CHAPTER XXIIIOne evening, a week later, when darkness had fallen, John found himself in Grosvenor Place, pacing unobtrusively in the shadow of the russet-brown brick wall which surrounds the royal garden of Buckingham Palace. He was watching a taxi which was waiting before the broad door of Mr. Beecher Monmouth's residence. Some minutes passed before John, from his discreet vantage ground, observed Mrs. Beecher Monmouth herself, a vague, befurred, silk-clad figure in the distance, descend from her house and enter the vehicle.The lady's taxi sped away, and John lifted his attention from the door of the house to the first floor. Here a chink of light from two windows showed him that Mrs. Beecher Monmouth's maid, having attired her mistress for the evening, was still busy, either in the bedroom or Mrs. Beecher Monmouth's boudoir."When Mademoiselle Cecily puts out the light and goes downstairs, I'll make a dash for it," thought John.For a quarter of an hour after that he waited patiently in the shadow of the royal wall. Then first one light, and then another, vanished behind the first floor curtains of the house across the road. John gave Cecily sufficient time to descend to the housekeeper's room, where she usually spent the evening. At last, however, with something of alacrity and a quickened pulse-beat, he crossed the road. He was the veriest amateur as a burglar, but his cause was the best in the world, and in less than a minute he had slipped a small Yale key into the hall door. He had possessed himself of that key from Mrs. Beecher Monmouth's handbag earlier in the evening, and he knew she would not miss it until her return from her dinner-party at the Savoy.The key moved noiselessly in the lock. No drama at all accompanied his entry into the lofty, deeply-carpeted hall. The light was dim, the hall deserted, and when John had soundlessly closed the front door behind him, he hurried forward and ascended the carpeted stairs, two steps at a time.From the servants' quarters in the lower regions he could hear voices faintly. No other sounds came to him, and in less than a minute after he passed the front door he found himself in Mrs. Beecher Monmouth's intimate boudoir. Here he cautiously closed the door behind him, turned the key in the lock and switched on the light. Everything was as usual, save only that on every previous visit to that room Mrs. Beecher Monmouth, brilliantly gowned, brilliantly beautiful, and always amiable to himself, had been his chief centre of interest. To-night, however, it was not Mrs. Beecher Monmouth he desired to cultivate, but that lady's belongings.He was there under Dacent Smith's instructions to search for clues which would enable John's chief of department to check her flow of information to the enemy. For not yet had John been able to discover in what manner, within eight hours, she had been able to communicate with the submarine which sank theMalta.John, standing with his back to the gold and white boudoir door, surveyed the room with a slight sense of bewilderment. It was difficult to know where to begin. Nevertheless, he did begin, and during the quiet minutes that followed he made a close search for documents in every possible hiding-place he could discover. His care and patience, however, met with no reward; he found nothing of the slightest significance.When John had thoroughly exhausted the possibilities of the boudoir and had found nothing, he opened the door which communicated from that room directly into Mrs. Beecher Monmouth's spacious bedroom. He had never viewed this apartment before, and he was much impressed by its gorgeous furnishings, its shining brass twin bedsteads, its white French furniture and deep carpet of pale grey and rose colour.Having quietly locked the second door of the room which opened into the passage, he began a rapid search, taking care to replace everything as he found it. Mrs. Beecher Monmouth would probably not return until half-past nine, and he felt that if he could complete his business quickly he would be able to slip downstairs and out of the house before being observed.Cecily was the only person likely to disturb him, and he had already thought of a plan which might secure his safety in this event. In regard to Mr. Beecher Monmouth, John felt completely at ease about him. The "Ogre" had, a fortnight ago, been neatly transhipped to Ireland as a member of a Government commission of inquiry. Dacent Smith, with the aid of the Home Secretary, had brought this about without arousing Monmouth's suspicions. The fact that Beecher Monmouth adored his wife, and had desired to take her with him, had created something of a difficulty, but Dacent Smith had overcome this point in his habitual neat manner."No; I don't think I need worry," thought John, glancing at an expensive clock of ivory and silver which adorned the dressing-table. "I shall be safe for another half an hour at least."Mrs. Beecher Monmouth's bed was covered with a rich eiderdown covered in purple satin. John seated himself upon this sumptuous covering and rubbed his chin thoughtfully. He had been twenty minutes in the bedroom of Mrs. Beecher Monmouth, and had discovered nothing.He noticed now a door, with a crystal knob, which opened into a wardrobe, which was a small room in itself. Here Mrs. Beecher Monmouth's numerous costumes hung in rows. John caught a glimpse of a shelf containing a score of pairs of boots, shoes and slippers. Beneath this shelf was a big tin box, a black japanned box, which immediately engaged John's attention.The lock was a simple one, and John had it open in a moment. Then the disappointment that had been growing on him intensified, for in the box was nothing but Mrs. Beecher Monmouth's costly sables laid away for the summer. A reek of camphor assailed his nostrils from the folded furs. He was about to close the box, when the idea occurred to him to run his hand down the sides. A moment later he was glad of this impulse, for from the bottom of the tin he drew up a small, strong-looking cash-box.He rattled the box, and was able to detect a faint rustle from within. Carrying the dispatch case, which was something under a foot in length, he went into the bedroom. Once again he seated himself on the purple eiderdown and tried all his keys. None of them fitted the dispatch box, which was protected by an unassailable Chubb lock.John contemplated this lock for some minutes with an unfavourable eye, then he took out a heavy steel tool he had brought with him. It took him less than two minutes to wrench open the lid. Within the box, completely filling its interior, were neatly folded and tightly packed letters and papers.John's interest quickened mightily as, opening one of the letters, he discovered it to be in German.The note-paper was of the flimsy description, almost tissue paper, in fact. John, examining it closely, observed with a certain degree of interest that the paper had been folded very small indeed, evidently for facility in transmission.As he sat on the edge of the bed, with the open box on his knee, and this letter in his hand, he swept Mrs. Beecher Monmouth's large and expensively furnished room with his glance. There was a deep silence in the room, and between the rise and the fall of the traffic noises outside, John could hear the light ticking of the little ivory and silver clock on the dressing-table. He was not occupied with the silence, however, but with the contents of the letter, which he read rapidly, eagerly, and with swiftly augmented interest. Written purposely small in a firm, foreign hand, the missive, which was to Mrs. Beecher Monmouth, ran, in German:"DARLING ALICE,"Your loving letter reached me only yesterday, and I am hastening to answer it by the usual channels. I am still jealous. You tell me your husband is very old, but one of the solaces to my captivity here is the English newspapers, which we are allowed to read, and yesterday, in one of the picture papers, I observed Mr. Beecher Monmouth's photograph. He is not so old as you pretend, and though his face assures me that he will never win your heart, yet still I am jealous. It makes me laugh to think of you as the wife of an English politician, a member of their stupid Parliament! I wonder if in society you ever meet the Duke of Thule and Lord Harrisgrove. I recall our beautiful happiness in Washington together. You loved me then, I believe, more than you do now."The letter ended with expressions of endearment, and was signed "Kurt von Morgen."As John read the signature his lips tightened. In great haste he ran his eye over the handwriting of at least a score of other letters, each one of them in the same handwriting, that of Kurt von Morgen, a German Cuirassier officer, a young aristocrat who had been captured on the Western Front six months earlier. He knew that Count Kurt von Morgen was a prisoner in the —— camp for officers. And as he handled the flimsy sheets of paper he wondered consumedly how the young man had managed to convey these letters to Mrs. Beecher Monmouth.A word in another letter by von Morgen caught his eye:"I am glad you have met General von Kuhne," said the writer. "Kindly convey to him my compliments, and tell him his nephew, who is a prisoner here, is well and happy. His Excellency's presence in England means much. I throb with interest to know what will happen. But perhaps, Alice, meine herzliebste, I shall soon be free, and shall soon see you! Preparations for my escape are going better than ever. I have for my servant a very intelligent fellow from the Black Forest. Do not let your English 'Ogre' love you too much. Think of me always and the little week when you were my wife at Palm Beach. I kiss you behind the ear.—KURT."A smile crossed John's face as he finished reading this amorous missive."Here," thought he, "we get a pretty complete clue to Mrs. Beecher Monmouth's earlier history before she came from America. It shows also where Mrs. Beecher Monmouth's affections are really centred."John had already read enough to know that these letters must be delivered as swiftly as possible into Dacent Smith's hands. One or two had slipped to the floor as he scanned them hurriedly. He bent down to pick them up, and saw very neatly written on a slip of paper the key of the code which Mrs. Monmouth had used in her newspaper advertisements. As Smith's department already knew this code, the discovery was not of much importance, but on another sheet of paper which also lay on the rich rose and grey carpet he discovered a second code with its accompanying key. His attention fixed upon this with swift intensity. He had at last made a discovery of importance, and he became suddenly animated by the hope that his department had hit upon the manner of Mrs. Beecher Monmouth's swift communication with the enemy. He reached out, took up the slip of paper—and then suddenly became still. For an instant he remained motionless, his mind working with lightning rapidity. A sound had come to him from Mrs. Beecher Monmouth's boudoir, a soft impact of footsteps upon the thick carpet.John could scarcely believe his ears. He had carefully locked the door of the corridor boudoir when he entered the room. As a further protection, he had left the key in the lock. And now this sound! He was still on his hands and knees, and very slowly he turned his head. At that instant the boudoir door opened towards him, and a man enveloped in a heavy tweed overcoat and wearing a soft grey hat stood in the aperture. At sight of John on his knees near the bed, the new-comer stopped dead and stared with wide-amazed eyes.John leapt to his feet. Mechanically, at the same moment the figure at the door removed his grey hat, and the thin hair, the parchment-like face, and the thin, sharp nose of Mr. Beecher Monmouth stood