Chapter Eleven.The Enemy’s Cipher.The afternoon of December 16th, 1914—the 135th day of the war—was grey and gloomy in Northumberland Avenue, that short thoroughfare of high uniform hotels and buildings.The street-lamps had just been lit around Trafalgar Square when Lewin Rodwell passed out of the big hall of the Constitutional Club, and down the steps into the street. At the moment a newsboy dashed past crying the evening papers.The words that fell upon Rodwell’s ear caused him to start; and, stopping the lad, he purchased a paper, and, halting, read the bold, startling headlines: “Bombardment of the East Coast this morning: Great destruction of seaside towns.”“Ach!” he murmured with a grin of satisfaction. “Ach! Number 70 was not slow in acting upon my message. Instead of the German Fleet falling into the trap, they have taught these pigs of English a lesson. Not long ago one Minister declared that if the German Fleet did not come out of the Kiel Canal, that the brave British would dig them like rats out of a hole. Good! They have come out to respond to that challenge,” and he laughed in grim satisfaction. “Let’s see what they’ve done.”Turning upon his heel, in his eagerness to learn the truth, he reascended the broad steps of the Club, and in the hall seated himself and eagerly devoured the account which, at that moment, was thrilling the whole country.The paper stated, as all will remember, that the German ships having, by some extraordinary and unknown means, succeeded in evading the diligent watch kept upon them in the North Sea, had appeared on the Yorkshire coast early that morning. A German battleship, together with several first-class cruisers, had made a raid, and shelled Hartlepool, Scarborough and Whitby. At the three towns bombarded much damage was done, hotels, churches and hospitals being struck; and, according to the casualty list at that moment available, twenty-nine persons had been killed and forty-six wounded at Hartlepool; two killed and two wounded at Whitby, and thirteen casualties in Scarborough. The paper added that the list of casualties was believed to be very much greater, and would, it was thought, amount to quite two hundred. British patrol boats had endeavoured to cut off the Germans, whereupon the latter had fled.Lewin Rodwell, having read the leading article, in which the journal loudly protested against the bombardment of undefended towns, and the ruthless slaughter of women and children, cast the paper aside, rose and again went out.As he walked in the falling twilight towards Pall Mall, he laughed lightly, muttering in German, beneath his breath: “That is their first taste of bombardment! They will have many yet, in the near future. They laugh at our Zeppelins now. But will they laugh when our new aircraft bases are ready? No. The idiots, they will not laugh when we begin to drop bombs upon London!”And, hailing a taxi, he entered it and drove home to Bruton Street, where Sir Boyle Huntley was awaiting him.The man with the bloated, red face and loose lips greeted his friend warmly as he entered the quiet, cosy study. Then when Franks, Rodwell’s man, had pulled down the blinds and retired, he exclaimed:“Seen this evening’s paper? Isn’t it splendid, Lewin! All your doing, my dear fellow. You’ll get a handsome reward for it. Trustram is very useful to us, after all.”“Yes,” was the other’s reply. “He’s useful—but only up to a certain point. My only regret is that we haven’t a real grip upon him. If we knew something against him—or if he’d borrowed money from one of our friends—then we might easily put on the screw, and learn a lot. As it is, he’s careful to give away but little information, and that not always trustworthy.”“True,” was Sir Boyle’s reply. “But could we not manage to entice him into our fold? We’ve captured others, even more wary than he, remember.”“Ah! I wish I could see a way,” replied Rodwell reflectively, as he stood before his own fireplace, his hands thrust deep into his trousers pockets.“To my mind, Lewin, I foresee a danger,” said the stout man, tossing his cigarette-end into the grate as he rose and stood before his friend.“How?”“Well—last night I happened to be at the theatre, and in the stalls in front of me sat Trustram with young Sainsbury, the fellow whom we dismissed from the Ochrida office.”“Sainsbury!” gasped the other. “Is he on friendly terms with Trustram, do you think?”“I don’t think, my dear fellow—I am certain,” was the reply. “He had his girl with him, and all three were laughing and chatting merrily together.”“His girl? Let me see, we had him watched a few days ago, didn’t we? That’s a girl living up at Hampstead—daughter of a Birmingham tool-manufacturer, Elise Shearman, isn’t she?” remarked Rodwell slowly, his eyebrows narrowing as he spoke.“I believe that was the name. Olsen watched and reported, didn’t he?” asked the Baronet.“Yes. I must see him. That young fellow is dangerous to us, Boyle—distinctly dangerous! He knows something, remember, and he would have told his friend Jerrold—if the latter had not conveniently died just before his visit to Wimpole Street.”“Yes. That was indeed a lucky incident—eh?”“And now he is friendly with Charles Trustram. How did they meet, I wonder?”“Trustram was, of course, a friend of Jerrold’s.”“Ah—I see. Well, we must lose no time in acting,” exclaimed Lewin Rodwell in a low, hard voice. “I quite realise the very grave and imminent danger. We may be already suspected by Trustram.”“Most probably, I think. We surely can’t afford to court disaster any further.”“No,” was Rodwell’s low, decisive answer, and he drew a long breath. “We must act—swiftly and effectively.”And then he lapsed into a long silence, during which his active brain was ardently at work in order to devise some subtle and deadly plan which should crush out suspicion and place them both in a position of further safety.At the moment, the British public believed both men to be honest, patriotic supporters of the Government—men who were making much sacrifice for the country’s welfare.What if the horrible and disgraceful truth ever became revealed? What if they were proved to be traitors? Why, a London mob would undoubtedly lynch them both, and tear them limb from limb!One man in England knew the truth—that was quite plain—and that man was young Sainsbury, the clerk who had accidentally overheard those indiscreet words in the boardroom in Gracechurch Street.Lewin Rodwell, though ever since that afternoon when he had been so indiscreet he had tried to hide the truth from himself, now realised that, at all hazards, the young man’s activity must be cut short, and his mouth closed.Sir Boyle remained and dined with him. As a bachelor, and an epicure, Lewin Rodwell always gave excellent dinners, dinners that were renowned in London. He had a Frenchchefto whom he paid a big salary—a man who had beenchefat Armenonville, in the Bois, in Paris. Upon his kitchen Rodwell spared nothing, hence when any of those men—whom he afterwards so cleverly made use of to swell his bank-balance—accepted his hospitality they knew that the meal would be perhaps the best procurable in all London.Many are the men-about-town who pride themselves upon their knowledge of the gastronomic art, and talk with loving reflections of the soups, entrées, and what-not, that they have eaten. Most of such men are what may be termed “hotel epicures.” They swallow the dishes served at the fashionable hotels—dishes to the liking of their own palates possibly—smack their lips, pay, and are satisfied. But the real epicure—and he is indeed arara avis—is the one who knows that the thin-sliced grey truffle, light as a feather, cannot be put on a fillet in London, and that “sea-truffles” have never been seen in the Metropolis.To be a real epicure one must be a cosmopolitan, taking one’sbouillabaissein Marseilles, one’s red mullet in Leghorn, one’s caviare at eleven in the morning in Bucharest, one’s smoked fish and cheese in Tromso, one’s chicken’s breasts with rice in Bologna, and so on, across the face of the earth. To the man who merely pretends to know, the long gilt-printed menu of the smart London hotel becomes enticing to the palate, but to the man who has eaten his dinner under many suns it is often an amusing piece of mysteriously-worded bunkum.Lewin Rodwell and his friend the Birthday Baronet sat down together to a perfectly-cooked and perfectly-served repast. Franks, the quiet, astute, clean-shaven man, a secret friend of Germany like his master, moved noiselessly, and the pair chatted without restraint, knowing well that Franks—whose real name was Grünhold—would say nothing. It was not to his advantage to say anything, because he was a secret agent of Germany of the fifth class—namely, one in weekly receipt of sixty marks, or three pounds.Rodwell was apprehensive, unhappy, and undecided. Truth to tell, he wanted to be alone, to plot and to scheme. His friend’s presence prevented him from thinking. Yet, after dinner, he was compelled to go forth with him somewhere, so they went to therevueat the Hippodrome, and on to Murray’s afterwards.It was half-past two o’clock in the morning when Rodwell re-entered with his latch-key and, passing into his den, found upon his writing-table a rather soiled note, addressed in a somewhat uneducated hand, which had evidently been left during his absence.Throwing off his overcoat, he took up the note and, tearing it open, read the few brief unsigned lines it contained. Then, replacing it upon the table, he drew his white hand across his brow, as though to clear his troubled brain.Afterwards he crossed to the small safe let into the wall near the fireplace and, unlocking it, took forth a little well-worn memorandum-book bound in dark blue leather.“Cipher Number 38, I think,” he muttered to himself, as he turned over its pages until he came to that for which he was in search.Then he sat down beneath the reading-lamp and carefully studied the page, which, ruled in parallel columns, displayed in the first column the alphabet, in the second the key-sentence of the cipher in question—one of forty-three different combinations of letters—and in the third the discarded letters to be interspersed in the message in order to render any attempt at deciphering the more difficult.In that cleverly-compiled little volume were forty-three different key-sentences, each easy of remembrance, and corresponding in its number of letters with about two-thirds, or so, of the number of letters of the alphabet. From time to time it changed automatically, according to the calendar and to a certain rule set forth at the end of the little volume. Hence, though the spy’s code was constantly being changed without any correspondence from headquarters—“Number 70 Berlin”—yet, without a copy of the book, the exact change and its date could not be ascertained.Truly, the very best brains of Germany had, long ago, been concentrated upon the complete system of espionage in Great Britain, with the result that the organisation was now absolutely perfect.Taking a sheet of ruled paper from one of the compartments in the American rolltop desk before him, Lewin Rodwell, after leaning back wearily in his chair to compose himself, commenced, by reference to the pages of the little book before him, to trace out the cipher equivalents of the information contained in the note that had been left for him by an unknown hand in his absence.He opened the big silver cigarette-box at his elbow, and having taken a cigarette, he lit it and began reducing the information into cipher, carefully producing a jumble of letters, a code so difficult that it had for a long time entirely defied the British War Office, the Admiralty, the Foreign Office, and the French Secret Service.Though marvellously ingenious, yet it was, after all, quite simple when one knew the key-sentence.Those key-sentences used by “Number 70 Berlin” in their wonderful and ever-changing secret code—that code by which signal lights were flashed across Great Britain by night, and buzzed out by wireless by day—were quite usual sentences, often proverbs in English, such as “A little knowledge is a dangerous thing,” “A man and his money are soon parted,” “Give one an inch and he’ll take an ell,” “Money makes the world go round,” and so on.Simple, of course. Yet the very simplicity of it all, combined with the constant change, constituted its greatest and most remarkable secrecy. The great Steinhauer, with his far-reaching tentacles of espionage across both hemispheres, held his octopus-like grip upon the world, a surer, a more subtle and a more ingenious hold than the civilised world, from the spies of Alexander the Great down to those of President Kruger, had ever seen.With infinite care, and because the information concerning certain naval movements in the Channel was urgent, he produced a mass of letters with words in German interspersed—a cipher message which resulted a fortnight later in one of our battleships being sunk in the Channel, with only eighty survivors. Of the message the following is a facsimile:—
The afternoon of December 16th, 1914—the 135th day of the war—was grey and gloomy in Northumberland Avenue, that short thoroughfare of high uniform hotels and buildings.
