Annastood peeping behind the pretty muslin curtain of her kitchen window. She was standing in exactly the same place and attitude she had stood in eight months before, on the first day of war. But oh, how different were the sensations and the thoughts with which she now looked out on the familiar scene! She had then been anxious and disturbed, but not as she was disturbed and anxious to-day.
The Trellis House had become so entirely her home that she resented bitterly being forced to leave it against her will. Also, she dreaded the thought of the days she would have to spend under Miss Forsyth’s roof.
Anna had never liked Miss Forsyth. Miss Forsyth had a rather short, sharp way with her, or so the old German woman considered—and her house was always full of such queer folk below and above stairs. Just now there was the Belgian family, and also, as Anna had managed to discover, three odd-come-shorts in the kitchen.
Anna’s general unease had not been lessened by a mysterious letter which she had received from her daughter this morning. In it the writer hinted that her husband was getting into some fresh trouble. Louisa had ended with a very disturbing sentence: “I feel as if I can’t bear my life!”—that was what Louisa had written.
The minutes dragged by, and Anna, staring out intothe now deserted Close—deserted, save for a number of carriages and motors which were waiting by the little gate leading into the Cathedral enclosure—became very worried and impatient.
From her point of view it was much to be wished that the visitor she was expecting should be come and gone before the marriage party came out of the Cathedral; yet when she had seen how surprised, and even hurt, both her dear ladies had been on learning of her intention to stay at home this morning, she had nearly told them the truth! Everything was different now—Willi would not, could not, mind!
What had restrained her was the memory of how strongly Alfred Head had impressed on her the importance of secrecy—of secrecy as concerned himself. If she began telling anything, she might find herself telling everything. Also, Mrs. Otway might think it very strange, what English people call “sly,” that Anna had not told her before.
And yet this matter she had kept so closely hidden within herself for three years was a very simple thing, after all! Only the taking charge of a number of parcels—four, as a matter of fact—for a gentleman who was incidentally one of Willi Warshauer’s chiefs.
The person who had brought them to the Trellis House had come in the March of 1912, and she remembered him very distinctly. He had arrived in a motor, and had only stayed a very few minutes. Anna would have liked to have given him a little supper, but he had been in a great hurry, and in fact had hardly spoken to her at all.
From something which he had said when himself carefully bringing the parcels through the kitchen intoher bedroom, and also from a word Willi had let fall, she knew that what had been left with her was connected with some new, secret process in the chemical business. In that special branch of trade, as Anna was aware, the Germans were far, far ahead of the British.
And as she stood there by the window, waiting, staring across the now deserted green, at the group of carriages which stood over near the gate leading to the Cathedral, she began to wonder uneasily if she had made it quite clear to Mr. Head that the man who was coming on this still secret business must be sure to come to-day! The lady and gentleman to whom the house had been let were arriving at six, and their maids two hours before.
Suddenly the bells rang out a joyous peal, and Anna felt a thrill of exasperation and sharp regret. If she had known that her visitor would be late, then she, too, could have been present in the Cathedral. It had been a bitter disappointment to her not to see her gracious lady married to Major Guthrie.
Letting the curtain fall, she went quickly upstairs into what had been Miss Rose’s bedroom. From there she knew she could get a better view.
Yes, there they all were—streaming out of the great porch. She could now see the bride and bridegroom, arm-in-arm, walking down the path. They were walking more slowly than most newly married couples walked after a wedding. As a rule, wedding parties hurried rather quickly across the open space leading from the porch to the gate.
She lost sight of them while they were getting into the motor which had been lent to them for the occasion,but she did catch a glimpse of Mrs. Otway’s flushed face as the car sped along to the left, towards the gate house.
The path round the green was gradually filling up with people, for the congregation had been far larger than anyone had thought it would be. News in such a place as Witanbury spreads quickly, and though the number of invited guests had been very, very few, the number of uninvited sympathisers and interested spectators had been many.
Suddenly Anna caught sight of her young lady and of Mr. Jervis Blake. As she did so the tears welled up into her eyes, and rolled down her cheeks. She could never get used to the sight of this young bridegroom with his crutch, and that though he managed it very cleverly, and would soon—so Rose had declared—be able to do with only a stick.
Anna hoped that the two would come in and see her for a minute, but instead they joined Mr. and Mrs. Robey, and were now walking round the other side of the Close.
Anna went downstairs again. In a moment, Mr. Hayley, whom she had never liked, and who she felt sure did not like her, would be coming in to have his luncheon, with another gentleman from London.
Yes, there was the ring. She went to the front door and opened it with an unsmiling face. The two young men walked through into the hall. It would have been very easy for James Hayley to have said a kind word to the old German woman he had known so long, but it did not occur to him to do so; had anyone suggested it, he would certainly have done it.
“We’ve plenty of time,” she heard him say to theother gentleman. “Your train doesn’t go till two o’clock. As for me, I’m very hungry! I made a very early start, you know!” and he led his guest into the dining-room, calling out as he did so: “It’s all right, Anna! We can wait on ourselves.”
Anna went back into her kitchen. She reminded herself that Mr. Hayley was one of those gentlemen who give a great deal of trouble and never a tip—unless, that is, they are absolutely forced to do so by common custom.
In Germany a gentleman who was always lunching and dining at a house would, by that common custom, have been compelled to tip the servants—not so in this hospitable but foolish, ill-regulated England. Here people only tip when they sleep. Anna had always thought it an extremely unfair arrangement. Now Major Guthrie, though he was an Englishman, had lived enough in Germany to know what was right and usual, and several times, in the last few years, he had presented Anna with half a sovereign. This had naturally made her like him more than she would otherwise have done.
There came another ring at the door. This time it was Miss Forsyth, and there was quite a kindly smile on her face. “Well,” she said, “well, Mrs. Bauer?” (she had never been as familiar with Anna as were most of Mrs. Otway’s friends). “I have come to find something for Mrs. Ot—— I mean Mrs. Guthrie. She has given me the key of her desk.” And she went through into the drawing-room.
Anna began moving about restlessly. Her tin trunk was packed, and all ready to be moved to Miss Forsyth’s. And Mrs. Otway, busy as she had been and absorbed in her own affairs while in town, had yet remembered to stipulate that one of the large cupboards in Anna’s bedroom should remain locked, and full of Anna’s things.
It was now nearly one o’clock. What could have happened to her business visitor? And then, just as she was thinking this for the hundredth time, she heard the unmistakable sound of a motor coming slowly down the road outside. Quickly she went out to the back door.