revealed. Moved by his passionate desire to be with his wife, the elderly politician had unexpectedly hurried from Ireland to spend the week-end in London. Beecher Monmouth's expression was one of simple and complete amazement. He blinked two or three times; then, suddenly recovering himself, drew shut the door behind him, and stood with his back to it. His sallow face grew pale with swift kindled hate and rage."Mr. Treves," he demanded, drawing in a sharp breath, "what are you doing here? Are you here with my wife's knowledge?""No," answered John frankly. "Your wife hasn't the faintest idea that I am here.""You mean you came to the house in her absence?"John felt it was necessary to tell him something near the truth."I suppose you have a right to know that I came here in her absence. I came without her knowledge—let myself in with a key and locked the doors outside there, so that I should not be disturbed. How you got in I don't know.""I got in through my own bedroom which is beyond the boudoir," retorted Beecher Monmouth icily, amazed and further enraged at his calmness."Oh!" said John. "There must have been a door I didn't lock. Well, to get along with my explanation—"Beecher Monmouth drew away from him; mechanically he drew off his overcoat and threw it to the floor."Young man," he shouted, his face suddenly turning from white to scarlet, "what are those letters there?" His eyes fell upon the opened cash-box lying on the bed. He rushed to it and took it up. "What were you doing with this?""I was breaking it open," answered John.Beecher Monmouth fixed upon him bewildered and stupefied eyes. Then he hurried across the room and put out his hand for the bell. John, however, was too quick for him; he leapt forward and flung his arms powerfully about the lean, elderly figure."You mustn't ring that bell," he said in a low, tense voice. "I am here on very particular business, and there must be no disturbance whatever.""Will you let me go?" shouted Beecher Monmouth, his face contorted with rage. "Let me go!""Certainly," said John, stepping with his back towards the bell. Beecher Monmouth eased his collar, which had been disturbed. He put his hand to his thin, neatly-ordered hair. He was breathing heavily."You'll drive me mad. Have you come here to rob me, or——"Then his mood suddenly changed. The one passion of his life welled to the surface. If John was there intending to rob him he cared little. There was one thing only that could really strike at him deeply, and that was his wife's love and fidelity."Look here," he said, suddenly pulling himself together, "tell me that it is not an assignation; that you are not waiting for my wife."John looked at him and was silent for a surprised moment; then he said, quietly and solemnly:"I swear I am not waiting for your wife. I am here on far more serious business, and, as for your wife, I neither care, nor have I ever cared, anything about her."Beecher Monmouth's eyes took on a visible expression of relief; his gaze travelled away from John and looked about the room. Once again his glance fell upon the disorder of letters upon the bed. He made a step forward and, before John could stop him, picked up one. John saw his head jerk curiously as the first words smote his eyes. "Liebste Alice." His gaze went to the date of the letter. It was scarcely a fortnight old! He read a few lines of the German missive, which he understood, then he lifted his eyes to John.Never in his life had John seen a man alter so in a moment as Beecher Monmouth altered in that moment."Do you know what these letters are?" he asked in a jerking voice. "Do you understand German?"John nodded."Yes," he said. "I have read several of them."Beecher Monmouth took out a silk handkerchief and wiped his brow. Then he bent down and slowly gathered a handful of the letters. But before he could read another, John placed a friendly hand on his shoulder. He was moved by the tragedy that was about to strike this elderly man, who seemed so ill able to bear it."Mr. Monmouth," he said, "it is only fair that you should know all the truth. I can see no other way out.""What is the truth?" asked Monmouth in a dazed voice."I am here," John answered, "on behalf of our Intelligence Department, to make a search of your wife's belongings.""Intelligence Department!" echoed Beecher Monmouth."Yes," John said; "and I am afraid it will be my duty to take away all the letters in this room. In the meantime, however, I am prepared for you to study them at your leisure.""What do you mean?" asked Monmouth. "Intelligence Department——""You will learn everything from the letters, which you can read if you wish—on condition, of course, that you give me your word of honour as a gentleman to destroy nothing. Also you will remain indoors, within call, until I have communicated with my chief of department."Beecher Monmouth put a shaking hand over his brow."Yes," he said, "I suppose I understand what you say. I feel very much bewildered.""Would you like to read the letters?""I have read one; I must face the others.""You will give me your word of honour to destroy nothing?""Yes." His voice was low, almost inaudible.John, pitying his utter desolation, stepped quietly out of the room, and, leaving the door open, seated himself in the boudoir. He had been there perhaps three minutes, when Beecher Monmouth looked in at him. His expression was utterly tragic."I should like to close the door, Mr. Treves, if you don't mind.""Certainly," said John. He was something of a judge of men; he had accepted the elder man's word, and for ten further minutes he remained seated.During that time Beecher Monmouth stood alone in his wife's brilliantly decorated bedchamber, and strewn about the rose-grey carpet lay the letters which meant the end of all happiness, which for him meant tragedy and darkness unutterable. He went down on his knees, and, with shaking hands, gathered up the strewn sheets. Then, dropping into a low chair near the dressing-table, he read, one after another, Kurt von Morgen's amorous letters to his wife. And in reading he pieced together, bit by bit, his wife's dark past. For the first time her utter shamelessness became known to him. And then, gradually, through the tragedy of his own wrecked life, he saw something that filled him with horror. He learnt, bit by bit, that his wife was not only faithless to him, but was faithless to his country as well. The woman he had adored and had sold his happiness to was a traitor—either that, or a spy in the enemy's pay.As these things swept over him in great waves he clasped his hands to his head and swayed back and forth in a very agony of horrified shame. Presently, like a man in a dream, he rose and walked unsteadily across the floor. Quite neatly, and with a sort of mechanical carefulness, he had replaced all the letters and documents back in the box, and now, carrying the box under his arm, he went unsteadily over the carpet. He drew open a drawer of the little cabinet near his bed, and took out a beautiful plated ivory-handled Colt pistol. Then he took in a deep breath, assured himself that the pistol was loaded and clicked it shut again. He moistened his lips with his tongue, looked at the weapon for a moment with dazed eyes, and slipped it into his pocket. This done, he turned, and with steps that were steady and resolute, crossed the room and drew open the door of the boudoir.CHAPTER XXIVThere was a strange light in Beecher Monmouth's eyes as he stepped into the outer apartment. He was a man who irrevocably and finally had made up his mind."Mr. Treves," he said, "I hand these into your care. You have discharged your duty very well indeed. I think the letters will be of great service to your department." He uttered the words tonelessly and his manner puzzled John, who took the box, and then observed that Monmouth's hand was outstretched."You carried out your duty honourably and well."Their hands touched and John noticed how icy cold were the other's fingers."I hope, sir," he said, in a sudden rush of pity for the utterly broken and deluded husband, "I hope you will forgive my seeming harshness of a few minutes ago.""Certainly, certainly," said Beecher Monmouth dully. He appeared grateful that John had shaken him by the hand. "You can tell your chief that I feel no animosity and that I shall keep my promise not to leave this house. Whenever you return you will find me here.""On behalf of the department I think I can say," remarked John, "that you will suffer as little inconvenience as possible.""Thank you," said Beecher Monmouth. "This discovery is for me, as you can well understand, a tragic one." He paused a moment. "In any case," he added, "you will find me in my wife's room when you return."John took the japanned box and bowed slightly. He was quite sure that Beecher Monmouth would make no attempt to escape. He was also quite sure in his own mind that no charge would be brought against him. The case was clearly one of a duped and shamelessly deluded husband who had unwittingly aided his country's enemies. For a moment the elder man appeared to hesitate on the point of making some further communication, then, turning slowly on his heel, re-entered his wife's room and shut the door.Beecher Monmouth's unfortunate advent had delayed John longer in the house than caution allowed. He made haste now to repair the tactical disadvantage, and the moment the door closed upon the elder man he emptied the letters from the box into his overcoat, hurried out of the room and down the great staircase.In two minutes he reached the front door, which he drew open upon the darkness of the night. He inhaled a deep breath of relief. His task had been accomplished; in another moment——Then he stopped and stood stock still upon the top-most step—exactly opposite him a taxi had drawn to a halt. A light laugh floated up to him, and Mrs. Beecher Monmouth, shimmering in silk and jewels, alighted briskly! She was the last person in the world John at that moment desired to see, still if she had been alone John believed that he could have still escaped unobserved. She was not alone, however. With her were two men in evening clothes, and as the little party of three crossed the pavement John made out that the heavily-built, thick-necked figure who had helped her to alight was Doctor "Voules," and that the taller figure who walked upon her left hand was Captain Cherriton.Cherriton's keen eyes had recognised John in an instant, and almost simultaneously Mrs. Beecher Monmouth uttered an exclamation."Why, Mr. Treves!" She ran lightly up the steps, holding out her hand in greeting. "I had no idea you were coming to-night.""Nor had I," said John. "I came upon the impulse of the moment.""But you knew I should be out," protested Mrs. Beecher Monmouth."That is true," John admitted; "but as you were not going to a theatre I expected you would be back early.""That was very nice of you; now you must come in again." She laid her hand lightly on his arm and shepherded him back to the wide hall."Where is the butler?" Mrs. Beecher Monmouth, sweeping the empty hall with her eyes, turned in surprise upon John."I don't know," said John; "I think he's downstairs.""But surely some one was here to let you out?"Cherriton and his Excellency von Kuhne had both entered the hall. His Excellency pushed shut the big door, and as John heard the latch click a curious sensation of finality seized him. On several occasions in past months he had been in tight situations. He had been in an awkward position, for instance, half an hour earlier, with Beecher Monmouth. The situation, however, which now held him in its grip was in point of danger beyond anything he had yet experienced. He knew that coolness and sang-froid and daring were the only weapons with which he could fight against