The street-lamps had just been lit around Trafalgar Square when Lewin Rodwell passed out of the big hall of the Constitutional Club, and down the steps into the street. At the moment a newsboy dashed past crying the evening papers.
The words that fell upon Rodwell’s ear caused him to start; and, stopping the lad, he purchased a paper, and, halting, read the bold, startling headlines: “Bombardment of the East Coast this morning: Great destruction of seaside towns.”
“Ach!” he murmured with a grin of satisfaction. “Ach! Number 70 was not slow in acting upon my message. Instead of the German Fleet falling into the trap, they have taught these pigs of English a lesson. Not long ago one Minister declared that if the German Fleet did not come out of the Kiel Canal, that the brave British would dig them like rats out of a hole. Good! They have come out to respond to that challenge,” and he laughed in grim satisfaction. “Let’s see what they’ve done.”
Turning upon his heel, in his eagerness to learn the truth, he reascended the broad steps of the Club, and in the hall seated himself and eagerly devoured the account which, at that moment, was thrilling the whole country.
The paper stated, as all will remember, that the German ships having, by some extraordinary and unknown means, succeeded in evading the diligent watch kept upon them in the North Sea, had appeared on the Yorkshire coast early that morning. A German battleship, together with several first-class cruisers, had made a raid, and shelled Hartlepool, Scarborough and Whitby. At the three towns bombarded much damage was done, hotels, churches and hospitals being struck; and, according to the casualty list at that moment available, twenty-nine persons had been killed and forty-six wounded at Hartlepool; two killed and two wounded at Whitby, and thirteen casualties in Scarborough. The paper added that the list of casualties was believed to be very much greater, and would, it was thought, amount to quite two hundred. British patrol boats had endeavoured to cut off the Germans, whereupon the latter had fled.
Lewin Rodwell, having read the leading article, in which the journal loudly protested against the bombardment of undefended towns, and the ruthless slaughter of women and children, cast the paper aside, rose and again went out.
As he walked in the falling twilight towards Pall Mall, he laughed lightly, muttering in German, beneath his breath: “That is their first taste of bombardment! They will have many yet, in the near future. They laugh at our Zeppelins now. But will they laugh when our new aircraft bases are ready? No. The idiots, they will not laugh when we begin to drop bombs upon London!”
And, hailing a taxi, he entered it and drove home to Bruton Street, where Sir Boyle Huntley was awaiting him.
The man with the bloated, red face and loose lips greeted his friend warmly as he entered the quiet, cosy study. Then when Franks, Rodwell’s man, had pulled down the blinds and retired, he exclaimed:
“Seen this evening’s paper? Isn’t it splendid, Lewin! All your doing, my dear fellow. You’ll get a handsome reward for it. Trustram is very useful to us, after all.”
“Yes,” was the other’s reply. “He’s useful—but only up to a certain point. My only regret is that we haven’t a real grip upon him. If we knew something against him—or if he’d borrowed money from one of our friends—then we might easily put on the screw, and learn a lot. As it is, he’s careful to give away but little information, and that not always trustworthy.”
“True,” was Sir Boyle’s reply. “But could we not manage to entice him into our fold? We’ve captured others, even more wary than he, remember.”
“Ah! I wish I could see a way,” replied Rodwell reflectively, as he stood before his own fireplace, his hands thrust deep into his trousers pockets.
“To my mind, Lewin, I foresee a danger,” said the stout man, tossing his cigarette-end into the grate as he rose and stood before his friend.
“How?”
“Well—last night I happened to be at the theatre, and in the stalls in front of me sat Trustram with young Sainsbury, the fellow whom we dismissed from the Ochrida office.”
“Sainsbury!” gasped the other. “Is he on friendly terms with Trustram, do you think?”
“I don’t think, my dear fellow—I am certain,” was the reply. “He had his girl with him, and all three were laughing and chatting merrily together.”
“His girl? Let me see, we had him watched a few days ago, didn’t we? That’s a girl living up at Hampstead—daughter of a Birmingham tool-manufacturer, Elise Shearman, isn’t she?” remarked Rodwell slowly, his eyebrows narrowing as he spoke.
“I believe that was the name. Olsen watched and reported, didn’t he?” asked the Baronet.
“Yes. I must see him. That young fellow is dangerous to us, Boyle—distinctly dangerous! He knows something, remember, and he would have told his friend Jerrold—if the latter had not conveniently died just before his visit to Wimpole Street.”
“Yes. That was indeed a lucky incident—eh?”
“And now he is friendly with Charles Trustram. How did they meet, I wonder?”
“Trustram was, of course, a friend of Jerrold’s.”
“Ah—I see. Well, we must lose no time in acting,” exclaimed Lewin Rodwell in a low, hard voice. “I quite realise the very grave and imminent danger. We may be already suspected by Trustram.”
“Most probably, I think. We surely can’t afford to court disaster any further.”
“No,” was Rodwell’s low, decisive answer, and he drew a long breath. “We must act—swiftly and effectively.”
And then he lapsed into a long silence, during which his active brain was ardently at work in order to devise some subtle and deadly plan which should crush out suspicion and place them both in a position of further safety.
At the moment, the British public believed both men to be honest, patriotic supporters of the Government—men who were making much sacrifice for the country’s welfare.
What if the horrible and disgraceful truth ever became revealed? What if they were proved to be traitors? Why, a London mob would undoubtedly lynch them both, and tear them limb from limb!
One man in England knew the truth—that was quite plain—and that man was young Sainsbury, the clerk who had accidentally overheard those indiscreet words in the boardroom in Gracechurch Street.
Lewin Rodwell, though ever since that afternoon when he had been so indiscreet he had tried to hide the truth from himself, now realised that, at all hazards, the young man’s activity must be cut short, and his mouth closed.
Sir Boyle remained and dined with him. As a bachelor, and an epicure, Lewin Rodwell always gave excellent dinners, dinners that were renowned in London. He had a Frenchchefto whom he paid a big salary—a man who had beenchefat Armenonville, in the Bois, in Paris. Upon his kitchen Rodwell spared nothing, hence when any of those men—whom he afterwards so cleverly made use of to swell his bank-balance—accepted his hospitality they knew that the meal would be perhaps the best procurable in all London.
Many are the men-about-town who pride themselves upon their knowledge of the gastronomic art, and talk with loving reflections of the soups, entrées, and what-not, that they have eaten. Most of such men are what may be termed “hotel epicures.” They swallow the dishes served at the fashionable hotels—dishes to the liking of their own palates possibly—smack their lips, pay, and are satisfied. But the real epicure—and he is indeed arara avis—is the one who knows that the thin-sliced grey truffle, light as a feather, cannot be put on a fillet in London, and that “sea-truffles” have never been seen in the Metropolis.
To be a real epicure one must be a cosmopolitan, taking one’sbouillabaissein Marseilles, one’s red mullet in Leghorn, one’s caviare at eleven in the morning in Bucharest, one’s smoked fish and cheese in Tromso, one’s chicken’s breasts with rice in Bologna, and so on, across the face of the earth. To the man who merely pretends to know, the long gilt-printed menu of the smart London hotel becomes enticing to the palate, but to the man who has eaten his dinner under many suns it is often an amusing piece of mysteriously-worded bunkum.
Lewin Rodwell and his friend the Birthday Baronet sat down together to a perfectly-cooked and perfectly-served repast. Franks, the quiet, astute, clean-shaven man, a secret friend of Germany like his master, moved noiselessly, and the pair chatted without restraint, knowing well that Franks—whose real name was Grünhold—would say nothing. It was not to his advantage to say anything, because he was a secret agent of Germany of the fifth class—namely, one in weekly receipt of sixty marks, or three pounds.
Rodwell was apprehensive, unhappy, and undecided. Truth to tell, he wanted to be alone, to plot and to scheme. His friend’s presence prevented him from thinking. Yet, after dinner, he was compelled to go forth with him somewhere, so they went to therevueat the Hippodrome, and on to Murray’s afterwards.
It was half-past two o’clock in the morning when Rodwell re-entered with his latch-key and, passing into his den, found upon his writing-table a rather soiled note, addressed in a somewhat uneducated hand, which had evidently been left during his absence.
Throwing off his overcoat, he took up the note and, tearing it open, read the few brief unsigned lines it contained. Then, replacing it upon the table, he drew his white hand across his brow, as though to clear his troubled brain.
Afterwards he crossed to the small safe let into the wall near the fireplace and, unlocking it, took forth a little well-worn memorandum-book bound in dark blue leather.
“Cipher Number 38, I think,” he muttered to himself, as he turned over its pages until he came to that for which he was in search.
Then he sat down beneath the reading-lamp and carefully studied the page, which, ruled in parallel columns, displayed in the first column the alphabet, in the second the key-sentence of the cipher in question—one of forty-three different combinations of letters—and in the third the discarded letters to be interspersed in the message in order to render any attempt at deciphering the more difficult.