The motor was a small, low, open car, and without surprise she saw that the man who now was getting out of it was the same person whom she had seen in the autumn leaving Alfred Head’s house. But this time there was no Boy Scout—the stranger was alone.
He hurried towards her. “Am I speaking to Mrs. Bauer?” he asked, in a sharp, quick tone. And then, as she said “Yes,” and dropped a little curtsey, he went on: “I had a breakdown—a most tiresome thing! But I suppose it makes no difference? You have the house to yourself?”
She hesitated—was she bound to tell him of the two gentlemen who were having their luncheon in the dining-room which overlooked the garden, and of Miss Forsyth in the drawing-room? She decided that no—she was not obliged to tell him anything of the sort. If she did, he might want to go away and come back another time. Then everything would have to be begun over again.
“The parcels all ready are,” she said. “Shall I them bring?”
“No, no! I will come with you. We will make twojourneys, each taking one. That will make the business less long.”
He followed her through the kitchen, the scullery, and so into her bedroom.
There were two corded tin boxes, as well as a number of other packages, standing ready for removal.
“Surely I have not to take all this away?” he exclaimed. “I thought there were only four small parcels!”
Anna smiled. “Most of it my luggage is,” she said. “These yours are——” she pointed to four peculiar-shaped packages, which might have been old-fashioned bandboxes. They were done up in grey paper, the kind grocers use, and stoutly corded. Through each cord was fixed a small strong, iron handle. “They very heavy are,” observed Anna thoughtfully.
And the man muttered something—it sounded like an oath. “I think you had better leave the moving of them to me,” he said. “Stand aside, will you?”
He took up two of them; then once more uttered an exclamation, and let them gently down again. “I shall have to take one at a time,” he said. “I’m not an over-strong man, Mrs. Bauer, and as you seem to have managed to move them, no doubt you can help me with this one.”
Anna, perhaps because her nerves were somewhat on edge to-day, resented the stranger’s manner. It was so short, so rude, and he had such a funny accent. Yet she felt sure, in spite of the excellent German she had overheard him speak to Mr. Head, that he was not a fellow-countryman of hers. Then, suddenly, looking at his queerly trimmed beard, she told herself that he might be an American. Alfred Head had lived for along time in America, and this probably was one of his American friends.
After they had taken out two of the parcels and placed them at the back of the motor, Anna suddenly bethought herself of what Alfred Head had said to her. “Give me, please,” she said, “the money which to me since January 1st owing has been. Fifty shillings—two pound ten it is.”
“I know nothing of that,” said the man curtly. “I have had no instructions to pay you any money, Mrs. Bauer.”
Anna felt a rush of anger come over her. She was not afraid of this weasel-faced little man. “Then the other two parcels take away you will not,” she exclaimed. “To that money a right I have!”
They were facing each other in the low-ceilinged, dim, badly-lit bedroom. The stranger grew very red.
“Look here!” he said conciliatingly; he was really in a great hurry to get away. “I promise to send you this money to-night, Mrs. Bauer. You can trust me. I have not got it on me, truly. You may search me if you like.” He smiled a little nervously, and advancing towards her opened his big motor coat.
Anna shrank back. “You truly send it will?” she asked doubtfully.
“I will send it to Hegner for you. Nay, more—— I will give you a piece of paper, and then Hegner will pay you at once.” He tore a page out of his pocket-book, and scribbled on it a few words.
She took the bit of paper, folded it, and put it in her purse.
As they were conveying the third oddly-shaped parcel through the kitchen, she said conciliatingly,“Curious it is to have charge of luggage so long and not exactly what it is to know!”
He made no answer to this remark. But suddenly, in a startled, suppressed whisper, he exclaimed, “Who’s that?”
Anna looked round. “Eh?” she said.
“You told me there was no one in the house, but someone has just come out of the gate, and is standing by my motor!” He added sternly, “Was heisst das?” (What does this mean?)
Anna hurried to the window and looked through the muslin curtain hanging in front of it. Yes, the stranger had spoken truly. There was Mr. Hayley, standing between the little motor-car and the back door.
“Do not yourself worry,” she said quickly. “It is only a gentleman who luncheon here has eaten. Go out and explain to him everything I will.”
But the man had turned a greenish-white colour. “How d’you mean ‘explain’?” he said roughly, in English.
“Explain that they are things of mine—luggage—that taking away you are,” said Anna.
The old woman could not imagine why the stranger showed such agitation. Mr. Hayley had no kind of right to interfere with her and her concerns, and she had no fear that he would do so.
“If you are so sure you can make it all right,” the man whispered low in German, “I will leave the house by some other way—there is surely some back way of leaving the house? I will walk away, and stop at Hegner’s till I know the coast is clear.”
“There is no back way out,” whispered Anna, alsoin German. She was beginning to feel vaguely alarmed. “But no one can stop you. Walk straight out, while I stay and explain. I can make it all right.”
In a gingerly way he moved to one side the heavy object he had been carrying, and then, as if taking shelter behind her, he followed the old woman out through the door.
“What’s this you’re taking out of the house, Anna?” Mr. Hayley’s tone was not very pleasant. “You mustn’t mind my asking you. My aunt, as you know, told me to remain here to-day to look after things.”
“Only my luggage it is,” stammered Anna. “I had hoped to have cleared out my room while the wedding in progress was.”
“Your luggage?” repeated James Hayley uncomfortably. He was now feeling rather foolish, and it was to him a very disturbing because an unusual sensation.
“Yes, my luggage,” repeated Anna. “And this”—she hesitated a moment—“this person here is going to look for a man to help carry out my heavy boxes. There are two. He cannot manage them himself.”
James Hayley looked surprised, but to her great relief, he allowed the stranger to slip by, and Anna for a moment watched the little man walking off at a smart pace towards the gate house. She wondered how she could manage to send him a message when the tiresome, inquisitive Mr. Hayley had gone.
“But whose motor is that?” Mr. Hayley went on, in a puzzled tone. “You must forgive me for asking you, Anna, but you know we live in odd times.” He had followed her into the kitchen, and was now standing there with her. As she made no answer, he suddenlyespied the odd-looking parcel which stood close to his feet, where the stranger had put it down.
Mr. Hayley stooped, really with the innocent intention of moving the parcel out of the way. “Good gracious!” he cried. “This is a tremendous weight, Anna. What on earth have you got in there?” He was now dragging it along the floor.
“Don’t do that, sir,” she exclaimed involuntarily. “It’s fragile.”
“Fragile?” he repeated. “Nonsense! It must be iron or copper. What is it, Anna?”
She shook her head helplessly. “I do not know. It is something I have been keeping for a friend.”
His face changed. He took a penknife out of his pocket, and ripped off the stout paper covering.