the three national and ruthless enemies who stood about him in the dimly lit hall. He had shaken hands with Mrs. Beecher Monmouth, and, avoiding a direct answer to her last question, he now turned to von Kuhne and held out his hand."How do you do, doctor?""I am very well," answered his Excellency in his thick voice. He looked steadily into John's eyes. Manton could read nothing in his expression, and he gave his attention to Cherriton."It is a long time since we met, Cherriton!"Cherriton bowed. He made no effort to shake hands; nevertheless his manner was not openly hostile, rather was it sharply and keenly watchful."Quite a long time," he answered.John, looking again into the captain's cold, light blue eyes, his pale shaven face with its bony contours, his cruelly-turned mouth, thought him even more unpleasant than he had formerly believed. He was willing to grant, however, that Cherriton carried himself with an air, that he was a powerful, big-boned, tall, well-set-up fellow.His own eyes and Cherriton's remained engaged for the fraction of a second, then Mrs. Beecher Monmouth's voice broke the tension."Come, come," she exclaimed, "we mustn't stand in the hall. I'll ring for Duckett to bring us something upstairs, and in the meantime you shall each have a cigarette in my boudoir.""I don't like cigarettes!" said von Kuhne curtly."Then you shall smoke one of your black cigars," concluded Mrs. Beecher Monmouth, flashing at him one of her brilliant smiles. She rang the bell, and when the butler appeared, commanded him to bring wine and glasses upstairs.Mrs. Beecher Monmouth began to run up the wide carpeted staircase. John noticed that she wore grey shoes with scarlet heels, and that her stockings were of dark red silk to match her dress. She ascended half a dozen steps, then turned, noticing that John had begun to frame an excuse. He wanted to get away before she reached her boudoir, before she could enter her bedroom where her husband awaited her. The meeting between these two which was imminent was not one which John wished to witness. He waved a farewell hand, uttered conventional apologies and made to go.Mrs. Beecher Monmouth, however, would hear nothing of it. She ran down the stairs, took him by the arm, shook a finger in his face, called him a "bad, cruel boy," and led him upstairs.Cherriton and von Kuhne closed in behind.The boudoir was empty when Mrs. Beecher Monmouth entered and switched on the lights. In a swift survey of the apartment John noticed the rifled dispatch-box on a gilt-legged chair where he had left it. Very swiftly and dexterously he whipped off his light overcoat and threw it over the box, hiding it from view.Mrs. Beecher Monmouth, who wore extensivedécolletée, with a small tiara glimmering in her perfectly arranged dark tresses, permitted John to relieve her of an opera cloak of grey silk brocade. She stood for a minute displaying herself in perfect consciousness of her striking beauty. Her arms and shoulders, perfectly modelled, were white as marble. There was a challenging light in her brilliant eyes as they sought John's. She was one of those women who look best at night, a flower that bloomed best in artificial light.John's mind, since their entrance into the room, had not, however, been occupied either with her beauty or his own personal danger.He was thinking only of a sound he had heard some minutes earlier, at the moment he had drawn open the front door. The sound, like a distant crack of a whip, had reached him from the interior of the house. Only now did that sound gather to itself significance.Sudden doubts assailed John. In that room behind the closed door Beecher Monmouth had seen his own doting attempts at love mocked and laughed at; he had read the passionate letters of her real lover, Kurt von Morgen. She had betrayed not only her husband but her husband's country.What if Beecher Monmouth strode in among them? At any moment the door of that silent room might fly open.... John could conceive Monmouth in a frenzy, rushing into the room and putting his lean hands about that white, bejewelled throat. The situation tingled with terrible possibilities.In those tense and throbbing moments John felt a kinship between himself and the deluded man beyond the closed door of the bedroom.Cherriton, he was certain, suspected him, and would take the first opportunity to cross-examine him as to his visit to Heatherpoint Fort. Nevertheless, he was determined to escape from that house with Mrs. Beecher Monmouth's incriminating letters, and with the newly-found code. He was not afraid of Cherriton; he feared neither the tall German's subtlety of wit, nor his strength of arm. His sole feeling indeed towards this unpleasant enemy was one of infinite antagonism. He knew the time was bound to come, possibly at any minute, when he and Cherriton would enter upon open conflict.The butler came into the room bearing a large silver tray, decanters and glasses. General von Kuhne lit one of his big black cigars, and seating himself, drank a glass of champagne. The butler went out of the room and closed the door noiselessly behind him. John and Cherriton each accepted from Mrs. Beecher Monmouth's hands a whisky-and-soda. John felt Mrs. Beecher Monmouth's eyes steadily upon him. A faint shadow of doubt seemed to flit across her face and then vanish. With an almost imperceptible movement of her head she beckoned him towards her, and seizing a moment when Cherriton and von Kuhne were in conversation, she said to him in a whisper:"Why did you come to-night, when you knew I should be out?"John had been expecting the question, and was prepared."I knew you would be out," he said, looking deep into her eyes; "but I expected you'd come in again!""What do you mean, you enigmatical boy?" Then feeling that she had read his mind, she added: "Do you mean—you came because my husband was away?"John smiled at her."Don't you think that an excellent reason for coming?" he asked.This struck her as an extremely amusing remark. As always she was conscious of, and confident in, the potency of her beauty. She laughed and tapped him on the shoulder with her fan."I don't believe you love me," she uttered almost soundlessly, shaping the words with her lips."Don't you?" said John."Did Cecily let you in?""No," admitted John.At that moment a knock fell upon the door of the room, and in answer to Mrs. Beecher Monmouth's summons, Cecily herself entered."I beg your pardon, madame," she said, "but the corridor door of your room is locked.""Locked, Cecily?""Yes, madame."Mrs. Beecher Monmouth saw no significance in the fact."In that case, Cecily," she said, "you may come through this way.""Thank you, madame." Cecily, in her black dress, white cap and apron, and high-heeled shoes, crossed the carpet. She reached the second door of Mrs. Beecher Monmouth's bedroom and opened it. Nobody but John was watching her. As the maid pushed open the door she gave a violent start, stood stock still, then uttered a loud and terrified scream."Madame! Madame!" she called, turning a frantic face and wide-staring eyes at her mistress."What is it?" cried Mrs. Beecher Monmouth, springing swiftly to her feet.The four of them were now standing staring blankly at Cecily, who was leaning against the door-frame covering her eyes with one hand and waving an arm frantically towards the bedroom.Mrs. Monmouth hurried towards her, but it was John who first succeeded in reaching the door. From the threshold he looked into the room. All the softly-shaded golden lights were full on. And half lying, half sitting on the bed he saw the figure of Beecher Monmouth. The inert form was reclining upon its side on the rich purple counterpane. One arm hung over the edge of the bed towards the floor. On the floor itself lay the politician's ivory and electro-plated pistol, one barrel of which had been discharged.John rushed into the room and looked close into the ashen grey face, but even before he reached the bedside, the very stillness of the prone figure had told him the truth.* * * * *The knowledge that had come upon Beecher Monmouth that night had marked the end. And with a courage for which few would have given him credit, considering his weakness, he had taken arms against a sea of troubles. His political life, his ambition, his hopes, the love that he had lavished, had all vanished in a flash. Kurt von Morgen's letters had told him everything, had revealed a sink of iniquity and duplicity such as he had never thought possible. The blow had been too heavy for him to bear. A younger man might have sought relief in vengeance upon the woman who had betrayed him, but he was not of that spirit. He could think of one way only, one act only which could extricate him from his tragic position.Innocently for months and years he had been a traitor to his country. Unwittingly he had been supplying to the scheming, brilliant woman whom he adored, all the knowledge that came to him in virtue of his position in Parliament. In doing this he had himself become a criminal. No court of law could, or would, punish him. That he knew. But with all his weaknesses he was a loyal Englishman, and in thinking of the tragedy that had been wrought by his doting folly, he resolved to act manfully at the last.Monmouth left no word, no scrap of writing, no murmur of complaint against the woman who had betrayed him, and as John looked into the waxen face that looked old, even beyond its years, he felt for the dead man a genuine and deep sense of pity."After all," thought he, "he has chosen the only way out!" He looked up from the face of the dead man, and saw Cherriton's eyes brooding upon him narrowly. And all through the ensuing excitement he could feel Cherriton's eyes following him keenly, spying upon every movement he made. As the minutes passed John realised that the Captain not only suspected him of playing a double game in regard to Heatherpoint Fort, but he suspected him also of the murder of Beecher Monmouth.John wondered what would happen when the ravished dispatch-box was discovered. And the thought came to him that, despite the tragedy that had occurred, Beecher Monmouth's return had been a useful circumstance for himself and his department. For when Mrs. Beecher Monmouth found that her lover's letters and the code had disappeared she would instantly jump to the conclusion that her husband had discovered them. Having made this discovery, his despair at her duplicity would account for his self-destruction.Soon after the finding of the body the servants were summoned from below, but no one had heard the fatal shot.Von Kuhne, who was disturbed and annoyed, showed an urgent desire to take himself off. He was gone, accompanied by Cherriton, by the time the police appeared.When the police were in full possession of the situation John himself took leave of Mrs. Beecher Monmouth. She was standing in her boudoir, her face deathly white, her usually scarlet lips bluish in hue. John noticed that her hand, as she touched his, was ice-cold. His feelings were of intense detestation towards her, and he found it difficult to be even conventionally polite. As to offering her words of comfort or condolence, that would have been the merest mockery. He was amazed, in bidding her good-bye, to find that there were tears in her eyes. She was an astounding woman. Beecher Monmouth had destroyed himself solely because of her unutterable depths of treachery. She had never loved him; she had incessantly betrayed and duped him, and yet she could still shed tears for him!John went away pondering upon the mystery of the eternal feminine.CHAPTER XXVJohn's work of that night was commended highly by Dacent Smith. For his discovery of the japanned box had put the department in possession of Mrs. Beecher Monmouth's code and a score of letters