In that cleverly-compiled little volume were forty-three different key-sentences, each easy of remembrance, and corresponding in its number of letters with about two-thirds, or so, of the number of letters of the alphabet. From time to time it changed automatically, according to the calendar and to a certain rule set forth at the end of the little volume. Hence, though the spy’s code was constantly being changed without any correspondence from headquarters—“Number 70 Berlin”—yet, without a copy of the book, the exact change and its date could not be ascertained.
Truly, the very best brains of Germany had, long ago, been concentrated upon the complete system of espionage in Great Britain, with the result that the organisation was now absolutely perfect.
Taking a sheet of ruled paper from one of the compartments in the American rolltop desk before him, Lewin Rodwell, after leaning back wearily in his chair to compose himself, commenced, by reference to the pages of the little book before him, to trace out the cipher equivalents of the information contained in the note that had been left for him by an unknown hand in his absence.
He opened the big silver cigarette-box at his elbow, and having taken a cigarette, he lit it and began reducing the information into cipher, carefully producing a jumble of letters, a code so difficult that it had for a long time entirely defied the British War Office, the Admiralty, the Foreign Office, and the French Secret Service.
Though marvellously ingenious, yet it was, after all, quite simple when one knew the key-sentence.
Those key-sentences used by “Number 70 Berlin” in their wonderful and ever-changing secret code—that code by which signal lights were flashed across Great Britain by night, and buzzed out by wireless by day—were quite usual sentences, often proverbs in English, such as “A little knowledge is a dangerous thing,” “A man and his money are soon parted,” “Give one an inch and he’ll take an ell,” “Money makes the world go round,” and so on.
Simple, of course. Yet the very simplicity of it all, combined with the constant change, constituted its greatest and most remarkable secrecy. The great Steinhauer, with his far-reaching tentacles of espionage across both hemispheres, held his octopus-like grip upon the world, a surer, a more subtle and a more ingenious hold than the civilised world, from the spies of Alexander the Great down to those of President Kruger, had ever seen.
With infinite care, and because the information concerning certain naval movements in the Channel was urgent, he produced a mass of letters with words in German interspersed—a cipher message which resulted a fortnight later in one of our battleships being sunk in the Channel, with only eighty survivors. Of the message the following is a facsimile:—
Chapter Twelve.On Thin Ice.One evening early in January three men had assembled and held a serious conference in Jack Sainsbury’s modest little flat in Heath Street, Hampstead. His sister being out for the day, Jack had personally admitted his visitors, who were Charles Trustram and Sir Houston Bird, and the trio had sat by the fire discussing a matter of the greatest moment.Briefly, the facts were as follow: Trustram had, ever since the raid on Scarborough, wondered whether the failure of the British naval plan to entrap the German Fleet had been directly due to his own indiscretion in mentioning to Lewin Rodwell what was intended. He deeply regretted having let out what had been an absolute secret; yet Rodwell was a man of such tried and sterling patriotism, constantly addressing audiences in the interests of recruiting, and a man whose battle cry “Britain for the British” had been taken up everywhere. No one was possessed of a deeper and more intense hatred of Germany than he, and Trustram felt certain that no man was a greater enemy of the Kaiser.The papers wrote fulsome praise of his splendid example and his fine patriotic efforts, both as regards recruiting and in the raising of funds for various charitable objects; therefore the Admiralty official was wont to comfort himself with the reflection that such a man could never be an agent of Germany.Only a few days ago, when he had confessed to Sir Houston and the latter had, on his part, spoken to Sainsbury, the puzzle had become pieced together; and on that evening, as the trio sat opposite each other, the young fellow explained how he had been dismissed from the Ochrida Company at the instigation of Lewin Rodwell and his titled sycophant Sir Boyle Huntley.“There is a mystery,” Jack went on. “I’m certain there’s some great mystery regarding poor Jerrold’s sudden death,” he said decisively. “I was, that night, on my way to him, to tell him what I had accidentally learnt, and to seek his advice how to act. Yet, poor fellow, he died in my arms.”“His suicide was certainly quite unaccountable,” declared Sir Houston. “I often reflect and wonder whether he really did commit suicide—and yet it was all quite plain and straightforward. He must have swallowed a tablet—coated, no doubt, or the effect must have been far more rapid.”“But why did he declare that he’d been shot?” asked Trustram, whose fine, strong face was dark and thoughtful.“Ah! Who knows? There’s the mystery,” replied the great pathologist. “Of course, men sometimes have curious hallucinations immediately prior to death. It might have been one.”“He was in terrible agony—poor fellow,” Jack remarked.“No doubt, no doubt. But the drug would, of course, account for that.”“Then, in the light of your expert medical knowledge, you don’t think that his death was a mysterious one?” Jack queried.“No, I don’t say that at all,” was the reply of the busy man, who was working night and day among the wounded in the hospitals. “I merely say that Jerrold was poisoned—and probably by his own hand. That’s all.”“You say ‘probably,’” remarked Trustram. “Could that man, Rodwell, have had anything to do with it do you think?”“My dear Mr Trustram, how can we possibly tell?” asked Sir Houston. “What real evidence have we got? None.”“And so clever are our enemies that we are not likely ever to get any, I believe,” was Trustram’s hard reply. “I only know what has happened to our plans for the defeat of the German Fleet. Is it really possible that this Lewin Rodwell, one of the most popular men in England, is a German agent?”“If you dared to say so, the whole country would rise and kill you with ridicule,” remarked Jack Sainsbury. “Once the British public establishes a man as a patriot, their belief in him remains unshaken to the very end. This war is a war where spies and spying, treachery and double-dealing, play a far bigger part than the world ever dreams. Jerrold always declared to me that there were German spies in every department of the State, just as there are in France, in Russia, and in Italy. No secret of any of the European States is a secret from the central spy-bureau in Berlin.”“Jerrold knew that. He set out sacrificing body and soul—nay, his very life—to assist our Intelligence Department,” Trustram remarked.“I know,” said Jack. “They were foolishly jealous of his knowledge—jealous of the facts he had gathered during his wanderings up and down Germany, and jealous of the sources of information. They pretended a certain friendliness towards him, of course, but, as you know, the khaki cult is never in unison with the civilian. Jerrold did his duty—did it splendidly, as a true Englishman should. His work will live as a record. Seven years ago he commenced, at a time when the money-grubbing, ostrich-like section of the public—bamboozled by politicians who pretended not to know, yet who knew too well, and who told us there would be no war—not in our time—were content in amassing wealth. What did they care for the country’s future, as long as they drew big dividends? Jerrold foresaw the great Teutonic plot against civilisation, and was not afraid to point to it. What did he get for his pains? Ridicule, derision, and aspersions that his mind was deranged, and that he was a mere romancer. Well, to-day he’s dead, and we can only judge him by his works.”“There are others—certain others too—whom we may also judge by their works,” remarked Trustram grimly—“their subtle, fiendish works, aimed at the downfall of our Empire. If the truth had been realised when Lord Roberts started out to speak—and when the whole Government united to poke fun and heap ridicule upon the great Field-Marshal, who knew more of real warfare than the whole tangle of red-tape at Whitehall combined—then to-day thousands of brave men, the flower of our youth, who have laid down their lives in the trenches in Flanders, would have been alive to-day. No!” he cried angrily. “There are traitors in our midst, and yet if one dares to suspect, if one dares to breathe a word, even to inquire and bring absolute evidence, the only thing which the khaki-clad Department will vouchsafe to the informant is a meagre printed form to acknowledge that one’s report has been ‘received.’ After that, the matter is buried.”“Perhaps burnt,” laughed Sir Houston.“Most probably,” Trustram asserted. “To me, an Englishman, the whole situation is as utterly appalling as it is ludicrous. We must win. And it is up to us all to see thatwe do win.”“Excellent!” cried Sir Houston. “And so we will—all three of us. I’ll go to the War Office to-morrow and try and see someone in authority. You, Sainsbury, will come with me, and you’ll make your statement—you’ll tell them all that you know. They must take some notice of it!”“I should be quite ready,” was Jack’s reply. “But will they believe me? They didn’t believe poor Jerrold, remember—and he actually held proof positive of certain traitorous acts. The whole idea of the Intelligence Department is to pooh-pooh any report furnished by a civilian. Indeed, Jerrold showed me a signed statement by a British officer whom the authorities had actually threatened to cashier because he had assisted him to investigate some night-signalling in Surrey!”“Impossible!” cried Sir Houston.“It’s the absolute truth. I’ve had the statement in my own hands. He was an officer stationed in a town in Surrey.”“Well,” remarked the great pathologist. “Let us allow the past bygones to be bygones. Let us work—not in resentment of the past, but for our protection in the future. What shall we do?”The two men were silent. On the one hand they saw the fortress-wall which the War Office placed between the civilian and the man in khaki. Reports of espionage were extremely unwelcome at Whitehall. And yet how could men in khaki and assistant-provost-marshals, with their crimson brassards of special-constable or veteran volunteer conspicuousness, ever hope to cope with the clever, subtle and wary spies of Germany? The whole thing was too farcical for words.The British public, trustful of this cult of khaki and of a Cabinet who daily bleated forth “All is well!” had no knowledge, for instance, of the cleverly-laid plan of the enemy in Russia—the plot to blow up Ochta, the Russian Woolwich. Later, the English, in their ignorance of German intrigue, asked each other why no forward move was being made—the move promised us in the spring. They knew nothing of that great disaster, so cleverly accomplished by Germany’s spies, the blowing up of Ochta, that disaster which entirely crippled Russia, and which resulted, later on, in her retreat from Warsaw. It was this—alas that I should pen these lines!