Then, before the astonished Anna could make a movement, he very quietly pinioned her elbows and walked her towards the door giving into the hall.
“Captain Joddrell?” he called out. And with a bewildered feeling of abject fear, Anna heard the quick steps of the soldier echoing down the hall.
“Yes; what is it?”
“I want your help over something.”
They were now in the hall, and Miss Forsyth, standing in the doorway of the drawing-room, called out suddenly, “Oh, Mr. Hayley, you are hurting her!”
“No, I’m not. Will you please lock the front door?”
Then he let go of Anna’s arms. He came round and gazed for a moment into her terrified face. There was a dreadful look of contempt and loathing in his eyes. “You’d better say nothing,” he muttered.“Anything you say now may be used in evidence against you!”
He drew the other man aside and whispered something; then they came back to where Anna stood, and she felt herself pushed—not exactly roughly, but certainly very firmly—by the two gentlemen into the room where were the remains of the good cold luncheon which she had set out there some two hours before.
She heard the key turned on her, and then a quick colloquy outside. She heard Mr. Hayley exclaim, “Now we’d better telephone to the police.” And then, a moment later: “But the telephone’s gone! What an extraordinary thing! This becomes, as in ‘Alice in Wonderland,’ curiouser and curiouser——” There was a tone of rising excitement in his quiet, rather mincing voice. Then came the words, “Look here! You’d better go outside and see that no one comes near that motor-car, while I hurry along to the place they call ‘Robey’s.’ There’s sure to be a telephone there.”
Anna felt her legs giving way, and a sensation of most horrible fear came over her. She bitterly repented now that she had not told Mr. Hayley the truth—that these parcels which she had now kept for three years were only harmless chemicals, connected with an invention which was going to make the fortune of a great many people, including her nephew, Willi Warshauer, once this terrible war was over.
The police? Anna had a great fear of the police, and that though she knew herself to be absolutely innocent of any wrong-doing. She felt sure that the fact that she was German would cause suspicion. The worst would be believed of her. She remembered with dismay the letter some wicked, spiteful person had written to her mistress—and then, with infinite comfort, she suddenly remembered that this same dear mistress was only a little over two miles off. She, Anna, would not wish to disturb her on her wedding day, but if very hard pressed she could always do so. And Miss Rose—Miss Rose and Mr. Blake—they too were close by; they certainly would take her part!
She sat down, still sadly frightened, but reassured by the comfortable knowledge that her dear, gracious ladies would see her through any trouble, however much the fact that her country was at war with England might prejudice the police against her.
Itwas late afternoon in the same day, a bright, sunny golden afternoon, more like a warm May day than a day in March.
The bride and bridegroom, each feeling more than a little shy, had enjoyed their late luncheon, the first they had ever taken alone together. And Major Guthrie had been perhaps rather absurdly touched to learn, from a word dropped by Howse, that the new mistress had herself carefully arranged that this first meal should consist of dishes which Howse had told her his master particularly liked. And as they sat there, side by side, in their pleasant dining-room—for he had not cared to take the head of the table—the bridegroom hoped his bride would never know that since his blindness he had retained very little sense of taste.
After luncheon they had gone out into the garden, and she had guided his footsteps along every once familiar path. Considering how long he had been away, everything was in very fair order, and she was surprised to find how keen he was about everything. He seemed to know every shrub and plant there, and she felt as if in that hour he taught her more of practical gardening than she had ever known.
And then, at last, they made their way to the avenue which was the chief glory of the domain, and which had certainly been there in the days when the house had stood in a park, before the village of which it wasthe Manor had grown to be something like a suburb of Witanbury.
There they had paced up and down, talking of many things; and it was he who, suggesting that she must be tired, at last made her sit down on the broad wooden bench, from where she could see without being seen the long, low house and wide lawn.
They both, in their very different ways, felt exquisitely at peace. To his proud, reticent nature, the last few days had proved disagreeable—sometimes acutely unpleasant. He had felt grateful for, but he had not enjoyed, the marks of sympathy which had been so freely lavished on him and on his companions in Holland, on the boat, and since his landing in England.
In those old days which now seemed to have belonged to another existence, Major Guthrie had thought his friend, Mrs. Otway, if wonderfully kind, not always very tactful. It is a mistake to think that love is blind as to those matters. But of all the kind women he had seen since he had left Germany, she was the only one who had not spoken to him of his blindness, who had made no allusion to it, and who had not pressed on him painful, unsought sympathy. From the moment they had been left alone for a little while in that unknown London house, where he had first been taken, she had made him feel that he was indeed the natural protector and helper of the woman he loved; and of the things she had said to him, in those first moments of emotion, what had touched and pleased him most was her artless cry, “Oh, you don’t know how I have missed you! Even quite at first I felt so miserable without you!”
It was Rose who had suggested an immediate marriage; Rose who had—well, yes, there was no other word for it—coaxed them both into realizing that it was the only thing to do.
Even now, on this their wedding day, they felt awkward, and yes, very shy the one with the other. And as he sat there by her side, wearing a rough grey suit he had often worn last winter when calling on her in the Trellis House, her cheeks grew hot when she remembered the letter she had written to him. Perhaps he had thought it an absurdly sentimental letter for a woman of her age to write.
The only thing that reassured her was the fact that once, at luncheon, he had clasped her hand under the table; but the door had opened, and quickly he had taken his hand away, and even moved his chair a little farther off. It was true that Howse had put the chairs very close together.
Now she was telling him of all that had happened since he had gone away, and he was listening with the eager sympathy and interest he had always shown her, that no one else had ever shown her in the same degree, in those days that now seemed so long ago, before the War.
So she went on, pouring it all out to him, till she came to the amazing story of her daughter Rose, and of Jervis Blake. She described the strange, moving little marriage ceremony; and the man sitting by her side sought and found the soft hand which was very close to his, and said feelingly, “That must have been very trying foryou.”
Yes, it had been trying for her, though no one had seemed to think so at the time. But he, the speaker ofthese kind understanding words, had always known how she felt, and sympathised with her.
She wished he would call her “Mary”—if only he would begin, she would soon find it quite easy to call him “Alick....”
Suddenly there came on his sightless face a slight change. He had heard something which her duller ears had failed to hear.
“What’s that?” he asked uneasily.
“It’s only a motor-car coming round to the front door. I hope they will send whoever it is away,” the colour rushed into her face.
“Oh, surely Howse will do that to-day——”
And then she saw the man-servant come out of the house and advance towards them. There was a salver in his hand, and on the salver a note.
“The gentleman who brought this is waiting, ma’am, to see you.”