evidently part of a secret correspondence conducted with a camp for officers, and with Kurt von Morgen, whose "plans for escape were progressing nicely"!The great man commended this achievement. But, like John, he felt pity for Beecher Monmouth, who had fallen so easy and gullible a victim to his wife's treachery. In regard to Cherriton's suspicions of John he took a serious view."I think, Treves," he said, leaning back in his chair, "we shall have to remove Cherriton from the scene. He appears, from what you tell me, not to have confided his suspicions of you either to Mrs. Beecher Monmouth or to von Kuhne. It is unfortunate that he chanced to be appointed by von Kuhne to watch Heatherpoint. But I don't think we can blame Lieutenant Parkson for letting out the fact that you were for a brief period attached to that fort. Nevertheless the position is one that must be handled swiftly and effectively."He suddenly smiled at John."You have done very well up to now, Treves," he said. "But I should not like your career to be suddenly cut short when there are big things ahead. We have safely got rid of Lady Rachel Marvin in Pitt Lunan Hydro, where she can enjoy the company of other fools of her own sort, and will be unable to endanger any more of our forces by loose gossip." He paused, then went on: "The virtual suspension of the Habeas Corpus Act was a god-send to us in the handling of dangerous social fools like Lady Rachel. We could do still more than we do at present, Treves, if every one who knew of suspicious persons or suspicious gossip would only let us know. If members of the public would take the trouble to write a letter to their favourite newspaper the information would always reach us, and would enable us to keep watch on a good many suspicious characters who would otherwise escape us.""The trouble is," said John, "the members of the public do not understand either the power of the German spy system in this country or the wideness of its extent.""Exactly," nodded his chief. "Who, for instance, would suspect Mrs. Beecher Monmouth, the beautiful and wealthy wife of a well-known member of Parliament? But, to my mind, persons like Lady Rachel Marvin are just as dangerous to us as the actual German spies who pick up their information."John went away from Dacent Smith's bachelor abode that night full of intense curiosity as to what Mrs. Beecher Monmouth would do in the immediate future. If, however, he thought that the death of her husband would check her activities he was speedily disillusioned. For immediately after the funeral of the late politician, Mrs. Beecher Monmouth, looking beautiful in her widow's weeds, departed for the Isle of Wight. The funeral of Beecher Monmouth had been an impressive public affair, and there had been much commiseration for the tragically bereaved young widow. It was only natural, therefore, that after so terrible a shock she should wish to withdraw herself from the public gaze. Rooms were engaged at an hotel at Newport, and Mrs. Monmouth, in deepest widow's weeds, made the journey accompanied by her maid Cecily.She arrived at Newport on the twenty-fourth of the month, and the proprietor of the hotel, who knew of her bereavement, received her with a grave and discreet cordiality. He himself showed her to the parlour which had been allotted to her, and assured her that he would do all that was in his power to make her stay as quiet and reposeful as he possibly could.Mrs. Beecher Monmouth thanked him cordially. That night she dined in the retirement of her little parlour, but on the following evening it was discovered that her chimney smoked a little. She therefore decided to take her dinner in the public dining-room. As the chimney in her sitting-room had never smoked before, the proprietor of the hotel was a little puzzled. Nevertheless he prepared for her a table in a quiet corner of the dining-room downstairs. Here, accompanied by Cecily, her confidential maid, who placed her chair for her and then departed, the newly-bereaved widow took her meal. The only other diners in the room were four young officers, who sat at a table in an opposite corner. Mrs. Beecher Monmouth, in her simple and costly black dress, immediately engaged their attention. They respected her sorrow, however, and, despite the evident admiration of one of them, who thought her possessed of the most beautiful profile he had ever seen, Mrs. Monmouth did not encounter from the young men a single glance. When dinner was at an end she rose gracefully, and, carrying her novel, went upstairs to her apartments. When the door had closed upon her the four young officers became animated in a surprising manner."By gad!" exclaimed one, "she's a dashed fine-looking woman, and young, too.""A dashed sight too young for Beecher Monmouth, I should think," remarked another. "What a rotten thing to happen to her. I wonder what made him shoot himself."They speculated upon Mrs. Beecher Monmouth and her tragedy for some minutes, then rose to go.In the meantime Mrs. Beecher Monmouth had reached her sitting-room. Strange to say, the fire no longer smoked. She turned swiftly to the sallow-skinned Cecily."Cecily!""Yes, madame.""Go downstairs and find out which of those young officers was Lieutenant Parkson, of Heatherpoint Fort. You know how to find out?"Cecily looked at her knowingly."Yes, madame."Presently Cecily returned."Lieutenant Parkson, madame, was the one with the black hair and the little black moustache who sat facing you.""Thank you, Cecily," said Mrs. Beecher Monmouth. "Did you discover when he was coming again?""He and his friends have engaged the same table for to-morrow night, madame.""Thank you." Mrs. Beecher Monmouth lit one of her Russian cigarettes, flung the match into the fire, and, relapsing into a chair at the hearth, began to smoke quietly. "I shall dine downstairs at the same time to-morrow, Cecily," she said."Very good, madame."The next night the four young men were already seated at their table when Mrs. Beecher Monmouth entered the old-fashioned dining-room, followed by Cecily. This time Lieutenant Parkson caught the full view of Mrs. Monmouth's beauty for the first time. Her fine eyes met his, lingered for a moment, then turned away. After that the young man watched her during the entire meal. He watched her as she moved away. She carried herself superbly.For some minutes, unheeding his companions' conversation, Parkson looked at the vacant place she had occupied. He remained absorbed in thought until something gleaming caught his eye on the carpet, within a yard of Mrs. Beecher Monmouth's vacated chair. Parkson saw this object, left his seat, and discovered it to be a small gold cigarette-case.He took it up quickly and examined it with a good deal of interest. On the gold surface of the case the letters "A.B.M." were outlined in small rubies. For a minute the young man hesitated, holding the article in his hand; then suddenly he made up his mind what to do. He determined to seize advantage by the forelock.Excusing himself to his friends, Parkson hurried out of the room. He had determined upon a course which would enable him to make her acquaintance. The single glance Mrs. Beecher Monmouth had rested upon him when entering the room gave him courage. At the door of No. 9, which was her sitting-room, he knocked quietly. A low voice bade him come in.Then Parkson, embarrassed despite his boldness, stepped into the room."I beg your pardon for intruding upon you, but I think you dropped this cigarette-case in the dining-room."Mrs. Beecher Monmouth looked at him, then at the case, and came quickly to her feet."Oh, yes," she exclaimed. She accepted it from his fingers and smiled at him, looking steadily into his eyes. "I am so grateful to you," she said. "I cannot," she lied, "tell how I came to drop it!"Parkson bowed, and was moving towards the door."Not at all," he murmured."You know, the servants," went on Mrs. Beecher Monmouth, "are sometimes so dishonest in these hotels.""Quite so," answered Parkson clumsily. Then he noticed that Mrs. Beecher Monmouth had opened the cigarette-case and was holding it towards him. There were four buff-coloured cigarettes in its interior."Won't you give me the pleasure of accepting one of them? I am afraid it is the only reward you will permit me to offer you, Mr.——"She paused, looking questioningly at him."My name is Parkson."Mrs. Beecher Monmouth uttered a pleased exclamation; her face wreathed itself in smiles. For a devastated widow she looked at that moment particularly light-hearted."Oh, how very nice that is. Then you must know my cousin, Captain Cherriton?""Yes," said Parkson; "I've met him a number of times here." His tone conveyed to her swift intelligence the fact that Captain Cherriton was not high in his favour. She looked at him seriously."I am afraid he was not the best of company for you."At that moment Cecily, who had been conveniently absent from the room, entered with coffee upon the tray."You will please bring another cup, Cecily. I am sure Captain Parkson——""Lieutenant Parkson," corrected the young man."Lieutenant Parkson will join me."Five minutes later Lieutenant Parkson was comfortably seated in a chair on the opposite side of the hearth. He was consuming one of Mrs. Beecher Monmouth's buff-coloured cigarettes, and was very much at home drinking some of Mrs. Beecher Monmouth's after-dinner coffee. After the first few minutes he gathered together his natural self-possession. He was generally at home where women were concerned, and he was intensely susceptible to feminine beauty. At that particular moment he was flattering himself that he was making a good impression upon this rich and beautiful young widow. It occurred to him that she was, in the circumstances, unduly cheerful, but he attributed this to his own good company. The fact that Mrs. Beecher Monmouth had cunningly put him in this frame of mind was, of course, unknown to him. His own social position was quite a modest one, and thistête-à-têtewith a woman of Mrs. Monmouth's importance and aristocratic connections flattered his vanity."Do you know, Mr. Parkson, I don't look upon you as a stranger in the least. You are a friend of my reckless cousin, and, therefore, we are in a sense mutually acquainted.""It is very nice of you to say so," acknowledged Parkson.In her amiable presence he began to grow expansive, until suddenly Mrs. Beecher Monmouth, as it were, appeared to recollect her tragic widowhood. She dismissed him very neatly, but before he went away they shook hands, and she thanked him again. He could feel her fingers warm, vibrant, and vital in his. Her brilliant eyes held his for a moment; then she permitted him to depart.Cecily came into the room when he had gone."You can take away the cups, Cecily," said Mrs. Beecher Monmouth, "and to-morrow night, in addition to coffee, you will provide whisky and liqueurs.""Very good, madam.""Glasses for two," announced Mrs. Beecher Monmouth.Within four days of her arrival at her hotel Mrs. Beecher Monmouth had completely enchained the susceptible young officer. Parkson was amazed at his own success, yet perhaps not so much amazed after all. He began to see himself as a newly fledged Don Juan, a dog, a daring and romantic fascinator of women.
CHAPTER XXIII
One evening, a week later, when darkness had fallen, John found himself in Grosvenor Place, pacing unobtrusively in the shadow of the russet-brown brick wall which surrounds the royal garden of Buckingham Palace. He was watching a taxi which was waiting before the broad door of Mr. Beecher Monmouth's residence. Some minutes passed before John, from his discreet vantage ground, observed Mrs. Beecher Monmouth herself, a vague, befurred, silk-clad figure in the distance, descend from her house and enter the vehicle.