—which prevented the British and French from advancing during the whole spring and summer of 1915.The Russians, our gallant allies, were producing, at the Putilof works, great siege guns, bigger than any turned out from Krupp’s. Yet, after Ochta had been blown up by means of a cable laid by spies under the Neva before the war, so that hardly one brick stood upon another and Petrograd had been shaken as by an earthquake in consequence, what could Russia do? She had no munitions; therefore why make guns?That act of German spies in directly crippling Russia—an act plotted and prepared ten years previously—had checked the striking power of France, and quite defeated the splendid intentions of Lord Kitchener and our own good General French.Let history speak. As our two armies were holding only a small section of the line, it was more convenient for the general interests of the Allies that we should, instead of employing our increased forces, postpone the entry into action of our national armies, and bend our chief energies to the task of supplying Russia with the munitions which had suddenly become to her a matter of life or death.Was not this, indeed, an object-lesson to England?The trio were discussing the situation, when Jack Sainsbury exclaimed:“And yet the public will not believe that there are spies amongst us—even in face of daily events of incendiary fires, of submarine outrages, and of spies who, arriving with American passports, are watched, arrested, and executed at the Tower of London.”“True?” cried Trustram. “I agree entirely with all you say. Shall we act—or shall we join in the saliva of sweetness and raise the chorus that the Germans are, after all, dear good people?”“Never!” exclaimed Sir Houston fiercely. “Jerrold knew, and he died mysteriously. We, all three of us, know. Let us act; let us raise our voices, as the Duke of Newcastle, Lord Charles Beresford, Lord Leith of Fyvie, Lord Crawford, Lord Portsmouth, Lord Headley, and all the others have raised theirs. ‘Britain for the British,’ I say, and we must win—and, at all hazards,we will win!”“Yes, but what shall we do? How are we now to act?” queried Jack, looking at his visitors.“That we must decide,” Sir Houston responded. “We know many things—things that are proved as far as Lewin Rodwell is concerned. We must watch—and watch very closely and carefully—then we shall learn more.”“But while we are watching the Empire is, surely, in gravest peril?” Trustram protested.“We have an Intelligence Department which is said to be dealing with news leaking from our shores.”“Intelligence Department?” laughed Jack Sainsbury. “Read the German papers, and you’ll see that the public in Germany are daily told the actual truth concerning us, while we are deliberately kept in ignorance by the superior cult of khaki.” Then he added, “The whole of this system of secrecy, and of playing upon the public mind, must be broken down, otherwise very soon, I fear, the British will believe nothing that is told them. We won’t be spoon-fed on tit-bits any more. We are not the pet-dogs of a Hide-the-Truth administration.”“That’s a bit stiff,” declared Trustram with a frown, as befitted an official wearing His Majesty’s uniform.“I don’t care! I speak exactly what I feel. The British Empire is to-day greatly menaced, and if we are to win, we must face the facts and speak out boldly. We don’t want these incompetent khaki-clad amateur detectives telling the matter-of-fact British nation official untruths. Why, only the other day the Parliamentary mouthpiece of the War Office told us that every German secret agent was known and under constant surveillance! Is that the truth, I ask you, or is it a deliberate official falsehood? Read Hansard’s reports. I have quoted from them!”The two men could not raise a protest. They knew, alas! that the words the young man had spoken were the actual and ghastly truth.“Well,” he went on, looking at his visitors, “we know what is in progress—or at least we have the strongest suspicion of it. Now, what decision have you both arrived at? What, in the interests of the safety of the Empire, shall we do?”Trustram shrugged his shoulders blankly, while Sir Houston drew a long breath.Neither man replied. What could they do, save to warn the War Office, who they knew would probably turn a deaf ear to all their suspicions?
One evening early in January three men had assembled and held a serious conference in Jack Sainsbury’s modest little flat in Heath Street, Hampstead. His sister being out for the day, Jack had personally admitted his visitors, who were Charles Trustram and Sir Houston Bird, and the trio had sat by the fire discussing a matter of the greatest moment.
Briefly, the facts were as follow: Trustram had, ever since the raid on Scarborough, wondered whether the failure of the British naval plan to entrap the German Fleet had been directly due to his own indiscretion in mentioning to Lewin Rodwell what was intended. He deeply regretted having let out what had been an absolute secret; yet Rodwell was a man of such tried and sterling patriotism, constantly addressing audiences in the interests of recruiting, and a man whose battle cry “Britain for the British” had been taken up everywhere. No one was possessed of a deeper and more intense hatred of Germany than he, and Trustram felt certain that no man was a greater enemy of the Kaiser.
The papers wrote fulsome praise of his splendid example and his fine patriotic efforts, both as regards recruiting and in the raising of funds for various charitable objects; therefore the Admiralty official was wont to comfort himself with the reflection that such a man could never be an agent of Germany.
Only a few days ago, when he had confessed to Sir Houston and the latter had, on his part, spoken to Sainsbury, the puzzle had become pieced together; and on that evening, as the trio sat opposite each other, the young fellow explained how he had been dismissed from the Ochrida Company at the instigation of Lewin Rodwell and his titled sycophant Sir Boyle Huntley.
“There is a mystery,” Jack went on. “I’m certain there’s some great mystery regarding poor Jerrold’s sudden death,” he said decisively. “I was, that night, on my way to him, to tell him what I had accidentally learnt, and to seek his advice how to act. Yet, poor fellow, he died in my arms.”
“His suicide was certainly quite unaccountable,” declared Sir Houston. “I often reflect and wonder whether he really did commit suicide—and yet it was all quite plain and straightforward. He must have swallowed a tablet—coated, no doubt, or the effect must have been far more rapid.”
“But why did he declare that he’d been shot?” asked Trustram, whose fine, strong face was dark and thoughtful.
“Ah! Who knows? There’s the mystery,” replied the great pathologist. “Of course, men sometimes have curious hallucinations immediately prior to death. It might have been one.”
“He was in terrible agony—poor fellow,” Jack remarked.
“No doubt, no doubt. But the drug would, of course, account for that.”
“Then, in the light of your expert medical knowledge, you don’t think that his death was a mysterious one?” Jack queried.
“No, I don’t say that at all,” was the reply of the busy man, who was working night and day among the wounded in the hospitals. “I merely say that Jerrold was poisoned—and probably by his own hand. That’s all.”
“You say ‘probably,’” remarked Trustram. “Could that man, Rodwell, have had anything to do with it do you think?”
“My dear Mr Trustram, how can we possibly tell?” asked Sir Houston. “What real evidence have we got? None.”
“And so clever are our enemies that we are not likely ever to get any, I believe,” was Trustram’s hard reply. “I only know what has happened to our plans for the defeat of the German Fleet. Is it really possible that this Lewin Rodwell, one of the most popular men in England, is a German agent?”
“If you dared to say so, the whole country would rise and kill you with ridicule,” remarked Jack Sainsbury. “Once the British public establishes a man as a patriot, their belief in him remains unshaken to the very end. This war is a war where spies and spying, treachery and double-dealing, play a far bigger part than the world ever dreams. Jerrold always declared to me that there were German spies in every department of the State, just as there are in France, in Russia, and in Italy. No secret of any of the European States is a secret from the central spy-bureau in Berlin.”
“Jerrold knew that. He set out sacrificing body and soul—nay, his very life—to assist our Intelligence Department,” Trustram remarked.
“I know,” said Jack. “They were foolishly jealous of his knowledge—jealous of the facts he had gathered during his wanderings up and down Germany, and jealous of the sources of information. They pretended a certain friendliness towards him, of course, but, as you know, the khaki cult is never in unison with the civilian. Jerrold did his duty—did it splendidly, as a true Englishman should. His work will live as a record. Seven years ago he commenced, at a time when the money-grubbing, ostrich-like section of the public—bamboozled by politicians who pretended not to know, yet who knew too well, and who told us there would be no war—not in our time—were content in amassing wealth. What did they care for the country’s future, as long as they drew big dividends? Jerrold foresaw the great Teutonic plot against civilisation, and was not afraid to point to it. What did he get for his pains? Ridicule, derision, and aspersions that his mind was deranged, and that he was a mere romancer. Well, to-day he’s dead, and we can only judge him by his works.”
“There are others—certain others too—whom we may also judge by their works,” remarked Trustram grimly—“their subtle, fiendish works, aimed at the downfall of our Empire. If the truth had been realised when Lord Roberts started out to speak—and when the whole Government united to poke fun and heap ridicule upon the great Field-Marshal, who knew more of real warfare than the whole tangle of red-tape at Whitehall combined—then to-day thousands of brave men, the flower of our youth, who have laid down their lives in the trenches in Flanders, would have been alive to-day. No!” he cried angrily. “There are traitors in our midst, and yet if one dares to suspect, if one dares to breathe a word, even to inquire and bring absolute evidence, the only thing which the khaki-clad Department will vouchsafe to the informant is a meagre printed form to acknowledge that one’s report has been ‘received.’ After that, the matter is buried.”
“Perhaps burnt,” laughed Sir Houston.
“Most probably,” Trustram asserted. “To me, an Englishman, the whole situation is as utterly appalling as it is ludicrous. We must win. And it is up to us all to see thatwe do win.”
“Excellent!” cried Sir Houston. “And so we will—all three of us. I’ll go to the War Office to-morrow and try and see someone in authority. You, Sainsbury, will come with me, and you’ll make your statement—you’ll tell them all that you know. They must take some notice of it!”
“I should be quite ready,” was Jack’s reply. “But will they believe me? They didn’t believe poor Jerrold, remember—and he actually held proof positive of certain traitorous acts. The whole idea of the Intelligence Department is to pooh-pooh any report furnished by a civilian. Indeed, Jerrold showed me a signed statement by a British officer whom the authorities had actually threatened to cashier because he had assisted him to investigate some night-signalling in Surrey!”
“Impossible!” cried Sir Houston.
“It’s the absolute truth. I’ve had the statement in my own hands. He was an officer stationed in a town in Surrey.”
“Well,” remarked the great pathologist. “Let us allow the past bygones to be bygones. Let us work—not in resentment of the past, but for our protection in the future. What shall we do?”
The two men were silent. On the one hand they saw the fortress-wall which the War Office placed between the civilian and the man in khaki. Reports of espionage were extremely unwelcome at Whitehall. And yet how could men in khaki and assistant-provost-marshals, with their crimson brassards of special-constable or veteran volunteer conspicuousness, ever hope to cope with the clever, subtle and wary spies of Germany? The whole thing was too farcical for words.