She took up the envelope and glanced down at it. Her new name looked so odd in Dr. Haworth’s familiar writing—it evoked a woman who had been so very different from herself, and yet for whom she now felt a curious kind of retrospective tenderness.
She opened the note with curiosity.
“Dear Mrs. Guthrie,
“The bearer of this, Mr. Reynolds of the Home Office, will explain to you why we are anxious that you should come into Witanbury for an hour this afternoon. I am sure Major Guthrie would willingly spare you if he knew how very important and how delicate is the business in question. Please tell him that we willkeep you as short a time as possible. In fact, it is quite probable that you will be back within an hour.“Very truly yours,“Edmund Haworth.”
She looked down at the letter with feelings of surprise and of annoyance. Uncaring of Howse’s discreet presence, she read it aloud. “It’s very mysterious and queer, isn’t it? But I’m afraid I shall have to go.”
“Yes, of course you will. It would have been better under the circumstances for the Dean to have told you what they want to see you about.”
In the old days, Major Guthrie had never shared Mrs. Otway’s admiration for Dr. Haworth, and now he felt rather sharply disturbed. The Home Office? The words bore a more ominous sound to him than they did, fortunately, to her. Was it possible that she had been communicating, in secret, with some of her German friends? He rose from the bench on which they had been sitting: “Is the gentleman in the motor, Howse?”
“Yes, sir. He wouldn’t come in.”
“Go and tell him that we are coming at once.”
And then, after a moment, he said quietly, “I’m coming, too.”
“Oh, but——” she exclaimed.
“I don’t choose to have my wife’s presence commanded by the Dean of Witanbury, or even, if it comes to that, by the Home Office.”
She seized his arm, and pressed close to him. “I do believe,” she cried, “that you suspect me of having got into a scrape! Indeed, indeed I have done nothing!” She was smiling, though moved almost to tears by theway he had just spoken. It was a new thing to her to be taken care of, to feel that there was someone ready, aye, determined, to protect her, and take her part. Also, it was the first time he had called her his wife.
A few minutes later they were sitting side by side in a large, open motor-car. Mr. Reynolds was a pleasant, good-looking man of about thirty, and he had insisted on giving up his seat to Major Guthrie. There would have been plenty of room for the three of them leaning back, but he had preferred to sit opposite to them, and now he was looking, with a good deal of sympathy, interest, and respect at the blind soldier, and with equal interest, but with less liking and respect, at Major Guthrie’s wife.
Mr. Reynolds disliked pro-Germans and spy-maniacs with almost equal fervour; his work brought him in contact with both. From what he had been able to learn, the lady sitting opposite to him was to be numbered among the first category.
“And now,” said Major Guthrie, leaning his sightless face forward, “will you kindly inform me for what reason my wife has been summoned to Witanbury this afternoon? The Dean’s letter—I do not know if you have read it—is expressed in rather mysterious and alarming language.”
The man he addressed waited for a moment. He knew that the two people before him had only been married that morning.
“Yes, that is so,” he said frankly.“I suppose the Dean thought it best that I should inform Mrs. Guthrie of the business which brought me to Witanbury three hours ago. It chanced that I was in the neighbourhood, so when the Witanbury police telephoned to London, I, being known to be close here, was asked to go over.”
“The police?” repeated both his hearers together.
“Yes, for I’m sorry to tell you”—he looked searchingly at the lady as he spoke—“I’m sorry to tell you, Mrs. Guthrie, that a considerable number of bombs have been found in your house. I believe it to be the fact that you hold the lease of the Trellis House in Witanbury Close?”
She looked at him too much surprised and too much bewildered to speak. Then, “Bombs?” she echoed incredulously. “There must be some mistake! There has never been any gunpowder in my possession. I might almost go so far as to say that I have never seen a gun or a pistol at close quarters——”
She felt a hand groping towards her, and at last find and cover in a tight grip her fingers. “You do not fire bombs from a gun or from a pistol, my dearest.” There was a great tenderness in Major Guthrie’s voice.
Even in the midst of her surprise and disarray at the extraordinary thing she had just heard, Mrs. Guthrie blushed so deeply that Mr. Reynolds noticed it, and felt rather puzzled. He told himself that she was a younger woman than he had at first taken her to be.
In a very different tone Major Guthrie next addressed the man he knew to be sitting opposite to him: “May I ask how and where and when bombs were found in the Trellis House?” To himself he was saying, with anguished iteration, “Oh, God, if only I could see! Oh, God, if only I could see!” But he spoke, if sternly, yet in a quiet, courteous tone, his hand still clasping closely that of his wife.
“They were found this morning within half an hour, I understand, of your wedding. And it was only owing to the quickness of a lady named Miss Forsyth—assisted, I am bound to say, by Mr. Hayley of the Foreign Office, who is, I believe, a relation of Mrs. Guthrie—that they were found at all. The man who came to fetch them away did get off scot free—luckily leaving them, and his motor, behind him.”
“The man who came to fetch them away?” The woman sitting opposite to the speaker repeated the words in a wondering tone—then, very decidedly, “There has been some extraordinary mistake!” she exclaimed. “I know every inch of my house, and so I can assure you”—she bent forward a little in her earnestness and excitement—“I can assure you that it’s quiteimpossiblethat there was anything of the sort in the Trellis House without my knowing it!”
“Did you ever go into your servant’s bedroom?” asked Mr. Reynolds quietly.
Major Guthrie felt the hand he was holding in his suddenly tremble, and his wife made a nervous movement, as if she wanted to draw it away from his protecting grasp.
A feeling of terror—of sheer, unreasoning terror—had swept over her.Anna?
“No,” she faltered, but her voice was woefully changed. “No, I never had occasion to go into my old servant’s bedroom. But oh, I cannot believe——” and then she stopped. She had remembered Anna’s curious unwillingness to leave the Trellis House this morning, even to attend her beloved mistress’s wedding. She, and Rose too, had been hurt, and had shown that they were hurt, at old Anna’s obstinacy.
“We have reason to suppose,” said Mr. Reynolds slowly, “that the explosives in question have been stored for some considerable time in a large roomy cupboard which is situated behind your servant’s bed. As a matter of fact, the man who had come to fetch them away was already under observation by the police. He has spent all the winter in a village not far from Southampton, and he is registered as a Spaniard, though he came to England from America just before the War broke out. Of course, these facts have only just come to my knowledge. But both this Miss Forsyth and your cousin, Mr. Hayley, declare that they have long suspected your servant of being a spy.”
“Suspected my servant? Suspected Anna Bauer?” repeated Mrs. Guthrie, in a bewildered tone.