The lady's taxi sped away, and John lifted his attention from the door of the house to the first floor. Here a chink of light from two windows showed him that Mrs. Beecher Monmouth's maid, having attired her mistress for the evening, was still busy, either in the bedroom or Mrs. Beecher Monmouth's boudoir.
"When Mademoiselle Cecily puts out the light and goes downstairs, I'll make a dash for it," thought John.
For a quarter of an hour after that he waited patiently in the shadow of the royal wall. Then first one light, and then another, vanished behind the first floor curtains of the house across the road. John gave Cecily sufficient time to descend to the housekeeper's room, where she usually spent the evening. At last, however, with something of alacrity and a quickened pulse-beat, he crossed the road. He was the veriest amateur as a burglar, but his cause was the best in the world, and in less than a minute he had slipped a small Yale key into the hall door. He had possessed himself of that key from Mrs. Beecher Monmouth's handbag earlier in the evening, and he knew she would not miss it until her return from her dinner-party at the Savoy.
The key moved noiselessly in the lock. No drama at all accompanied his entry into the lofty, deeply-carpeted hall. The light was dim, the hall deserted, and when John had soundlessly closed the front door behind him, he hurried forward and ascended the carpeted stairs, two steps at a time.
From the servants' quarters in the lower regions he could hear voices faintly. No other sounds came to him, and in less than a minute after he passed the front door he found himself in Mrs. Beecher Monmouth's intimate boudoir. Here he cautiously closed the door behind him, turned the key in the lock and switched on the light. Everything was as usual, save only that on every previous visit to that room Mrs. Beecher Monmouth, brilliantly gowned, brilliantly beautiful, and always amiable to himself, had been his chief centre of interest. To-night, however, it was not Mrs. Beecher Monmouth he desired to cultivate, but that lady's belongings.
He was there under Dacent Smith's instructions to search for clues which would enable John's chief of department to check her flow of information to the enemy. For not yet had John been able to discover in what manner, within eight hours, she had been able to communicate with the submarine which sank theMalta.
John, standing with his back to the gold and white boudoir door, surveyed the room with a slight sense of bewilderment. It was difficult to know where to begin. Nevertheless, he did begin, and during the quiet minutes that followed he made a close search for documents in every possible hiding-place he could discover. His care and patience, however, met with no reward; he found nothing of the slightest significance.
When John had thoroughly exhausted the possibilities of the boudoir and had found nothing, he opened the door which communicated from that room directly into Mrs. Beecher Monmouth's spacious bedroom. He had never viewed this apartment before, and he was much impressed by its gorgeous furnishings, its shining brass twin bedsteads, its white French furniture and deep carpet of pale grey and rose colour.
Having quietly locked the second door of the room which opened into the passage, he began a rapid search, taking care to replace everything as he found it. Mrs. Beecher Monmouth would probably not return until half-past nine, and he felt that if he could complete his business quickly he would be able to slip downstairs and out of the house before being observed.
Cecily was the only person likely to disturb him, and he had already thought of a plan which might secure his safety in this event. In regard to Mr. Beecher Monmouth, John felt completely at ease about him. The "Ogre" had, a fortnight ago, been neatly transhipped to Ireland as a member of a Government commission of inquiry. Dacent Smith, with the aid of the Home Secretary, had brought this about without arousing Monmouth's suspicions. The fact that Beecher Monmouth adored his wife, and had desired to take her with him, had created something of a difficulty, but Dacent Smith had overcome this point in his habitual neat manner.
"No; I don't think I need worry," thought John, glancing at an expensive clock of ivory and silver which adorned the dressing-table. "I shall be safe for another half an hour at least."
Mrs. Beecher Monmouth's bed was covered with a rich eiderdown covered in purple satin. John seated himself upon this sumptuous covering and rubbed his chin thoughtfully. He had been twenty minutes in the bedroom of Mrs. Beecher Monmouth, and had discovered nothing.
He noticed now a door, with a crystal knob, which opened into a wardrobe, which was a small room in itself. Here Mrs. Beecher Monmouth's numerous costumes hung in rows. John caught a glimpse of a shelf containing a score of pairs of boots, shoes and slippers. Beneath this shelf was a big tin box, a black japanned box, which immediately engaged John's attention.
The lock was a simple one, and John had it open in a moment. Then the disappointment that had been growing on him intensified, for in the box was nothing but Mrs. Beecher Monmouth's costly sables laid away for the summer. A reek of camphor assailed his nostrils from the folded furs. He was about to close the box, when the idea occurred to him to run his hand down the sides. A moment later he was glad of this impulse, for from the bottom of the tin he drew up a small, strong-looking cash-box.
He rattled the box, and was able to detect a faint rustle from within. Carrying the dispatch case, which was something under a foot in length, he went into the bedroom. Once again he seated himself on the purple eiderdown and tried all his keys. None of them fitted the dispatch box, which was protected by an unassailable Chubb lock.
John contemplated this lock for some minutes with an unfavourable eye, then he took out a heavy steel tool he had brought with him. It took him less than two minutes to wrench open the lid. Within the box, completely filling its interior, were neatly folded and tightly packed letters and papers.
John's interest quickened mightily as, opening one of the letters, he discovered it to be in German.
The note-paper was of the flimsy description, almost tissue paper, in fact. John, examining it closely, observed with a certain degree of interest that the paper had been folded very small indeed, evidently for facility in transmission.
As he sat on the edge of the bed, with the open box on his knee, and this letter in his hand, he swept Mrs. Beecher Monmouth's large and expensively furnished room with his glance. There was a deep silence in the room, and between the rise and the fall of the traffic noises outside, John could hear the light ticking of the little ivory and silver clock on the dressing-table. He was not occupied with the silence, however, but with the contents of the letter, which he read rapidly, eagerly, and with swiftly augmented interest. Written purposely small in a firm, foreign hand, the missive, which was to Mrs. Beecher Monmouth, ran, in German:
"DARLING ALICE,
"Your loving letter reached me only yesterday, and I am hastening to answer it by the usual channels. I am still jealous. You tell me your husband is very old, but one of the solaces to my captivity here is the English newspapers, which we are allowed to read, and yesterday, in one of the picture papers, I observed Mr. Beecher Monmouth's photograph. He is not so old as you pretend, and though his face assures me that he will never win your heart, yet still I am jealous. It makes me laugh to think of you as the wife of an English politician, a member of their stupid Parliament! I wonder if in society you ever meet the Duke of Thule and Lord Harrisgrove. I recall our beautiful happiness in Washington together. You loved me then, I believe, more than you do now."
The letter ended with expressions of endearment, and was signed "Kurt von Morgen."
As John read the signature his lips tightened. In great haste he ran his eye over the handwriting of at least a score of other letters, each one of them in the same handwriting, that of Kurt von Morgen, a German Cuirassier officer, a young aristocrat who had been captured on the Western Front six months earlier. He knew that Count Kurt von Morgen was a prisoner in the —— camp for officers. And as he handled the flimsy sheets of paper he wondered consumedly how the young man had managed to convey these letters to Mrs. Beecher Monmouth.
A word in another letter by von Morgen caught his eye:
"I am glad you have met General von Kuhne," said the writer. "Kindly convey to him my compliments, and tell him his nephew, who is a prisoner here, is well and happy. His Excellency's presence in England means much. I throb with interest to know what will happen. But perhaps, Alice, meine herzliebste, I shall soon be free, and shall soon see you! Preparations for my escape are going better than ever. I have for my servant a very intelligent fellow from the Black Forest. Do not let your English 'Ogre' love you too much. Think of me always and the little week when you were my wife at Palm Beach. I kiss you behind the ear.—KURT."
A smile crossed John's face as he finished reading this amorous missive.
"Here," thought he, "we get a pretty complete clue to Mrs. Beecher Monmouth's earlier history before she came from America. It shows also where Mrs. Beecher Monmouth's affections are really centred."
John had already read enough to know that these letters must be delivered as swiftly as possible into Dacent Smith's hands. One or two had slipped to the floor as he scanned them hurriedly. He bent down to pick them up, and saw very neatly written on a slip of paper the key of the code which Mrs. Monmouth had used in her newspaper advertisements. As Smith's department already knew this code, the discovery was not of much importance, but on another sheet of paper which also lay on the rich rose and grey carpet he discovered a second code with its accompanying key. His attention fixed upon this with swift intensity. He had at last made a discovery of importance, and he became suddenly animated by the hope that his department had hit upon the manner of Mrs. Beecher Monmouth's swift communication with the enemy. He reached out, took up the slip of paper—and then suddenly became still. For an instant he remained motionless, his mind working with lightning rapidity. A sound had come to him from Mrs. Beecher Monmouth's boudoir, a soft impact of footsteps upon the thick carpet.
John could scarcely believe his ears. He had carefully locked the door of the corridor boudoir when he entered the room. As a further protection, he had left the key in the lock. And now this sound! He was still on his hands and knees, and very slowly he turned his head. At that instant the boudoir door opened towards him, and a man enveloped in a heavy tweed overcoat and wearing a soft grey hat stood in the aperture. At sight of John on his knees near the bed, the new-comer stopped dead and stared with wide-amazed eyes.
John leapt to his feet. Mechanically, at the same moment the figure at the door removed his grey hat, and the thin hair, the parchment-like face, and the thin, sharp nose of Mr. Beecher Monmouth stood revealed. Moved by his passionate desire to be with his wife, the elderly politician had unexpectedly hurried from Ireland to spend the week-end in London. Beecher Monmouth's expression was one of simple and complete amazement. He blinked two or three times; then, suddenly recovering himself, drew shut the door behind him, and stood with his back to it. His sallow face grew pale with swift kindled hate and rage.