The British public, trustful of this cult of khaki and of a Cabinet who daily bleated forth “All is well!” had no knowledge, for instance, of the cleverly-laid plan of the enemy in Russia—the plot to blow up Ochta, the Russian Woolwich. Later, the English, in their ignorance of German intrigue, asked each other why no forward move was being made—the move promised us in the spring. They knew nothing of that great disaster, so cleverly accomplished by Germany’s spies, the blowing up of Ochta, that disaster which entirely crippled Russia, and which resulted, later on, in her retreat from Warsaw. It was this—alas that I should pen these lines!—which prevented the British and French from advancing during the whole spring and summer of 1915.
The Russians, our gallant allies, were producing, at the Putilof works, great siege guns, bigger than any turned out from Krupp’s. Yet, after Ochta had been blown up by means of a cable laid by spies under the Neva before the war, so that hardly one brick stood upon another and Petrograd had been shaken as by an earthquake in consequence, what could Russia do? She had no munitions; therefore why make guns?
That act of German spies in directly crippling Russia—an act plotted and prepared ten years previously—had checked the striking power of France, and quite defeated the splendid intentions of Lord Kitchener and our own good General French.
Let history speak. As our two armies were holding only a small section of the line, it was more convenient for the general interests of the Allies that we should, instead of employing our increased forces, postpone the entry into action of our national armies, and bend our chief energies to the task of supplying Russia with the munitions which had suddenly become to her a matter of life or death.
Was not this, indeed, an object-lesson to England?
The trio were discussing the situation, when Jack Sainsbury exclaimed:
“And yet the public will not believe that there are spies amongst us—even in face of daily events of incendiary fires, of submarine outrages, and of spies who, arriving with American passports, are watched, arrested, and executed at the Tower of London.”
“True?” cried Trustram. “I agree entirely with all you say. Shall we act—or shall we join in the saliva of sweetness and raise the chorus that the Germans are, after all, dear good people?”
“Never!” exclaimed Sir Houston fiercely. “Jerrold knew, and he died mysteriously. We, all three of us, know. Let us act; let us raise our voices, as the Duke of Newcastle, Lord Charles Beresford, Lord Leith of Fyvie, Lord Crawford, Lord Portsmouth, Lord Headley, and all the others have raised theirs. ‘Britain for the British,’ I say, and we must win—and, at all hazards,we will win!”
“Yes, but what shall we do? How are we now to act?” queried Jack, looking at his visitors.
“That we must decide,” Sir Houston responded. “We know many things—things that are proved as far as Lewin Rodwell is concerned. We must watch—and watch very closely and carefully—then we shall learn more.”
“But while we are watching the Empire is, surely, in gravest peril?” Trustram protested.
“We have an Intelligence Department which is said to be dealing with news leaking from our shores.”
“Intelligence Department?” laughed Jack Sainsbury. “Read the German papers, and you’ll see that the public in Germany are daily told the actual truth concerning us, while we are deliberately kept in ignorance by the superior cult of khaki.” Then he added, “The whole of this system of secrecy, and of playing upon the public mind, must be broken down, otherwise very soon, I fear, the British will believe nothing that is told them. We won’t be spoon-fed on tit-bits any more. We are not the pet-dogs of a Hide-the-Truth administration.”
“That’s a bit stiff,” declared Trustram with a frown, as befitted an official wearing His Majesty’s uniform.
“I don’t care! I speak exactly what I feel. The British Empire is to-day greatly menaced, and if we are to win, we must face the facts and speak out boldly. We don’t want these incompetent khaki-clad amateur detectives telling the matter-of-fact British nation official untruths. Why, only the other day the Parliamentary mouthpiece of the War Office told us that every German secret agent was known and under constant surveillance! Is that the truth, I ask you, or is it a deliberate official falsehood? Read Hansard’s reports. I have quoted from them!”
The two men could not raise a protest. They knew, alas! that the words the young man had spoken were the actual and ghastly truth.
“Well,” he went on, looking at his visitors, “we know what is in progress—or at least we have the strongest suspicion of it. Now, what decision have you both arrived at? What, in the interests of the safety of the Empire, shall we do?”
Trustram shrugged his shoulders blankly, while Sir Houston drew a long breath.
Neither man replied. What could they do, save to warn the War Office, who they knew would probably turn a deaf ear to all their suspicions?
Chapter Thirteen.Towards the Brink.Later that same evening Jack, who had walked down Fitzjohn’s Avenue to Mr Shearman’s, as was his habit, found Elise’s father at home.Though old Dan Shearman, a hale, bluff North-country man, rather liked young Sainsbury, yet, at heart, he would have preferred a man of established prosperity as his daughter’s husband—a manufacturer like himself, or a professional man with a good paying practice. Dan Shearman—as everybody called him in Birmingham—was a practical man, and had made a fortune by dint of hard toil and strict economy. He had begun as a half-timer in a cotton-mill in Oldham, and had risen, step by step, until now he was one of the biggest private employers of labour in the Midlands.For years he had hoped that Elise would make a rich marriage, yet her chance meeting with Jack Sainsbury had suddenly turned the course of events, and both he and his wife could not hide from themselves how deeply the young couple had fallen in love with one another. More than once husband and wife had consulted as to whether it would not be to Elise’s future interest if they broke off the attachment. Indeed, just before the outbreak of war, they had contemplated sending Elise for a long stay with her aunt, who was married to an English merchant in Palerno.Yet, partly because the girl begged to remain in London, and partly because of Mrs Shearman’s liking for young Sainsbury, the bluff old fellow gave way—though there always remained the fact that Jack was a mere clerk and that, at the present time, he was out of a situation. That he had been rejected by the military doctors Mr Shearman knew, but he was unaware that Jack had been left a legacy by the doctor who had so mysteriously committed suicide in Wimpole Street.“Hey, lad!” old Dan cried cheerily, as Jack entered the little smoking-room. “Sit yer down a moment, an’ have a cigarette. There’s some over yonder!”When the young man had lit up and seated himself, Shearman asked:“Well! what’s the pay-pers say to-night—eh? Aw wonder ’ow this ’ere war is goin’ on?”“Badly, sir, I fear,” was Sainsbury’s prompt reply. “We don’t seem to be able to move against the superior power of the enemy.”“Superior power be ’anged, lad!” cried the round-faced, grey-haired old man, his eyes flashing as he spoke. “Aw don’t believe in what these ’ere writers talk about—their big guns, their superior power, an’ all that! We’re still powerful enough in good old England to lick the ’ole lot o’ them sour-krowts, as I ’eard a man in New Street callin’ ’em yesterday.”“Well, I hope so,” laughed Sainsbury, who really was anxious to get upstairs to the drawing-room, where he knew Elise was eagerly awaiting him. “But at present we seem to be progressing very slowly. The Russian steam-roller, as it was called, has come to a halt.”“Ah! a bit more o’ them there writers’ bunkum! What aw say is that we’re a-bein’ misled altogether. Nawbody tells the truth, and nawbody writes it. What yer reads to-day, lad, ’ll be flatly contradicted to-morrow. So what’s the use o’ believin’ anything?”He was, truly, a bluff old chap who, born and bred in Lancashire, had afterwards spent three parts of his life in and about Birmingham. Old Dan Shearman was a man who always wanted hard facts, and when he got them he would make use of them in business, as well as elsewhere, with an acumen far greater than many men who had been educated at a public school. He rather prided himself upon his national-school training, and was fond of remarking, “Aw doan’t pretend to much book-learnin’, but aw knows my trade, an aw knows ’ow to make money by it—which a lot o’ people doan’t!”Jack Sainsbury always found him amusing, for he was full of dry, witty remarks; and as he sat for a quarter of an hour, or so, the old fellow, puffing at his cigar—though he always smoked his pet pipe in his private office at the works—made some very caustic remarks about official red-tape at Whitehall.“We’re a-makin’ munitions now,” he explained. “But oh! the queries we get, and the visits from officers in uniform—people who come and tell me ’ow aw should run my business, yet the first time they’ve ever seen a Drummond lathe is in one of my workshops. Aw say that ’arf of it’s all a mere wicked waste of a man’s time!”“Yes,” sighed the young man—“I suppose there is far too much officialism; and yet perhaps it is necessary.” Then he added, “Is Elise at home, do you know?”“Yes, she’s at ’ome, lad—she’s at ’ome!” laughed the old fellow cheerily. “Aw know you want to go oop to ’er. Well, aw did the same when I wor your age. Aw won’t keep yer longer. So go oop, lad, an’ see ’er. My wife’s out somewhere—gone to see one of ’er fine friends, I expect.”Jack did not want further persuasion. Leaving the old man, he closed the door, ran up the carpeted steps two at a time and, in a few moments, held his well-beloved fondly in his arms.She looked very pretty that night—a sweet, rather demure little figure in a smart, but young-looking dinner-gown of pale cornflower-blue crêpe-de-chine, a dress which well became her, setting off her trim, dainty figure to perfection, while the touch of velvet of the same shade in her fair hair enhanced her beauty.“Oh! I’m so glad you’ve come, dear!” cried the girl, as she looked fondly into her lover’s face with those clear, childlike eyes, which held him always beneath their indescribable spell. And as he imprinted soft kisses upon her lips, she added: “Do you know, Jack, I may be most awfully silly—probably you’ll say I am—but the truth is I have suddenly been seized by grave apprehensions concerning you.”“Why, darling?” he asked quickly, still holding her in his strong arms.“Well, I’ll confess, however silly it may appear,” said the girl. “All day to-day I’ve felt ever so anxious about you. I know that, like poor Dr Jerrold, you are trying to discover and punish the spies of Germany. Now, those people know it. They are as unscrupulous as they are vindictive, and I—well, I’ve been seriously wondering whether, knowing that you are their enemy, they may not endeavour to do you some grave harm.”“Harm!” laughed the young man. “Why, whatever makes you anticipate such a thing, darling?”“Well—I don’t really know,” was her reply. “Only to-day I’ve been thinking so much about it all—about Dr Jerrold’s strange death, and of all you’ve lately told me—that I’m very apprehensive. Do take care of yourself, Jack dear, won’t you—for my sake?”“Of course I will,” he said, with a smile. “But what terrible fate do you anticipate for me? You don’t really think that the Germans will try and murder me, do you?”“Ah! You don’t know what revenge they might not take upon you,” the girl said as they stood together near the fire in the big, handsome room, his arm tenderly around her waist. “Remember that poor Dr Jerrold upset a good many of their plans, and that you helped him.”“Well, and if I did, I don’t really anticipate being assassinated,” he answered, quite calmly.“But the doctor died. Why?” asked the girl. “Could his death have been due to revenge, do you think?”Jack Sainsbury was silent. It was not the first time that that vague and terrible suggestion had crossed his mind, yet he had never uttered a word to her regarding his suspicions.“Jerome committed suicide,” was his quiet, thoughtful reply.“That’s what the doctors said. But do you think he really did?” queried the girl.Jack shrugged his shoulders, but made no reply.“Ah! I see! You yourself are not quite convinced!” she said, looking him straight in the face.“Well, Elise,” he said after a brief silence, and with a forced laugh, “I really don’t think I should worry. I can surely take care of myself. Perhaps you would like me to carry a revolver? I’ll do so, if it will content you.”