had gathered itself about that end of the island was about to break. What would happen to himself and others on the morrow he could not forecast. But one thing he knew—the long, hidden contest between Voules and Dacent Smith would reach its culmination. Each man, with his pawns, had manoeuvred, moved, finessed and counter-moved. The subtlety of Dacent Smith had been pitted against the precision and military skill of von Kuhne. What was to be the end? John did not know, and at that moment his mind was only secondarily occupied with the point; he was thinking, not of to-morrow, but of yesterday, of his interview with Elaine, of his abrupt separation from her, of his apparent brutality and harshness.
He wondered at himself, that he, a capable, alert and non-sentimental young man, an individual who had withstood the seductive blandishments of Mrs. Beecher Monmouth, he wondered to find himself deeply and passionately in love with a girl whose knowledge of artifice was of the slightest. Elaine's genuine trust in him, her belief in his integrity, her delight in the improvement in his character, all helped to enchain John's deepest affections.
As he lay now in the quiet and darkness of his room, he felt he dared not let his mind dwell upon the future. He had tricked and duped Elaine, and some day she would be bound to find him out.
What would happen then? What would happen when she learned the truth?
"There is nothing for it," John pronounced suddenly and emphatically. "I must tell her myself—I must confess the whole thing from the beginning."
Having arrived at this decision, he saw himself making the confession, though he could not see what her attitude would be. He could visualise, always standing between them as an impassable and sinister barrier, the man whose identity he had borne for so many months. Bernard Treves—hisalter ego, hisdoppel-gänger—had become what he had probably been from the first—his evil genius. From the very first he had disliked Treves; he had later grown to despise him. The man was contemptible beyond words.
At this point John took himself resolutely in hand—or, rather, he thought he took himself resolutely in hand. What really happened was that he put away thoughts of Elaine, hiding them courageously and tenderly in the deeps of his mind, for the sole reason that to think of her, to think of the hopeless situation between them, meant nothing but misery and bitterness.
At eight o'clock, when John appeared in the little mess-room, Colonel Hobin was alone at breakfast, at the head of the table.
"Well, Treves," he said, "if your predictions are right, this is going to be the day of our lives!"
"I think I am right, sir," John answered.
"We shall see," answered the Colonel. "Pass the marmalade, please."
John passed the marmalade. He noticed the Colonel's hand was steady—none of the nervous irritability that characterised him usually was apparent—and the old soldier's eyes had taken on a new masterful expression of command—the countenance of a good captain on the bridge in face of a great oncoming storm.