"Mr. Treves," he demanded, drawing in a sharp breath, "what are you doing here? Are you here with my wife's knowledge?"
"No," answered John frankly. "Your wife hasn't the faintest idea that I am here."
"You mean you came to the house in her absence?"
John felt it was necessary to tell him something near the truth.
"I suppose you have a right to know that I came here in her absence. I came without her knowledge—let myself in with a key and locked the doors outside there, so that I should not be disturbed. How you got in I don't know."
"I got in through my own bedroom which is beyond the boudoir," retorted Beecher Monmouth icily, amazed and further enraged at his calmness.
"Oh!" said John. "There must have been a door I didn't lock. Well, to get along with my explanation—"
Beecher Monmouth drew away from him; mechanically he drew off his overcoat and threw it to the floor.
"Young man," he shouted, his face suddenly turning from white to scarlet, "what are those letters there?" His eyes fell upon the opened cash-box lying on the bed. He rushed to it and took it up. "What were you doing with this?"
"I was breaking it open," answered John.
Beecher Monmouth fixed upon him bewildered and stupefied eyes. Then he hurried across the room and put out his hand for the bell. John, however, was too quick for him; he leapt forward and flung his arms powerfully about the lean, elderly figure.
"You mustn't ring that bell," he said in a low, tense voice. "I am here on very particular business, and there must be no disturbance whatever."
"Will you let me go?" shouted Beecher Monmouth, his face contorted with rage. "Let me go!"
"Certainly," said John, stepping with his back towards the bell. Beecher Monmouth eased his collar, which had been disturbed. He put his hand to his thin, neatly-ordered hair. He was breathing heavily.
"You'll drive me mad. Have you come here to rob me, or——"
Then his mood suddenly changed. The one passion of his life welled to the surface. If John was there intending to rob him he cared little. There was one thing only that could really strike at him deeply, and that was his wife's love and fidelity.
"Look here," he said, suddenly pulling himself together, "tell me that it is not an assignation; that you are not waiting for my wife."
John looked at him and was silent for a surprised moment; then he said, quietly and solemnly:
"I swear I am not waiting for your wife. I am here on far more serious business, and, as for your wife, I neither care, nor have I ever cared, anything about her."
Beecher Monmouth's eyes took on a visible expression of relief; his gaze travelled away from John and looked about the room. Once again his glance fell upon the disorder of letters upon the bed. He made a step forward and, before John could stop him, picked up one. John saw his head jerk curiously as the first words smote his eyes. "Liebste Alice." His gaze went to the date of the letter. It was scarcely a fortnight old! He read a few lines of the German missive, which he understood, then he lifted his eyes to John.
Never in his life had John seen a man alter so in a moment as Beecher Monmouth altered in that moment.
"Do you know what these letters are?" he asked in a jerking voice. "Do you understand German?"
John nodded.
"Yes," he said. "I have read several of them."
Beecher Monmouth took out a silk handkerchief and wiped his brow. Then he bent down and slowly gathered a handful of the letters. But before he could read another, John placed a friendly hand on his shoulder. He was moved by the tragedy that was about to strike this elderly man, who seemed so ill able to bear it.
"Mr. Monmouth," he said, "it is only fair that you should know all the truth. I can see no other way out."
"What is the truth?" asked Monmouth in a dazed voice.
"I am here," John answered, "on behalf of our Intelligence Department, to make a search of your wife's belongings."
"Intelligence Department!" echoed Beecher Monmouth.
"Yes," John said; "and I am afraid it will be my duty to take away all the letters in this room. In the meantime, however, I am prepared for you to study them at your leisure."
"What do you mean?" asked Monmouth. "Intelligence Department——"
"You will learn everything from the letters, which you can read if you wish—on condition, of course, that you give me your word of honour as a gentleman to destroy nothing. Also you will remain indoors, within call, until I have communicated with my chief of department."
Beecher Monmouth put a shaking hand over his brow.
"Yes," he said, "I suppose I understand what you say. I feel very much bewildered."
"Would you like to read the letters?"
"I have read one; I must face the others."
"You will give me your word of honour to destroy nothing?"
"Yes." His voice was low, almost inaudible.
John, pitying his utter desolation, stepped quietly out of the room, and, leaving the door open, seated himself in the boudoir. He had been there perhaps three minutes, when Beecher Monmouth looked in at him. His expression was utterly tragic.
"I should like to close the door, Mr. Treves, if you don't mind."
"Certainly," said John. He was something of a judge of men; he had accepted the elder man's word, and for ten further minutes he remained seated.
During that time Beecher Monmouth stood alone in his wife's brilliantly decorated bedchamber, and strewn about the rose-grey carpet lay the letters which meant the end of all happiness, which for him meant tragedy and darkness unutterable. He went down on his knees, and, with shaking hands, gathered up the strewn sheets. Then, dropping into a low chair near the dressing-table, he read, one after another, Kurt von Morgen's amorous letters to his wife. And in reading he pieced together, bit by bit, his wife's dark past. For the first time her utter shamelessness became known to him. And then, gradually, through the tragedy of his own wrecked life, he saw something that filled him with horror. He learnt, bit by bit, that his wife was not only faithless to him, but was faithless to his country as well. The woman he had adored and had sold his happiness to was a traitor—either that, or a spy in the enemy's pay.
As these things swept over him in great waves he clasped his hands to his head and swayed back and forth in a very agony of horrified shame. Presently, like a man in a dream, he rose and walked unsteadily across the floor. Quite neatly, and with a sort of mechanical carefulness, he had replaced all the letters and documents back in the box, and now, carrying the box under his arm, he went unsteadily over the carpet. He drew open a drawer of the little cabinet near his bed, and took out a beautiful plated ivory-handled Colt pistol. Then he took in a deep breath, assured himself that the pistol was loaded and clicked it shut again. He moistened his lips with his tongue, looked at the weapon for a moment with dazed eyes, and slipped it into his pocket. This done, he turned, and with steps that were steady and resolute, crossed the room and drew open the door of the boudoir.
CHAPTER XXIV
There was a strange light in Beecher Monmouth's eyes as he stepped into the outer apartment. He was a man who irrevocably and finally had made up his mind.
"Mr. Treves," he said, "I hand these into your care. You have discharged your duty very well indeed. I think the letters will be of great service to your department." He uttered the words tonelessly and his manner puzzled John, who took the box, and then observed that Monmouth's hand was outstretched.
"You carried out your duty honourably and well."
Their hands touched and John noticed how icy cold were the other's fingers.
"I hope, sir," he said, in a sudden rush of pity for the utterly broken and deluded husband, "I hope you will forgive my seeming harshness of a few minutes ago."
"Certainly, certainly," said Beecher Monmouth dully. He appeared grateful that John had shaken him by the hand. "You can tell your chief that I feel no animosity and that I shall keep my promise not to leave this house. Whenever you return you will find me here."
"On behalf of the department I think I can say," remarked John, "that you will suffer as little inconvenience as possible."
"Thank you," said Beecher Monmouth. "This discovery is for me, as you can well understand, a tragic one." He paused a moment. "In any case," he added, "you will find me in my wife's room when you return."
John took the japanned box and bowed slightly. He was quite sure that Beecher Monmouth would make no attempt to escape. He was also quite sure in his own mind that no charge would be brought against him. The case was clearly one of a duped and shamelessly deluded husband who had unwittingly aided his country's enemies. For a moment the elder man appeared to hesitate on the point of making some further communication, then, turning slowly on his heel, re-entered his wife's room and shut the door.
Beecher Monmouth's unfortunate advent had delayed John longer in the house than caution allowed. He made haste now to repair the tactical disadvantage, and the moment the door closed upon the elder man he emptied the letters from the box into his overcoat, hurried out of the room and down the great staircase.
In two minutes he reached the front door, which he drew open upon the darkness of the night. He inhaled a deep breath of relief. His task had been accomplished; in another moment——
Then he stopped and stood stock still upon the top-most step—exactly opposite him a taxi had drawn to a halt. A light laugh floated up to him, and Mrs. Beecher Monmouth, shimmering in silk and jewels, alighted briskly! She was the last person in the world John at that moment desired to see, still if she had been alone John believed that he could have still escaped unobserved. She was not alone, however. With her were two men in evening clothes, and as the little party of three crossed the pavement John made out that the heavily-built, thick-necked figure who had helped her to alight was Doctor "Voules," and that the taller figure who walked upon her left hand was Captain Cherriton.
Cherriton's keen eyes had recognised John in an instant, and almost simultaneously Mrs. Beecher Monmouth uttered an exclamation.
"Why, Mr. Treves!" She ran lightly up the steps, holding out her hand in greeting. "I had no idea you were coming to-night."
"Nor had I," said John. "I came upon the impulse of the moment."
"But you knew I should be out," protested Mrs. Beecher Monmouth.
"That is true," John admitted; "but as you were not going to a theatre I expected you would be back early."
"That was very nice of you; now you must come in again." She laid her hand lightly on his arm and shepherded him back to the wide hall.
"Where is the butler?" Mrs. Beecher Monmouth, sweeping the empty hall with her eyes, turned in surprise upon John.
"I don't know," said John; "I think he's downstairs."
"But surely some one was here to let you out?"
Cherriton and his Excellency von Kuhne had both entered the hall. His Excellency pushed shut the big door, and as John heard the latch click a curious sensation of finality seized him. On several occasions in past months he had been in tight situations. He had been in an awkward position, for instance, half an hour earlier, with Beecher Monmouth. The situation, however, which now held him in its grip was in point of danger beyond anything he had yet experienced. He knew that coolness and sang-froid and daring were the only weapons with which he could fight against the three national and ruthless enemies who stood about him in the dimly lit hall. He had shaken hands with Mrs. Beecher Monmouth, and, avoiding a direct answer to her last question, he now turned to von Kuhne and held out his hand.
"How do you do, doctor?"