“You can’t be too careful, dear,” she said earnestly, laying her slim fingers upon his arm. “Remember that they are the spies of the most barbarous race on earth and, in order to gain their ends, they’ll stick at nothing.”“Not even at killing your humble and most devoted servant—eh?” laughed Jack. “Well, if it will relieve your mind I’ll carry a pistol. I have an automatic Browning at home—a bit rusty, I fear.”“Then carry it with you always, dear.—I—” But she hesitated in her eagerness, and did not conclude her sentence.In a second he realised that she had been on the point of speaking, of telling him something. Yet she had broken off just in time. That fact puzzled him considerably.“Well,” he asked, his serious gaze fixed upon those big blue eyes of his well-beloved, while her fair head rested upon his shoulder: “what has caused you these gloomy forebodings concerning myself, dearest? Tell me.”“Oh, nothing,” she replied in a strange, nervous voice. “I suppose that I’m horribly silly, of course. But, knowing all that you have told me about the wonderful spy-system of Germany, I have now become gravely apprehensive regarding your safety.”Jack saw that she was endeavouring to conceal something. What knowledge had she gained? In an instant he grew eagerly interested. Yet he did not, at the moment, press her further.“And you think that the fact of carrying a gun will be a protection to me, do you, little one? Well, most women believe that. Yet, as a matter of fact, firearms are very little protection. If a man is seriously marked down by an enemy, a whole army of detectives cannot save him. Think of the political assassinations, anarchist outrages, and the like. Police protection has usually proved futile.”“But you can take proper ordinary precautions,” she suggested.“And pray, dear, why do you ask me to take precautions?” he inquired. Then, looking earnestly into her eyes, he added very gravely: “Something—or somebody—has put all these grim fears into your head. Now, dearest, tell me the truth,” he urged.She made no response. Her eyes were downcast, and he saw that she hesitated. For what reason?“Whoever has put all these silly ideas into your head, darling, is responsible to me!” he said in a hard voice.“Well, Jack, I—I really can’t help it. I—I love you, as you know; and I can’t bear to think that you are running into danger, as you undoubtedly are.”He looked into her pretty face again.“Now look here, darling,” he went on: “aren’t you getting just a little too nervous about me? I quite admit that in these days of wars, of terrible massacres, of barbarism and of outrages of which even African savages would not be guilty, one is apt to become unduly nervous. You’ve been reading the papers, perhaps. They don’t always tell us the truth nowadays, with the Censor trying to hide up everything.”“No, Jack,” she said boldly. “I haven’t been reading the papers. I’m only anxious to save you.”“But how do you know that I’m in any danger?” he asked quickly. “Why be anxious at all? I assure you that I’m perfectly safe. Nobody will lift a finger against me. Why should they?”“Ah! you don’t see,” she cried. “There is a motive—a hidden motive of revenge. Your enemies intend to do you harm—grievous bodily harm. I know that.”“How?” he asked quickly, fixing her splendid eyes with his.That straight, bold question caused her to hesitate. She had intended to prevaricate, that he knew. She did not wish to reveal the truth to him, yet she feared lest he might be annoyed. Nevertheless, so serious was he, so calm and utterly defiant in face of her grave warning, that a second later she found herself wavering.“Well,” she replied, “I—I feel absolutely certain that it is intended that some harm shall come to you.”“Then I’d better go to Scotland Yard and say that I’m threatened—eh?” he laughed merrily. “And they will put on somebody to watch me, well knowing that, if the whole of Scotland Yard—from the Assistant Commissioner downwards—were put on to shadow me, the result would be just the same. I should surely be killed, if my enemies had seriously plotted my death.”“That’s just my very argument,” she said sagely, her pretty head slightly inclined as she spoke. “I feel convinced that some evil is intended.”“But why, darling?” he asked in surprise. “What causes you all these silly notions?”“Several things. Frankly, I don’t believe that Dr Jerrold took his own life. I believe that he was a victim of the dastardly spies of the Great Assassin.”Jack said nothing. The mystery in Wimpole Street was great. Yet, how could they dispute the medical evidence?“That’s another matter,” he remarked. “How does that concern my safety?”“It does, very deeply. Your enemies know that you assisted Jerrold, and I am firmly convinced that you are marked down in consequence.”“My darling!” he cried, drawing her closer to him. “You really make me feel quite creepy all over!” and he laughed.“Oh, I do wish, dear, you’d take this grave danger seriously!”“But I don’t. That’s just it!” he answered. “I quite understand, darling, that you may be anxious, but I really feel that your anxiety is quite groundless and hence unnecessary.”The girl sighed, and then protested, saying—“Ah! if you would only heed my warning!”“Haven’t I promised to do so? I’m going to carry my revolver in future.”“You take it as a huge joke!” she said in dissatisfaction, disengaging herself slowly from his embrace.“I do. Because I can’t see why you should warn me. Who has put such thoughts into your head? Surely I know how to take care of myself?” he exclaimed.“Perhaps you do. But that a grave danger threatens you, Jack, I happen to know,” was her serious reply.“How do you know?” he asked quickly, facing her. He had, all along, seen that, for some unaccountable reason, she was hesitating to tell him the truth.“Well,” she said slowly, “if—if I tell you the truth, Jack dear, you won’t laugh at me, will you?” she asked at last.“Of course not, my darling. I know full well that you love me, and, as a natural consequence, you are perhaps a little too apprehensive.”“I have cause to be,” she said in a low voice, and, taking from the breast of her low-cut gown a crumpled letter, she handed it to him, saying: “A week ago I received this! Read it!”He took it and, opening it, found it to be an ill-scribbled note, upon a sheet of common note-paper such as one would buy in a penny packet, envelopes included.The note, which was anonymous, and bore the postmark of Willesden, commenced with the words “Dear Miss,” and ran as follows:“Your lover, Sainsbury, has been warned to keep his nose out of other people’s affairs, and as he continues to inquire about what does not concern him his activity is to be cut short. Tell him that, as he has disregarded the advice given him by letter two months ago, his fate is now sealed. The arm of Germany’s vengeance is long, and reaches far. So beware—both of you!”For a few seconds Jack held the mysterious missive in his hand, and then suddenly he burst out laughing.“You surely won’t allow this to worry you?” he exclaimed. “Why, it’s only some crank—somebody we know who is playing a silly practical joke,”—and folding the letter, he gave it back to her with a careless air. “Such a letter as that doesn’t worry me for a single minute.”“But it contains a distinct assertion—that you are doomed!” cried the girl, pale-faced and very anxious.“Yes—it certainly is a very cheerful note. Whom do you know at Willesden?”“Not a soul that I can think of. I’ve been puzzling my brains for days as to anybody I know there, but can think of no one.”“It was posted out there on purpose, no doubt!” he laughed. “Well, if I were you, Elise, I wouldn’t give it another thought.”“Ah, that’s all very well. But I can’t get rid of the distinct belief that some mischief is intended,” answered the girl very gravely.“No, no, darling?” he assured her, placing his arm again round her slim waist, and kissing her fondly upon the lips. “Don’t anticipate any such thing. Somebody’s having a game with us. They think it a huge joke, no doubt.”“But do look the facts in the face, Jack!” she urged. “These spies of Germany, swarming over the country as they do, will hesitate at nothing in order to gain victory for their barbarous Fatherland. Not only have we to fight the unscrupulous army of the Kaiser, remember, but another army of pro-Germans in our midst,—those pretended Englishmen who have their ‘spiritual homes’ in Berlin.”“True. But don’t let that letter get on your nerves, darling. Burn it, and then forget it.”“Did you ever receive a letter warning you?” she asked.“Yes. I’ve had several. One was, I believe, in the same handwriting as yours,” was his rather careless reply.“You never told me of them!”“Because I discarded them,” he said. “I believe I’ve had quite half a dozen at various times, but I pay no attention to people who don’t sign their names.”Elise Shearman sighed. In her fine blue eyes there was a distinctly troubled look.She loved Jack very deeply and tenderly. What if these people actually did make an attempt upon his life? Suppose he were killed! That the spies of Germany had every motive to put an end to his activity in ferreting them out, was quite plain. Indeed, her father, knowing nothing of the anonymous letter, had referred to it that evening. He had declared that her lover was running very grave risks. It had been this remark which had set her thinking more deeply and more apprehensively.Jack saw that she was worrying, therefore he kissed her fondly, and reassured her that no harm would befall him.“I’ll take every precaution possible, in order to satisfy you, my darling,” he declared, his strong arms again around her as he held her closely to him.They looked indeed a handsome pair—he tall, good-looking, strong and manly, and she dainty and fair, with a sweet, delightful expression upon her pretty face.“Then—then you really love me, Jack?” she faltered, looking up into his face as he whispered into her delicate ear, regretting if any ill-considered word he had uttered had pained her.“Love you, my darling?” he cried passionately—“why, of course I do. How can you doubt me? You surely know that, for me, there is only one good, true woman in all the world—your own dear, sweet self!” She smiled in full content, burying her pretty head upon his shoulder.“Then—then you really will take care of yourself, Jack—won’t you?” she implored. “When you are absent I’m always thinking—and wondering—”“And worrying, I fear, little one,” he interrupted. “Now don’t worry. I assure you that I’m quite safe—that—”His sentence was interrupted by a tap at the door. They sprang apart, and Littlewood, old Dan’s neat, middle-aged manservant—a North-country man, a trusted friend of the family—entered and, addressing Jack, said, with that pleasant burr in his voice:“There’s a gentleman called, sir—gives the name of Murray, sir. He wants to see you a moment upon some rather urgent business.”“Murray?” echoed Jack. “I don’t recollect the name. Who is he?”“He’s a gentleman, sir. He’s down in the hall. He won’t detain you a minute, he says,” was the man’s reply.“Then excuse me a moment,” he said in apology to Elise, and left the room, descending to the hall with Littlewood.Below stood a clean-shaven man in a black overcoat who, advancing to meet him, said—“Are you Mr Sainsbury, sir?”“Yes. That’s my name,” replied the young man.“I want to speak to you privately, just for a few moments,” the stranger said. “I want to tell you something in confidence,” he added, lowering his voice. “Shall we go outside the door?” and he glanced meaningly at Littlewood.At first Jack was much puzzled, but, next moment, he said—“Certainly—if you wish.”Then both men went forth, descending the steps to the pavement, whereupon a second man, who sprang from nowhere, joined them instantly, while “Mr Murray” said, in a calm and quite determined voice—“Mr Sainsbury, we are officers of the Criminal Investigation Department, and we arrest you upon a warrant charging you with certain offences under the Defence of the Realm Act.”“What!” gasped Jack, staring at them absolutely dumbfounded. “Are you mad? What tomfoolery is this?”“I will read the warrant over to you at Bow Street,” answered the man who had called himself Murray.And, as he uttered the words, a taxi that had been waiting a few doors away drew up, and almost before Sainsbury could protest, or seek permission to return to his fiancée and explain the farce in progress, he was, in full view of Littlewood, bundled unceremoniously into the conveyance, which, next instant, moved swiftly down the hill in the direction of Swiss Cottage station, on its way to Bow Street Police Station.