“Then you,” went on Mr. Reynolds, “have never suspected her at all, Mrs. Guthrie? I understand that but for the accidental fact that Witanbury is just, so to speak, over the border of the prohibited area for aliens, she would havehadto leave you?”
“Yes, I know that. But she has been with me nearly twenty years, and I regarded her as being to all intents and purposes an Englishwoman.”
“Did you really?” he observed drily.
“Her daughter is married to an Englishman.”
Mr. Reynolds, in answer to that statement, remained silent, but a very peculiar expression came over his face. It was an expression which would perchance have given a clue to Major Guthrie had Major Guthrie been able to see.
Mrs. Guthrie’s face had gone grey with pain and fear; her eyes had filled with tears, which were now rolling down her cheeks. She looked indeed differentfrom the still pretty, happy, charming-looking woman who had stepped into the car a few minutes ago.
“I should not have ventured to disturb you to-day—to-morrow would have been quite time enough——” said Mr. Reynolds, speaking this time really kindly, “were it not that we attach the very greatest importance to discovering whether this woman, your ex-servant, forms part of a widespread conspiracy. We suspect that she does. But she is in such a state of pretended or real agitation—in fact, she seems almost distraught—that none of us can get anything out of her. I myself have questioned her both in English and in German. All she keeps repeating is that she is innocent, quite innocent, and that she was unaware of the nature of the goods—she describes them always as goods, when she speaks in English—that she was harbouring in your house. She declares she knows nothing about the man who came for them, though that is false on the face of it, for she was evidently expecting him. We think that he has terrorised her. She even refuses to say where she obtained these ’goods’ of hers, or how long she has had them. You see, we have reason to believe”—he slightly lowered his voice in the rushing wind—“we have reason to believe,” he repeated,“that the Germans may be going to try their famous plan of invasion within the next few days. If so, it is clear that these bombs were meant to play a certain part in the business, and thus it is extremely important that we should know if there are any further stores of them in or about Witanbury.”
Theywere now in the streets of the cathedral city, and Mrs. Guthrie, agitated though she was, could see that there was a curious air of animation and bustle. A great many people were out of doors on this late March afternoon.
As a matter of fact something of the facts, greatly exaggerated as is always the way, had leaked out, and the whole city was in a ferment.
Slowly the motor made its way round the Market Place to the Council House, and as it drew up at the bottom of the steps, a crowd of idlers surged forward.
There was a minute or two of waiting, then a man whom Mrs. Guthrie knew to be the head inspector of the local police came forward, with a very grave face, and helped her out of the car. He wished to hurry her up the steps out of the way of the people there, but she heard her husband’s voice, “Mary, where are you?” and obediently she turned with an eager, “Here I am, waiting for you!” She took his arm, and he pressed it reassuringly. She was glad he could not see the inquisitive faces of the now swelling crowd which were being but ill kept back by the few local police.
But her ordeal did not last long; in a very few moments they were safe in the Council House, and Mr. Reynolds, who already knew his way about there, had shown them into a stately room where hung the portraits of certain long dead Witanbury worthies.
“Am I going to see Anna now?” asked Mrs. Guthrie nervously.
“Yes, I must ask you to do that as soon as possible. And, Mrs. Guthrie? Please remember that all we want to know now are two definite facts. The first of these is how long she has had these bombs in her possession, and how she procured them? She may possibly be willing to tell you how long she has had them, even if she still remains obstinately silent as to where she got them. The second question, and of course much the more important from our point of view, is whether she knows of any other similar stores in Witanbury or elsewhere? That, I need hardly tell you, is of very vital moment to us, and I appeal to you as an Englishwoman to help us in the matter.”
“I will do as you wish,” said Mrs. Guthrie in a low voice. “But, Mr. Reynolds? Please forgive me for asking you one thing. What will be done to my poor old Anna? Will the fact that she is a German make it better for her—or worse? Of course I realise that she has been wicked—very, very wicked if what you say is true——”
“And most treacherous to you!” interposed the young man quickly. “You don’t seem to realise, Mrs. Guthrie, the danger in which she put you;” and as she looked at him uncomprehendingly, he went on, “Putting everything else aside, she ran the most appalling danger of killing you—you and every member of your household. Of course I don’t know what you mean to say to her——” he hesitated. “I understand that your relations with her have been much closer and more kindly than are often those between a servant and her employer,” and as she nodded, he went on:“The Dean was afraid that it would give you a terrible shock—in fact, he himself seems extremely surprised and distressed; he had evidently quite a personal feeling of affection and respect for this old German woman, Anna Bauer!”
“And I am sure that if you had known her you would have had it too, Mr. Reynolds,” she answered naïvely. Somehow the fact that the Dean had taken this strange and dreadful thing as he had done, made her feel less miserable.
“Ah! One thing more before I take you to her. Anything incriminating she may say to you willnotbe brought as evidence against her. The point you have to remember is that it is vitally important to us to obtain information as to this local spy conspiracy or system, to which we believe we already hold certain clues.”
The police cell into which Mrs. Guthrie was introduced was in the half-basement of the ancient Council House. The walls of the cell were whitewashed with a peculiar, dusty whitewash that came off upon the occupant’s clothes at the slightest touch. There was a bench fixed to the wall, and in a corner a bed, also fixed to the ground. A little light came in from the window high out of reach, and in the middle of the ceiling hung a disused gas bracket.
Those of Anna Bauer’s personal possessions she had been allowed to bring with her were lying on the bed.
The old woman was sitting on the bench, her head bowed in an abandonment of stupor, and of misery. She did not even move as the door opened. But when she heard the kind, familiar voice exclaim,“Anna? My poor old Anna!—it is terrible to find you here, like this!” she drew a convulsive breath of relief, and lifted her tear-stained, swollen face.
“I am innocent!” she cried wildly, in German. “Oh, gracious lady, I am innocent! I have done no wrong. I can accuse myself of no sin.”
Mr. Reynolds brought in a chair. Then he went out, and quietly closed the door.
Anna’s mistress came and sat on the bench close to her servant. It was almost as if an unconscious woman, spent with the extremity of physical suffering, crouched beside her.
“Anna, listen to me!” she said at last, and there was a touch of salutary command in her voice—a touch of command that poor Anna knew, and always responded to, though it was very seldom used towards her. “I have left Major Guthrie on our marriage day in order to try and help you in this awful disgrace and trouble you have brought, not only on yourself, but on me. All I ask you to do is to tell me the truth. Anna?”—she touched the fat arm close to her—“look up, and talk to me like a reasonable woman. If you are innocent, if you can accuse yourself of no sin—then why are you in such a state?”