"I am very well," answered his Excellency in his thick voice. He looked steadily into John's eyes. Manton could read nothing in his expression, and he gave his attention to Cherriton.
"It is a long time since we met, Cherriton!"
Cherriton bowed. He made no effort to shake hands; nevertheless his manner was not openly hostile, rather was it sharply and keenly watchful.
"Quite a long time," he answered.
John, looking again into the captain's cold, light blue eyes, his pale shaven face with its bony contours, his cruelly-turned mouth, thought him even more unpleasant than he had formerly believed. He was willing to grant, however, that Cherriton carried himself with an air, that he was a powerful, big-boned, tall, well-set-up fellow.
His own eyes and Cherriton's remained engaged for the fraction of a second, then Mrs. Beecher Monmouth's voice broke the tension.
"Come, come," she exclaimed, "we mustn't stand in the hall. I'll ring for Duckett to bring us something upstairs, and in the meantime you shall each have a cigarette in my boudoir."
"I don't like cigarettes!" said von Kuhne curtly.
"Then you shall smoke one of your black cigars," concluded Mrs. Beecher Monmouth, flashing at him one of her brilliant smiles. She rang the bell, and when the butler appeared, commanded him to bring wine and glasses upstairs.
Mrs. Beecher Monmouth began to run up the wide carpeted staircase. John noticed that she wore grey shoes with scarlet heels, and that her stockings were of dark red silk to match her dress. She ascended half a dozen steps, then turned, noticing that John had begun to frame an excuse. He wanted to get away before she reached her boudoir, before she could enter her bedroom where her husband awaited her. The meeting between these two which was imminent was not one which John wished to witness. He waved a farewell hand, uttered conventional apologies and made to go.
Mrs. Beecher Monmouth, however, would hear nothing of it. She ran down the stairs, took him by the arm, shook a finger in his face, called him a "bad, cruel boy," and led him upstairs.
Cherriton and von Kuhne closed in behind.
The boudoir was empty when Mrs. Beecher Monmouth entered and switched on the lights. In a swift survey of the apartment John noticed the rifled dispatch-box on a gilt-legged chair where he had left it. Very swiftly and dexterously he whipped off his light overcoat and threw it over the box, hiding it from view.
Mrs. Beecher Monmouth, who wore extensivedécolletée, with a small tiara glimmering in her perfectly arranged dark tresses, permitted John to relieve her of an opera cloak of grey silk brocade. She stood for a minute displaying herself in perfect consciousness of her striking beauty. Her arms and shoulders, perfectly modelled, were white as marble. There was a challenging light in her brilliant eyes as they sought John's. She was one of those women who look best at night, a flower that bloomed best in artificial light.
John's mind, since their entrance into the room, had not, however, been occupied either with her beauty or his own personal danger.
He was thinking only of a sound he had heard some minutes earlier, at the moment he had drawn open the front door. The sound, like a distant crack of a whip, had reached him from the interior of the house. Only now did that sound gather to itself significance.
Sudden doubts assailed John. In that room behind the closed door Beecher Monmouth had seen his own doting attempts at love mocked and laughed at; he had read the passionate letters of her real lover, Kurt von Morgen. She had betrayed not only her husband but her husband's country.
What if Beecher Monmouth strode in among them? At any moment the door of that silent room might fly open.... John could conceive Monmouth in a frenzy, rushing into the room and putting his lean hands about that white, bejewelled throat. The situation tingled with terrible possibilities.
In those tense and throbbing moments John felt a kinship between himself and the deluded man beyond the closed door of the bedroom.
Cherriton, he was certain, suspected him, and would take the first opportunity to cross-examine him as to his visit to Heatherpoint Fort. Nevertheless, he was determined to escape from that house with Mrs. Beecher Monmouth's incriminating letters, and with the newly-found code. He was not afraid of Cherriton; he feared neither the tall German's subtlety of wit, nor his strength of arm. His sole feeling indeed towards this unpleasant enemy was one of infinite antagonism. He knew the time was bound to come, possibly at any minute, when he and Cherriton would enter upon open conflict.
The butler came into the room bearing a large silver tray, decanters and glasses. General von Kuhne lit one of his big black cigars, and seating himself, drank a glass of champagne. The butler went out of the room and closed the door noiselessly behind him. John and Cherriton each accepted from Mrs. Beecher Monmouth's hands a whisky-and-soda. John felt Mrs. Beecher Monmouth's eyes steadily upon him. A faint shadow of doubt seemed to flit across her face and then vanish. With an almost imperceptible movement of her head she beckoned him towards her, and seizing a moment when Cherriton and von Kuhne were in conversation, she said to him in a whisper:
"Why did you come to-night, when you knew I should be out?"
John had been expecting the question, and was prepared.
"I knew you would be out," he said, looking deep into her eyes; "but I expected you'd come in again!"
"What do you mean, you enigmatical boy?" Then feeling that she had read his mind, she added: "Do you mean—you came because my husband was away?"
John smiled at her.
"Don't you think that an excellent reason for coming?" he asked.
This struck her as an extremely amusing remark. As always she was conscious of, and confident in, the potency of her beauty. She laughed and tapped him on the shoulder with her fan.
"I don't believe you love me," she uttered almost soundlessly, shaping the words with her lips.
"Don't you?" said John.
"Did Cecily let you in?"
"No," admitted John.
At that moment a knock fell upon the door of the room, and in answer to Mrs. Beecher Monmouth's summons, Cecily herself entered.
"I beg your pardon, madame," she said, "but the corridor door of your room is locked."
"Locked, Cecily?"
"Yes, madame."
Mrs. Beecher Monmouth saw no significance in the fact.
"In that case, Cecily," she said, "you may come through this way."
"Thank you, madame." Cecily, in her black dress, white cap and apron, and high-heeled shoes, crossed the carpet. She reached the second door of Mrs. Beecher Monmouth's bedroom and opened it. Nobody but John was watching her. As the maid pushed open the door she gave a violent start, stood stock still, then uttered a loud and terrified scream.
"Madame! Madame!" she called, turning a frantic face and wide-staring eyes at her mistress.
"What is it?" cried Mrs. Beecher Monmouth, springing swiftly to her feet.
The four of them were now standing staring blankly at Cecily, who was leaning against the door-frame covering her eyes with one hand and waving an arm frantically towards the bedroom.
Mrs. Monmouth hurried towards her, but it was John who first succeeded in reaching the door. From the threshold he looked into the room. All the softly-shaded golden lights were full on. And half lying, half sitting on the bed he saw the figure of Beecher Monmouth. The inert form was reclining upon its side on the rich purple counterpane. One arm hung over the edge of the bed towards the floor. On the floor itself lay the politician's ivory and electro-plated pistol, one barrel of which had been discharged.
John rushed into the room and looked close into the ashen grey face, but even before he reached the bedside, the very stillness of the prone figure had told him the truth.
* * * * *
The knowledge that had come upon Beecher Monmouth that night had marked the end. And with a courage for which few would have given him credit, considering his weakness, he had taken arms against a sea of troubles. His political life, his ambition, his hopes, the love that he had lavished, had all vanished in a flash. Kurt von Morgen's letters had told him everything, had revealed a sink of iniquity and duplicity such as he had never thought possible. The blow had been too heavy for him to bear. A younger man might have sought relief in vengeance upon the woman who had betrayed him, but he was not of that spirit. He could think of one way only, one act only which could extricate him from his tragic position.
Innocently for months and years he had been a traitor to his country. Unwittingly he had been supplying to the scheming, brilliant woman whom he adored, all the knowledge that came to him in virtue of his position in Parliament. In doing this he had himself become a criminal. No court of law could, or would, punish him. That he knew. But with all his weaknesses he was a loyal Englishman, and in thinking of the tragedy that had been wrought by his doting folly, he resolved to act manfully at the last.
Monmouth left no word, no scrap of writing, no murmur of complaint against the woman who had betrayed him, and as John looked into the waxen face that looked old, even beyond its years, he felt for the dead man a genuine and deep sense of pity.
"After all," thought he, "he has chosen the only way out!" He looked up from the face of the dead man, and saw Cherriton's eyes brooding upon him narrowly. And all through the ensuing excitement he could feel Cherriton's eyes following him keenly, spying upon every movement he made. As the minutes passed John realised that the Captain not only suspected him of playing a double game in regard to Heatherpoint Fort, but he suspected him also of the murder of Beecher Monmouth.
John wondered what would happen when the ravished dispatch-box was discovered. And the thought came to him that, despite the tragedy that had occurred, Beecher Monmouth's return had been a useful circumstance for himself and his department. For when Mrs. Beecher Monmouth found that her lover's letters and the code had disappeared she would instantly jump to the conclusion that her husband had discovered them. Having made this discovery, his despair at her duplicity would account for his self-destruction.
Soon after the finding of the body the servants were summoned from below, but no one had heard the fatal shot.
Von Kuhne, who was disturbed and annoyed, showed an urgent desire to take himself off. He was gone, accompanied by Cherriton, by the time the police appeared.
When the police were in full possession of the situation John himself took leave of Mrs. Beecher Monmouth. She was standing in her boudoir, her face deathly white, her usually scarlet lips bluish in hue. John noticed that her hand, as she touched his, was ice-cold. His feelings were of intense detestation towards her, and he found it difficult to be even conventionally polite. As to offering her words of comfort or condolence, that would have been the merest mockery. He was amazed, in bidding her good-bye, to find that there were tears in her eyes. She was an astounding woman. Beecher Monmouth had destroyed himself solely because of her unutterable depths of treachery. She had never loved him; she had incessantly betrayed and duped him, and yet she could still shed tears for him!
John went away pondering upon the mystery of the eternal feminine.
CHAPTER XXV
John's work of that night was commended highly by Dacent Smith. For his discovery of the japanned box had put the department in possession of Mrs. Beecher Monmouth's code and a score of letters evidently part of a secret correspondence conducted with a camp for officers, and with Kurt von Morgen, whose "plans for escape were progressing nicely"!