Later that same evening Jack, who had walked down Fitzjohn’s Avenue to Mr Shearman’s, as was his habit, found Elise’s father at home.
Though old Dan Shearman, a hale, bluff North-country man, rather liked young Sainsbury, yet, at heart, he would have preferred a man of established prosperity as his daughter’s husband—a manufacturer like himself, or a professional man with a good paying practice. Dan Shearman—as everybody called him in Birmingham—was a practical man, and had made a fortune by dint of hard toil and strict economy. He had begun as a half-timer in a cotton-mill in Oldham, and had risen, step by step, until now he was one of the biggest private employers of labour in the Midlands.
For years he had hoped that Elise would make a rich marriage, yet her chance meeting with Jack Sainsbury had suddenly turned the course of events, and both he and his wife could not hide from themselves how deeply the young couple had fallen in love with one another. More than once husband and wife had consulted as to whether it would not be to Elise’s future interest if they broke off the attachment. Indeed, just before the outbreak of war, they had contemplated sending Elise for a long stay with her aunt, who was married to an English merchant in Palerno.
Yet, partly because the girl begged to remain in London, and partly because of Mrs Shearman’s liking for young Sainsbury, the bluff old fellow gave way—though there always remained the fact that Jack was a mere clerk and that, at the present time, he was out of a situation. That he had been rejected by the military doctors Mr Shearman knew, but he was unaware that Jack had been left a legacy by the doctor who had so mysteriously committed suicide in Wimpole Street.
“Hey, lad!” old Dan cried cheerily, as Jack entered the little smoking-room. “Sit yer down a moment, an’ have a cigarette. There’s some over yonder!”
When the young man had lit up and seated himself, Shearman asked:
“Well! what’s the pay-pers say to-night—eh? Aw wonder ’ow this ’ere war is goin’ on?”
“Badly, sir, I fear,” was Sainsbury’s prompt reply. “We don’t seem to be able to move against the superior power of the enemy.”
“Superior power be ’anged, lad!” cried the round-faced, grey-haired old man, his eyes flashing as he spoke. “Aw don’t believe in what these ’ere writers talk about—their big guns, their superior power, an’ all that! We’re still powerful enough in good old England to lick the ’ole lot o’ them sour-krowts, as I ’eard a man in New Street callin’ ’em yesterday.”
“Well, I hope so,” laughed Sainsbury, who really was anxious to get upstairs to the drawing-room, where he knew Elise was eagerly awaiting him. “But at present we seem to be progressing very slowly. The Russian steam-roller, as it was called, has come to a halt.”
“Ah! a bit more o’ them there writers’ bunkum! What aw say is that we’re a-bein’ misled altogether. Nawbody tells the truth, and nawbody writes it. What yer reads to-day, lad, ’ll be flatly contradicted to-morrow. So what’s the use o’ believin’ anything?”
He was, truly, a bluff old chap who, born and bred in Lancashire, had afterwards spent three parts of his life in and about Birmingham. Old Dan Shearman was a man who always wanted hard facts, and when he got them he would make use of them in business, as well as elsewhere, with an acumen far greater than many men who had been educated at a public school. He rather prided himself upon his national-school training, and was fond of remarking, “Aw doan’t pretend to much book-learnin’, but aw knows my trade, an aw knows ’ow to make money by it—which a lot o’ people doan’t!”
Jack Sainsbury always found him amusing, for he was full of dry, witty remarks; and as he sat for a quarter of an hour, or so, the old fellow, puffing at his cigar—though he always smoked his pet pipe in his private office at the works—made some very caustic remarks about official red-tape at Whitehall.
“We’re a-makin’ munitions now,” he explained. “But oh! the queries we get, and the visits from officers in uniform—people who come and tell me ’ow aw should run my business, yet the first time they’ve ever seen a Drummond lathe is in one of my workshops. Aw say that ’arf of it’s all a mere wicked waste of a man’s time!”
“Yes,” sighed the young man—“I suppose there is far too much officialism; and yet perhaps it is necessary.” Then he added, “Is Elise at home, do you know?”
“Yes, she’s at ’ome, lad—she’s at ’ome!” laughed the old fellow cheerily. “Aw know you want to go oop to ’er. Well, aw did the same when I wor your age. Aw won’t keep yer longer. So go oop, lad, an’ see ’er. My wife’s out somewhere—gone to see one of ’er fine friends, I expect.”
Jack did not want further persuasion. Leaving the old man, he closed the door, ran up the carpeted steps two at a time and, in a few moments, held his well-beloved fondly in his arms.
She looked very pretty that night—a sweet, rather demure little figure in a smart, but young-looking dinner-gown of pale cornflower-blue crêpe-de-chine, a dress which well became her, setting off her trim, dainty figure to perfection, while the touch of velvet of the same shade in her fair hair enhanced her beauty.
“Oh! I’m so glad you’ve come, dear!” cried the girl, as she looked fondly into her lover’s face with those clear, childlike eyes, which held him always beneath their indescribable spell. And as he imprinted soft kisses upon her lips, she added: “Do you know, Jack, I may be most awfully silly—probably you’ll say I am—but the truth is I have suddenly been seized by grave apprehensions concerning you.”
“Why, darling?” he asked quickly, still holding her in his strong arms.
“Well, I’ll confess, however silly it may appear,” said the girl. “All day to-day I’ve felt ever so anxious about you. I know that, like poor Dr Jerrold, you are trying to discover and punish the spies of Germany. Now, those people know it. They are as unscrupulous as they are vindictive, and I—well, I’ve been seriously wondering whether, knowing that you are their enemy, they may not endeavour to do you some grave harm.”
“Harm!” laughed the young man. “Why, whatever makes you anticipate such a thing, darling?”
“Well—I don’t really know,” was her reply. “Only to-day I’ve been thinking so much about it all—about Dr Jerrold’s strange death, and of all you’ve lately told me—that I’m very apprehensive. Do take care of yourself, Jack dear, won’t you—for my sake?”
“Of course I will,” he said, with a smile. “But what terrible fate do you anticipate for me? You don’t really think that the Germans will try and murder me, do you?”
“Ah! You don’t know what revenge they might not take upon you,” the girl said as they stood together near the fire in the big, handsome room, his arm tenderly around her waist. “Remember that poor Dr Jerrold upset a good many of their plans, and that you helped him.”
“Well, and if I did, I don’t really anticipate being assassinated,” he answered, quite calmly.
“But the doctor died. Why?” asked the girl. “Could his death have been due to revenge, do you think?”
Jack Sainsbury was silent. It was not the first time that that vague and terrible suggestion had crossed his mind, yet he had never uttered a word to her regarding his suspicions.
“Jerome committed suicide,” was his quiet, thoughtful reply.
“That’s what the doctors said. But do you think he really did?” queried the girl.
Jack shrugged his shoulders, but made no reply.
“Ah! I see! You yourself are not quite convinced!” she said, looking him straight in the face.
“Well, Elise,” he said after a brief silence, and with a forced laugh, “I really don’t think I should worry. I can surely take care of myself. Perhaps you would like me to carry a revolver? I’ll do so, if it will content you.”
“You can’t be too careful, dear,” she said earnestly, laying her slim fingers upon his arm. “Remember that they are the spies of the most barbarous race on earth and, in order to gain their ends, they’ll stick at nothing.”
“Not even at killing your humble and most devoted servant—eh?” laughed Jack. “Well, if it will relieve your mind I’ll carry a pistol. I have an automatic Browning at home—a bit rusty, I fear.”
“Then carry it with you always, dear.—I—” But she hesitated in her eagerness, and did not conclude her sentence.
In a second he realised that she had been on the point of speaking, of telling him something. Yet she had broken off just in time. That fact puzzled him considerably.
“Well,” he asked, his serious gaze fixed upon those big blue eyes of his well-beloved, while her fair head rested upon his shoulder: “what has caused you these gloomy forebodings concerning myself, dearest? Tell me.”
“Oh, nothing,” she replied in a strange, nervous voice. “I suppose that I’m horribly silly, of course. But, knowing all that you have told me about the wonderful spy-system of Germany, I have now become gravely apprehensive regarding your safety.”
Jack saw that she was endeavouring to conceal something. What knowledge had she gained? In an instant he grew eagerly interested. Yet he did not, at the moment, press her further.