Anna looked up eagerly. She was feeling much better now.
“Every reason have I in a state to be! A respectable woman to such a place brought! Roughly by two policemen treated. I nothing did that ashamed of I am!”
“What is it youdiddo?” said Mrs. Guthrie patiently. “Try and collect your thoughts, Anna. Explain to me where you got”—she hesitated painfully—“where you got the bombs.”
“No bombs there were,” exclaimed Anna confidently. “Chemicals, yes—bombs, no.”
“You are mistaken, Anna,” said Mrs. Guthrie quietly. She rose from the bench on which she had been sitting, and drew up the chair opposite to Anna. “There were certainly bombs found in your room. It is a mercy they did not explode; if they had done, we should all have been killed!”
Anna stared at her in dumb astonishment. “Herr Gott!” she exclaimed. “No one has told me that, gracious lady. Again and again they have asked me questions they should not—questions I to answer promised not. To you, speak I will——”
Anna looked round, as if to satisfy herself that they were indeed alone, and Mrs. Guthrie suddenly grew afraid. Was poor old Anna going to reveal something of a very serious self-incriminating kind?
“It was Willi!” exclaimed the old woman at last. She now spoke in a whisper, and in German. “It was to Willi that I gave my promise to say nothing. You see, gracious lady, it was a friend of Willi’s who was making a chemical invention. It was he who left these goods with me. I will now confess”—she began to sob bitterly—“I will now confess that I did keep it a secret from the gracious lady that these parcels had been confided to me. But the bedroom was mine. You know, gracious lady, how often you said to me, ‘I should have liked you to have a nicer bedroom, Anna—but still, it is your room, so I hope you make it as comfortable as you can.’ As it was my room, gracious lady, it concerned no one what I kept there.”
“A friend of Willi’s?” repeated Mrs. Guthrie incredulously.“But I don’t understand—Willi is in Berlin. Surely you have not seen Willi since you went to Germany three years ago?”
“No, indeed not. But he told me about this matter when he took me to the station. He said that a friend would call on me some time after my return here, and that to keep these goods would be to my advantage——” she stopped awkwardly.
“You mean,” said Mrs. Guthrie slowly, “that you were paid for keeping these things, Anna?” Somehow she felt a strange sinking of the heart.
“Yes,” Anna spoke in a shamed, embarrassed tone. “Yes, that is quite true. I was given a little present each year. But it was no one’s business but mine.”
“And how long did you have them?” Mrs. Guthrie had remembered suddenly that that was an important point.
Anna waited a moment, but she was only counting. “Exactly three years,” she answered. “Three years this month.”
Mrs. Guthrie also made a rapid calculation. “You mean that they were brought to the Trellis House in the March of 1912?”
Anna nodded. “Yes, gracious lady. When you and Miss Rose were in London. Do you remember?”
The other shook her head.
Anna felt almost cheerful now. She had told the whole truth, and her gracious lady did not seem so very angry after all.
“They were brought,” she went on eagerly,“by a very nice gentleman. He asked me for a safe place to keep them, and I showed him the cupboard behind my bed. He helped me to bring them in.”
“Was that the man who came for them this morning?” asked Mrs. Guthrie.
Anna shook her head. “Oh no!” she exclaimed. “The other gentleman was a gentleman. He wrote me a letter first, but when he came he asked me to give it him back. So of course I did so.”
“Did he give you any idea of what he had brought you to keep?” asked Mrs. Guthrie. “Now, Anna, I beg—I implore you to tell me the truth!”
“The truth will I willingly tell!” Yes, Anna was feeling really better now. She had confessed the one thing which had always been on her conscience—her deceit towards her kind mistress. “He said they were chemicals, a new wonderful invention, which I must take great care of as they were fragile.”
“I suppose he was a German?” said Mrs. Guthrie slowly.
“Yes, he was a German, naturally, being the superior of Willi. But the man who came to-day was no German.”
“And during all that time—three years is a long time, Anna—did you never hear from him?” asked Mrs. Guthrie slowly.
It had suddenly come over her with a feeling of repugnance and pain, that old Anna had kept her secret very closely.
“I never heard—no, never, till last night,” cried the old woman eagerly.
“But even now,” said Mrs. Guthrie, “I can’t understand, Anna, what made you do it. Was it to please Willi?”
“Yes,” said Anna in an embarrassed tone.“It was to please my good nephew, gracious lady.”
“Andnow,” said Mrs. Guthrie, looking at the little group of people who sat round her in the Council Chamber, “and now I have told you, almost I think word for word, everything my poor old Anna told me.”
As Mr. Reynolds remained silent, she added, with a touch of defiance, “And I am quite, quite sure that she told me the truth!”
Her eyes instinctively sought the Dean’s face. Yes, there she found sympathy,—sympathy and belief. It was impossible to tell what her husband was thinking. His face was not altered—it was set in stern lines of discomfort and endurance. The Government official looked sceptical.
“I have no doubt that the woman has told you a good deal of the truth, Mrs. Guthrie, but I do not think she has told youallthe truth, or the most important part of it. According to your belief, she accepted this very strange deposit without the smallest suspicion of the truth. Now, is it conceivable that an intelligent, sensible, elderly woman of the kind she has been described to me, could be such a fool?”
And then, for the first time since his wife had returned there from her interview with Anna, Major Guthrie intervened.
“I think you forget, Mr. Reynolds, that this took place long before the war. In fact, if I may recall certain dates to your memory, this must have been a little tiny cog in the machine which Germany began fashioning after the Agadir crisis. It was that very autumn that Anna Bauer went to visit her nephew and niece in Berlin, and it was soon after she came back that, according to her story, a stranger, with some kind of introduction from her nephew, who is, I believe, connected with the German police——”
“Is he indeed?” exclaimed Mr. Reynolds. “You never told me that!” he looked at Mrs. Guthrie.
“Didn’t I?” she said. “Yes, it’s quite true, Wilhelm Warshauer is a sub-inspector of police in Berlin. But I feel sure he is a perfectly respectable man.”
She fortunately did not see the expression which flashed across her questioner’s face. Not so the Dean. Mr. Reynolds’ look stirred Dr. Haworth to a certain indignation. He had known Anna Bauer as long as her mistress had, and he had become quite fond of the poor old woman with whom he had so often exchanged pleasant greetings in German.