The great man commended this achievement. But, like John, he felt pity for Beecher Monmouth, who had fallen so easy and gullible a victim to his wife's treachery. In regard to Cherriton's suspicions of John he took a serious view.
"I think, Treves," he said, leaning back in his chair, "we shall have to remove Cherriton from the scene. He appears, from what you tell me, not to have confided his suspicions of you either to Mrs. Beecher Monmouth or to von Kuhne. It is unfortunate that he chanced to be appointed by von Kuhne to watch Heatherpoint. But I don't think we can blame Lieutenant Parkson for letting out the fact that you were for a brief period attached to that fort. Nevertheless the position is one that must be handled swiftly and effectively."
He suddenly smiled at John.
"You have done very well up to now, Treves," he said. "But I should not like your career to be suddenly cut short when there are big things ahead. We have safely got rid of Lady Rachel Marvin in Pitt Lunan Hydro, where she can enjoy the company of other fools of her own sort, and will be unable to endanger any more of our forces by loose gossip." He paused, then went on: "The virtual suspension of the Habeas Corpus Act was a god-send to us in the handling of dangerous social fools like Lady Rachel. We could do still more than we do at present, Treves, if every one who knew of suspicious persons or suspicious gossip would only let us know. If members of the public would take the trouble to write a letter to their favourite newspaper the information would always reach us, and would enable us to keep watch on a good many suspicious characters who would otherwise escape us."
"The trouble is," said John, "the members of the public do not understand either the power of the German spy system in this country or the wideness of its extent."
"Exactly," nodded his chief. "Who, for instance, would suspect Mrs. Beecher Monmouth, the beautiful and wealthy wife of a well-known member of Parliament? But, to my mind, persons like Lady Rachel Marvin are just as dangerous to us as the actual German spies who pick up their information."
John went away from Dacent Smith's bachelor abode that night full of intense curiosity as to what Mrs. Beecher Monmouth would do in the immediate future. If, however, he thought that the death of her husband would check her activities he was speedily disillusioned. For immediately after the funeral of the late politician, Mrs. Beecher Monmouth, looking beautiful in her widow's weeds, departed for the Isle of Wight. The funeral of Beecher Monmouth had been an impressive public affair, and there had been much commiseration for the tragically bereaved young widow. It was only natural, therefore, that after so terrible a shock she should wish to withdraw herself from the public gaze. Rooms were engaged at an hotel at Newport, and Mrs. Monmouth, in deepest widow's weeds, made the journey accompanied by her maid Cecily.
She arrived at Newport on the twenty-fourth of the month, and the proprietor of the hotel, who knew of her bereavement, received her with a grave and discreet cordiality. He himself showed her to the parlour which had been allotted to her, and assured her that he would do all that was in his power to make her stay as quiet and reposeful as he possibly could.
Mrs. Beecher Monmouth thanked him cordially. That night she dined in the retirement of her little parlour, but on the following evening it was discovered that her chimney smoked a little. She therefore decided to take her dinner in the public dining-room. As the chimney in her sitting-room had never smoked before, the proprietor of the hotel was a little puzzled. Nevertheless he prepared for her a table in a quiet corner of the dining-room downstairs. Here, accompanied by Cecily, her confidential maid, who placed her chair for her and then departed, the newly-bereaved widow took her meal. The only other diners in the room were four young officers, who sat at a table in an opposite corner. Mrs. Beecher Monmouth, in her simple and costly black dress, immediately engaged their attention. They respected her sorrow, however, and, despite the evident admiration of one of them, who thought her possessed of the most beautiful profile he had ever seen, Mrs. Monmouth did not encounter from the young men a single glance. When dinner was at an end she rose gracefully, and, carrying her novel, went upstairs to her apartments. When the door had closed upon her the four young officers became animated in a surprising manner.
"By gad!" exclaimed one, "she's a dashed fine-looking woman, and young, too."
"A dashed sight too young for Beecher Monmouth, I should think," remarked another. "What a rotten thing to happen to her. I wonder what made him shoot himself."
They speculated upon Mrs. Beecher Monmouth and her tragedy for some minutes, then rose to go.
In the meantime Mrs. Beecher Monmouth had reached her sitting-room. Strange to say, the fire no longer smoked. She turned swiftly to the sallow-skinned Cecily.
"Cecily!"
"Yes, madame."
"Go downstairs and find out which of those young officers was Lieutenant Parkson, of Heatherpoint Fort. You know how to find out?"
Cecily looked at her knowingly.
"Yes, madame."
Presently Cecily returned.
"Lieutenant Parkson, madame, was the one with the black hair and the little black moustache who sat facing you."
"Thank you, Cecily," said Mrs. Beecher Monmouth. "Did you discover when he was coming again?"
"He and his friends have engaged the same table for to-morrow night, madame."
"Thank you." Mrs. Beecher Monmouth lit one of her Russian cigarettes, flung the match into the fire, and, relapsing into a chair at the hearth, began to smoke quietly. "I shall dine downstairs at the same time to-morrow, Cecily," she said.
"Very good, madame."
The next night the four young men were already seated at their table when Mrs. Beecher Monmouth entered the old-fashioned dining-room, followed by Cecily. This time Lieutenant Parkson caught the full view of Mrs. Monmouth's beauty for the first time. Her fine eyes met his, lingered for a moment, then turned away. After that the young man watched her during the entire meal. He watched her as she moved away. She carried herself superbly.
For some minutes, unheeding his companions' conversation, Parkson looked at the vacant place she had occupied. He remained absorbed in thought until something gleaming caught his eye on the carpet, within a yard of Mrs. Beecher Monmouth's vacated chair. Parkson saw this object, left his seat, and discovered it to be a small gold cigarette-case.
He took it up quickly and examined it with a good deal of interest. On the gold surface of the case the letters "A.B.M." were outlined in small rubies. For a minute the young man hesitated, holding the article in his hand; then suddenly he made up his mind what to do. He determined to seize advantage by the forelock.
Excusing himself to his friends, Parkson hurried out of the room. He had determined upon a course which would enable him to make her acquaintance. The single glance Mrs. Beecher Monmouth had rested upon him when entering the room gave him courage. At the door of No. 9, which was her sitting-room, he knocked quietly. A low voice bade him come in.
Then Parkson, embarrassed despite his boldness, stepped into the room.
"I beg your pardon for intruding upon you, but I think you dropped this cigarette-case in the dining-room."
Mrs. Beecher Monmouth looked at him, then at the case, and came quickly to her feet.
"Oh, yes," she exclaimed. She accepted it from his fingers and smiled at him, looking steadily into his eyes. "I am so grateful to you," she said. "I cannot," she lied, "tell how I came to drop it!"
Parkson bowed, and was moving towards the door.
"Not at all," he murmured.
"You know, the servants," went on Mrs. Beecher Monmouth, "are sometimes so dishonest in these hotels."
"Quite so," answered Parkson clumsily. Then he noticed that Mrs. Beecher Monmouth had opened the cigarette-case and was holding it towards him. There were four buff-coloured cigarettes in its interior.
"Won't you give me the pleasure of accepting one of them? I am afraid it is the only reward you will permit me to offer you, Mr.——"
She paused, looking questioningly at him.
"My name is Parkson."
Mrs. Beecher Monmouth uttered a pleased exclamation; her face wreathed itself in smiles. For a devastated widow she looked at that moment particularly light-hearted.
"Oh, how very nice that is. Then you must know my cousin, Captain Cherriton?"
"Yes," said Parkson; "I've met him a number of times here." His tone conveyed to her swift intelligence the fact that Captain Cherriton was not high in his favour. She looked at him seriously.
"I am afraid he was not the best of company for you."
At that moment Cecily, who had been conveniently absent from the room, entered with coffee upon the tray.
"You will please bring another cup, Cecily. I am sure Captain Parkson——"
"Lieutenant Parkson," corrected the young man.
"Lieutenant Parkson will join me."
Five minutes later Lieutenant Parkson was comfortably seated in a chair on the opposite side of the hearth. He was consuming one of Mrs. Beecher Monmouth's buff-coloured cigarettes, and was very much at home drinking some of Mrs. Beecher Monmouth's after-dinner coffee. After the first few minutes he gathered together his natural self-possession. He was generally at home where women were concerned, and he was intensely susceptible to feminine beauty. At that particular moment he was flattering himself that he was making a good impression upon this rich and beautiful young widow. It occurred to him that she was, in the circumstances, unduly cheerful, but he attributed this to his own good company. The fact that Mrs. Beecher Monmouth had cunningly put him in this frame of mind was, of course, unknown to him. His own social position was quite a modest one, and thistête-à-têtewith a woman of Mrs. Monmouth's importance and aristocratic connections flattered his vanity.
"Do you know, Mr. Parkson, I don't look upon you as a stranger in the least. You are a friend of my reckless cousin, and, therefore, we are in a sense mutually acquainted."
"It is very nice of you to say so," acknowledged Parkson.
In her amiable presence he began to grow expansive, until suddenly Mrs. Beecher Monmouth, as it were, appeared to recollect her tragic widowhood. She dismissed him very neatly, but before he went away they shook hands, and she thanked him again. He could feel her fingers warm, vibrant, and vital in his. Her brilliant eyes held his for a moment; then she permitted him to depart.
Cecily came into the room when he had gone.
"You can take away the cups, Cecily," said Mrs. Beecher Monmouth, "and to-morrow night, in addition to coffee, you will provide whisky and liqueurs."
"Very good, madam."
"Glasses for two," announced Mrs. Beecher Monmouth.
Within four days of her arrival at her hotel Mrs. Beecher Monmouth had completely enchained the susceptible young officer. Parkson was amazed at his own success, yet perhaps not so much amazed after all. He began to see himself as a newly fledged Don Juan, a dog, a daring and romantic fascinator of women.