“And you think that the fact of carrying a gun will be a protection to me, do you, little one? Well, most women believe that. Yet, as a matter of fact, firearms are very little protection. If a man is seriously marked down by an enemy, a whole army of detectives cannot save him. Think of the political assassinations, anarchist outrages, and the like. Police protection has usually proved futile.”
“But you can take proper ordinary precautions,” she suggested.
“And pray, dear, why do you ask me to take precautions?” he inquired. Then, looking earnestly into her eyes, he added very gravely: “Something—or somebody—has put all these grim fears into your head. Now, dearest, tell me the truth,” he urged.
She made no response. Her eyes were downcast, and he saw that she hesitated. For what reason?
“Whoever has put all these silly ideas into your head, darling, is responsible to me!” he said in a hard voice.
“Well, Jack, I—I really can’t help it. I—I love you, as you know; and I can’t bear to think that you are running into danger, as you undoubtedly are.”
He looked into her pretty face again.
“Now look here, darling,” he went on: “aren’t you getting just a little too nervous about me? I quite admit that in these days of wars, of terrible massacres, of barbarism and of outrages of which even African savages would not be guilty, one is apt to become unduly nervous. You’ve been reading the papers, perhaps. They don’t always tell us the truth nowadays, with the Censor trying to hide up everything.”
“No, Jack,” she said boldly. “I haven’t been reading the papers. I’m only anxious to save you.”
“But how do you know that I’m in any danger?” he asked quickly. “Why be anxious at all? I assure you that I’m perfectly safe. Nobody will lift a finger against me. Why should they?”
“Ah! you don’t see,” she cried. “There is a motive—a hidden motive of revenge. Your enemies intend to do you harm—grievous bodily harm. I know that.”
“How?” he asked quickly, fixing her splendid eyes with his.
That straight, bold question caused her to hesitate. She had intended to prevaricate, that he knew. She did not wish to reveal the truth to him, yet she feared lest he might be annoyed. Nevertheless, so serious was he, so calm and utterly defiant in face of her grave warning, that a second later she found herself wavering.
“Well,” she replied, “I—I feel absolutely certain that it is intended that some harm shall come to you.”
“Then I’d better go to Scotland Yard and say that I’m threatened—eh?” he laughed merrily. “And they will put on somebody to watch me, well knowing that, if the whole of Scotland Yard—from the Assistant Commissioner downwards—were put on to shadow me, the result would be just the same. I should surely be killed, if my enemies had seriously plotted my death.”
“That’s just my very argument,” she said sagely, her pretty head slightly inclined as she spoke. “I feel convinced that some evil is intended.”
“But why, darling?” he asked in surprise. “What causes you all these silly notions?”
“Several things. Frankly, I don’t believe that Dr Jerrold took his own life. I believe that he was a victim of the dastardly spies of the Great Assassin.”
Jack said nothing. The mystery in Wimpole Street was great. Yet, how could they dispute the medical evidence?
“That’s another matter,” he remarked. “How does that concern my safety?”
“It does, very deeply. Your enemies know that you assisted Jerrold, and I am firmly convinced that you are marked down in consequence.”
“My darling!” he cried, drawing her closer to him. “You really make me feel quite creepy all over!” and he laughed.
“Oh, I do wish, dear, you’d take this grave danger seriously!”
“But I don’t. That’s just it!” he answered. “I quite understand, darling, that you may be anxious, but I really feel that your anxiety is quite groundless and hence unnecessary.”
The girl sighed, and then protested, saying—
“Ah! if you would only heed my warning!”
“Haven’t I promised to do so? I’m going to carry my revolver in future.”
“You take it as a huge joke!” she said in dissatisfaction, disengaging herself slowly from his embrace.
“I do. Because I can’t see why you should warn me. Who has put such thoughts into your head? Surely I know how to take care of myself?” he exclaimed.
“Perhaps you do. But that a grave danger threatens you, Jack, I happen to know,” was her serious reply.
“How do you know?” he asked quickly, facing her. He had, all along, seen that, for some unaccountable reason, she was hesitating to tell him the truth.
“Well,” she said slowly, “if—if I tell you the truth, Jack dear, you won’t laugh at me, will you?” she asked at last.
“Of course not, my darling. I know full well that you love me, and, as a natural consequence, you are perhaps a little too apprehensive.”
“I have cause to be,” she said in a low voice, and, taking from the breast of her low-cut gown a crumpled letter, she handed it to him, saying: “A week ago I received this! Read it!”
He took it and, opening it, found it to be an ill-scribbled note, upon a sheet of common note-paper such as one would buy in a penny packet, envelopes included.
The note, which was anonymous, and bore the postmark of Willesden, commenced with the words “Dear Miss,” and ran as follows:
“Your lover, Sainsbury, has been warned to keep his nose out of other people’s affairs, and as he continues to inquire about what does not concern him his activity is to be cut short. Tell him that, as he has disregarded the advice given him by letter two months ago, his fate is now sealed. The arm of Germany’s vengeance is long, and reaches far. So beware—both of you!”
For a few seconds Jack held the mysterious missive in his hand, and then suddenly he burst out laughing.
“You surely won’t allow this to worry you?” he exclaimed. “Why, it’s only some crank—somebody we know who is playing a silly practical joke,”—and folding the letter, he gave it back to her with a careless air. “Such a letter as that doesn’t worry me for a single minute.”
“But it contains a distinct assertion—that you are doomed!” cried the girl, pale-faced and very anxious.
“Yes—it certainly is a very cheerful note. Whom do you know at Willesden?”
“Not a soul that I can think of. I’ve been puzzling my brains for days as to anybody I know there, but can think of no one.”
“It was posted out there on purpose, no doubt!” he laughed. “Well, if I were you, Elise, I wouldn’t give it another thought.”
“Ah, that’s all very well. But I can’t get rid of the distinct belief that some mischief is intended,” answered the girl very gravely.
“No, no, darling?” he assured her, placing his arm again round her slim waist, and kissing her fondly upon the lips. “Don’t anticipate any such thing. Somebody’s having a game with us. They think it a huge joke, no doubt.”
“But do look the facts in the face, Jack!” she urged. “These spies of Germany, swarming over the country as they do, will hesitate at nothing in order to gain victory for their barbarous Fatherland. Not only have we to fight the unscrupulous army of the Kaiser, remember, but another army of pro-Germans in our midst,—those pretended Englishmen who have their ‘spiritual homes’ in Berlin.”
“True. But don’t let that letter get on your nerves, darling. Burn it, and then forget it.”
“Did you ever receive a letter warning you?” she asked.
“Yes. I’ve had several. One was, I believe, in the same handwriting as yours,” was his rather careless reply.
“You never told me of them!”
“Because I discarded them,” he said. “I believe I’ve had quite half a dozen at various times, but I pay no attention to people who don’t sign their names.”
Elise Shearman sighed. In her fine blue eyes there was a distinctly troubled look.
She loved Jack very deeply and tenderly. What if these people actually did make an attempt upon his life? Suppose he were killed! That the spies of Germany had every motive to put an end to his activity in ferreting them out, was quite plain. Indeed, her father, knowing nothing of the anonymous letter, had referred to it that evening. He had declared that her lover was running very grave risks. It had been this remark which had set her thinking more deeply and more apprehensively.
Jack saw that she was worrying, therefore he kissed her fondly, and reassured her that no harm would befall him.
“I’ll take every precaution possible, in order to satisfy you, my darling,” he declared, his strong arms again around her as he held her closely to him.
They looked indeed a handsome pair—he tall, good-looking, strong and manly, and she dainty and fair, with a sweet, delightful expression upon her pretty face.
“Then—then you really love me, Jack?” she faltered, looking up into his face as he whispered into her delicate ear, regretting if any ill-considered word he had uttered had pained her.
“Love you, my darling?” he cried passionately—“why, of course I do. How can you doubt me? You surely know that, for me, there is only one good, true woman in all the world—your own dear, sweet self!” She smiled in full content, burying her pretty head upon his shoulder.
“Then—then you really will take care of yourself, Jack—won’t you?” she implored. “When you are absent I’m always thinking—and wondering—”
“And worrying, I fear, little one,” he interrupted. “Now don’t worry. I assure you that I’m quite safe—that—”
His sentence was interrupted by a tap at the door. They sprang apart, and Littlewood, old Dan’s neat, middle-aged manservant—a North-country man, a trusted friend of the family—entered and, addressing Jack, said, with that pleasant burr in his voice:
“There’s a gentleman called, sir—gives the name of Murray, sir. He wants to see you a moment upon some rather urgent business.”
“Murray?” echoed Jack. “I don’t recollect the name. Who is he?”
“He’s a gentleman, sir. He’s down in the hall. He won’t detain you a minute, he says,” was the man’s reply.
“Then excuse me a moment,” he said in apology to Elise, and left the room, descending to the hall with Littlewood.
Below stood a clean-shaven man in a black overcoat who, advancing to meet him, said—“Are you Mr Sainsbury, sir?”
“Yes. That’s my name,” replied the young man.
“I want to speak to you privately, just for a few moments,” the stranger said. “I want to tell you something in confidence,” he added, lowering his voice. “Shall we go outside the door?” and he glanced meaningly at Littlewood.
At first Jack was much puzzled, but, next moment, he said—
“Certainly—if you wish.”
Then both men went forth, descending the steps to the pavement, whereupon a second man, who sprang from nowhere, joined them instantly, while “Mr Murray” said, in a calm and quite determined voice—
“Mr Sainsbury, we are officers of the Criminal Investigation Department, and we arrest you upon a warrant charging you with certain offences under the Defence of the Realm Act.”
“What!” gasped Jack, staring at them absolutely dumbfounded. “Are you mad? What tomfoolery is this?”
“I will read the warrant over to you at Bow Street,” answered the man who had called himself Murray.
And, as he uttered the words, a taxi that had been waiting a few doors away drew up, and almost before Sainsbury could protest, or seek permission to return to his fiancée and explain the farce in progress, he was, in full view of Littlewood, bundled unceremoniously into the conveyance, which, next instant, moved swiftly down the hill in the direction of Swiss Cottage station, on its way to Bow Street Police Station.