“Look here!” he began, in a pleasant, persuasive voice.“I have a suggestion to make, Mr. Reynolds. We have here in Witanbury a most excellent fellow, one of our city councillors. He is of German birth, but was naturalised long ago. As I expect you know, there was a little riot here last week, and this man—Alfred Head is his name—had all his windows broken. He refused to prosecute, and behaved with the greatest sense and dignity. Now I suggest that we set Alfred Head on to old Anna Bauer! I believe she would tell him things that she would not even tell her very kind and considerate mistress. I feel sure that he would find out the real truth. As a matter of fact I met him just now when I was coming down here. He was full of regret and concern, and he spoke very kindly and very sensibly of this poor old woman. He said he knew her—that she was a friend of his wife’s, and he asked me if he could be of any assistance to her.”
Thinking he saw a trace of hesitation on the London official’s face, he added, “After all, such an interview could do no harm, and might do good. Yes, I strongly do advise that we take Alfred Head into our counsels, and explain to him exactly what it is we wish to know.”
“I am quite sure,” exclaimed Mrs. Guthrie impulsively, “that Anna would not tell him any more than she told me. I am convinced, not only that she told me the truth, but that she told me nothing but the truth—I don’t believe she keptanythingback!”
Mr. Reynolds looked straight at the speaker of these impetuous words. He smiled. It was a kindly, albeit a satiric smile. He was getting quite fond of Mrs. Guthrie! And though his duties often brought him in contact with strange and unusual little groups of people, this was the first time he had ever had to bring into his official work a bride on her wedding day. This was the first time also that a dean had ever been mixed up in any of the difficult and dangerous affairs with which he was now concerned. It was, too, the first time that he had been brought into personal contact with one of his own countrymen “broken in the war.”
“I hope that you are right,” he said soothingly.“Still, as Mr. Dean kindly suggests, it may be worth while allowing this man—Head is his name, is it?—to see the woman. It generally happens that a person of the class to which Anna Bauer belongs will talk much more freely to some one of their own sort than to an employer, however kind. In fact, it often happens that after having remained quite silent and refused to say anything to, say, a solicitor, such a person will come out with the whole truth to an old friend, or to a relation. We will hope that this will be the case this time. And now I don’t think that we need detain you and Major Guthrie any longer. Of course you shall be kept fully informed of any developments.”
“If there is any question, as I suppose there will be, of Anna Bauer being sent for trial,” said Major Guthrie, “then I should wish, Mr. Reynolds, that my own solicitor undertakes her defence. My wife feels that she is under a great debt of gratitude to this German woman. Anna has not only been her servant for over eighteen years, but she was nurse to Mrs. Guthrie’s only child. We neither of us feel in the least inclined to abandon Anna Bauer because of what has happened. I also wish to associate myself very strongly with what Mrs. Guthrie said just now. I believe the woman to be substantially innocent, and I think she has almost certainly told my wife the truth, as far as she knows it.”
He held out his hand, and the other man grasped it warmly. Then Mr. Reynolds shook hands with Mrs. Guthrie. She looked happy now—happy if a little tearful. “I hope,” he said eagerly, “that you will make use of my car to take you home.”
Somehow he felt interested in, and drawn to, this middle-aged couple. He was quite sorry to know that, after to-day, he would probably never see them again. The type of man who is engaged in the sortof work which Mr. Reynolds was now doing for his country has to be very human underneath his cloak of official reserve, or he would not be able to carry out his often delicate, as well as difficult, duties.
He followed them outside the Council House. Clouds had gathered, and it was beginning to rain, so he ordered his car to be closed.
“Mr. Reynolds,” cried Mrs. Guthrie suddenly, “you won’t let them betoounkind to my poor old Anna, will you?”
“Indeed, no one will be unkind to her,” he said. “She’s only been a tool after all—poor old woman. No doubt there will be a deportation order, and she will be sent back to Germany.”
“Remember that you are to draw on me if any money is required on her behalf,” cried out Major Guthrie, fixing his sightless eyes on the place where he supposed the other man to be.
“Yes, yes—I quite understand that! But we’ve found out that the old woman has plenty of money. It is one of the things that make us believe that she knows more than she pretends to do.”
He waved his hand as they drove off. Somehow he felt a better man, a better Englishman, for having met these two people.
There was very little light in the closed motor, but if it had been open for all the world to see, Mary Guthrie would not have minded, so happy, so secure did she feel now that her husband’s arm was round her.
She put up her face close to his ear:“Oh, Alick,” she whispered, “I am afraid that you’ve married a very foolish woman——”
He turned and drew her into his strong arms. “I’ve married the sweetest, the most generous, and—and, Mary, the dearest of women.”
“At any rate you can always say to yourself, ‘A poor thing, but mine own—’” she said, half laughing, half crying. And then their lips met and clung together, for the first time.
Mr. Reynoldswalked back up the steps of the Council House of Witanbury. He felt as if he had just had a pleasant glimpse of that Kingdom of Romance which so many seek and so few find, and that now he was returning into the everyday world. Sure enough, when he reached the Council Chamber, he found Dr. Haworth there with a prosaic-looking person. This was evidently the man to whom the Dean thought Anna would be more likely to reveal the truth than to her kind, impulsive employer.
Mr. Reynolds had not expected to see so intelligent and young-looking a man. He was familiar with the type of German who has for long made his career in England. But this naturalised German was not true to type at all! Though probably over fifty, he still had an alert, active figure, and he was extraordinarily like someone Mr. Reynolds had seen. In fact, for a few moments the likeness quite haunted him. Who on earth could it be that this man so strongly resembled? But soon he gave up the likeness as a bad job—it didn’t matter, after all!
“Well, Mr. Head, I expect that Dr. Haworth has already told you what it is we hope from you.”
“Yes, sir, I think I understand.”
“Are you an American?” asked the other abruptly.
The Witanbury City Councillor looked slightly embarrassed. “No,” he said at last.“But I was in the United States for some years.”
“You were never connected, I suppose, with the New York Police?”
“Oh no, sir!” There was no mistaking the man’s genuine surprise at the question.
“I only asked you,” said Mr. Reynolds hastily, “because I feel as if we had met before. But I suppose I made a mistake. By the way, do you know Anna Bauer well?”
Alfred Head waited a moment; he looked instinctively to the Dean for guidance, but the Dean made no sign.
“I know Anna Bauer pretty well,” he said at last. “But she’s more a friend of my wife than of mine. She used sometimes to come and spend the evening with us.”
He was feeling exceedingly uncomfortable. Had Anna mentioned him? He thought not. He hoped not. “What is it exactly you want me to get out of her?” he asked, cringingly.
Mr. Reynolds hesitated. Somehow he did not at all like the man standing before him. Shortly he explained how much the old woman had already admitted; and then, “Perhaps you could ascertain whether she has received any money since the outbreak of war, and if so, by what method. I may tell you in confidence, Mr. Head, there has been a good deal of German money going about in this part of the world. We hold certain clues, but up to the present time we have not been able to trace this money to its source.”
“I think I quite understand what it is you require to know, sir,” said Alfred Head respectfully.
There came a knock at the door.“Mr. Reynolds in there? You are wanted, sir, on the telephone. A London call from Scotland Yard.”
“All right,” he said quietly. “Tell them they must wait a moment. Will you please take Mr. Head to the cell where Anna Bauer is confined?”
Then he hurried off to the telephone, well aware that he might now be about to hear the real solution of the mystery. Some of his best people had been a long time on this Witanbury job.
Terrified and bewildered as she had been by the events of midday, Anna, when putting her few things together, had not forgotten her work. True, she had been too much agitated and upset to crochet or knit during the long hours which had elapsed since the morning. But the conversation she had had with her mistress had reassured her. How good that dear, gracious lady had been! How kindly she had accepted the confession of deceit!
Yes, but it was very, very wrong of her, Anna Bauer, to have done what she had done. She knew that now. What was the money she had earned—a few paltry pounds—compared with all this fearful trouble? Still, she felt now sure the trouble would soon be over. She had a pathetic faith, not only in her mistress, but also in Mrs. Jervis Blake and in the Dean. They would see her through this strange, shameful business. So she took her workbag off the bed, and brought out her crochet.
She had just begun working when she heard the door open, and there came across her face a sudden look of apprehension. She was weary of being questioned, and of parrying questions. But now she hadtold all she knew. There was great comfort in that thought.
Her face cleared, became quite cheerful and smiling, when she saw Alfred Head. He, too, was a kind friend; he, too, would help her as much as he could—if indeed any more help were needed. But the Dean and her own lady would certainly be far more powerful than Alfred Head.
Poor Old Anna was not in a condition to be very observant. She did not see that there was anything but a cordial expression on her friend’s face, and that he looked indeed very stern and disagreeable.
The door was soon shut behind him, and instead of advancing with hand outstretched, he crossed his arms and looked down at her, silently, for a few moments.
At last, speaking between his teeth, and in German, he exclaimed, “This is a pretty state of things, Frau Bauer. You have made more trouble than you know!”
She stared up at him, uncomprehendingly. “I don’t understand,” she faltered. “I did nothing. What do you mean?”
“I mean that you have brought us all within sight of the gallows. Yourself quite as much as your friends.”
“The gallows?” exclaimed old Anna, in an agitated whisper. “Explain yourself, Mr. Head——” She was trembling now. “What is it you mean?”
“I do not know what it is you have told,” he spoke in a less savage tone.“And I know as a matter of fact that there is very little youcouldsay, for you have been kept in the dark. But one thing I may tell you. If you say one word, Frau Bauer, of where you received your blood money just after the War broke out, then I, too, will say whatIknow. If I do that, instead of being deported—that is, instead of being sent comfortably back to Berlin, to your niece and her husband, who surely will look after you and make your old age comfortable—then I swear to you before Godthat you will hang!”
“Hang? But I have done nothing!”
Anna was now almost in a state of collapse, and he saw his mistake.
“You are in no real danger at all if you will only do exactly what I tell you,” he declared, impressively.
“Yes,” she faltered. “Yes, Herr Hegner, indeed I will obey you.”
He looked round him hastily. “Never, never call me that!” he exclaimed. “And now listen quite quietly to what I have to say. Remember you are in no danger—no danger at all—if you follow my orders.”
She looked at him dumbly.
“You are to say that the parcels came to you from your nephew in Germany. It will do him no harm. The English police cannot reach him.”
“But I’ve already said,” she confessed, distractedly, “that they were brought to me by a friend of his.”
“It is a pity you said that, but it does not much matter. The one thing you must conceal at all hazards is that you received any money from me. Do you understand that, Frau Bauer? Have you said anything of that?”
“No,” she said slowly. “No, I have said nothing of that.”
He fancied there was a look of hesitation on her face. As a matter of fact we know that Anna had not betrayed Alfred Head. But that she had not doneso was an accident, only caused by her unwillingness to dwell on the money she had received when telling her story to Mrs. Guthrie.
The old woman turned a mottled red and yellow colour, in the poor light of the cell.
“Please try and remember,” he said sternly, “if you mentioned me at all.”
“I swear I did not!” she cried.
“Did you say that you had received money?”
And Anna answered, truthfully, “Yes, Herr Head; I did say that.”
“Fool! Fool indeed—when it would have been so easy for you to pretend you had done it to please your nephew!”
“But Mrs. Otway, she has forgiven me. My gracious lady does not think I did anything so very wrong,” cried Anna.
“Mrs. Otway? What does she matter! They will do all they can to get out of you how you received this money. You must say—— Are you attending, Frau Bauer?”
She had sunk down again on her bench; she felt her legs turning to cotton-wool. “Yes,” she muttered. “Yes, I am attending——”
“You must say,” he commanded, “that you always received the money from your nephew. That since the war you have had none. Do I make myself clear?”
“Yes,” she murmured—“quite clear, Herr Head.”
“If you do not say that, if you bring me into this dirty business, then I, too, will say whatIknow aboutyou.”
She looked at him uncomprehendingly. What did he mean?
“Ah, you do not know perhaps what I can tell about you!”
He came nearer to her, and in a hissing whisper went on: “I can tell how it was through you that a certain factory in Flanders was shelled, and eighty Englishmen were killed. And if I tell that, they will hang you!”
“But that is not true,” said Anna stoutly. “So you could not say that!”
“Itistrue.” He spoke with a kind of ferocious energy that carried conviction, even to her. “It is absolutely true, and easily proved. You showed a letter—a letter from Mr. Jervis Blake. In that letter was information which led directly to the killing of those eighty English soldiers, and to the injury to Mr. Jervis Blake which lost him his foot.”
“What is that you say?” Anna’s voice rose to a scream of horror—of incredulous, protesting horror. “Unsay, do unsay what you have just said, kind Mr. Head!”
“How can I unsay what is the fact?” he answered savagely. “Do not be a stupid fool! You ought to be glad you performed such a deed for the Fatherland.”
“Not Mr. Jervis Blake,” she wailed out. “Not the bridegroom of my child!”
“The bridegroom of your child was engaged in killing good Germans; and now he will never kill any Germans any more. And it isyou, Frau Bauer, who shot off his foot. If you betray me, all that will be known, and they will not deport you, they will hang you!”
To this she said nothing, and he touched herroughly on the shoulder. “Look up, Frau Bauer! Look up, and tell me that you understand! It is important!”