CHAPTER XII.AT THE MILL HOUSEClad in a suit of Mr. Basil Bellward’s pyjamas of elaborate blue-flowered silk, Desmond lay propped up in bed in Mr. Bellward’s luxuriously fitted bedroom, sipping his morning coffee, and studying with absorbed interest a sheet of blue foolscap. A number of papers lay strewn about the eiderdown quilt. At the head of the bed a handsome Sheraton bureau stood open.As the French say, Mr. Bellward had refused himself nothing. His bedroom was most tastefully furnished. The furniture was mahogany, every piece carefully chosen, and the chintz of curtains and upholstery was bright and attractive. A most elaborate mahogany wardrobe was fitted into the wall, and Desmond, investigating it, had found it to contain a very large assortment of clothes of every description, all new or nearly so, and bearing the name of a famous tailor of Cork Street. Folding doors, resembling a cupboard, disclosed, when open, a marble basin with hot water laid on, while a curtained door in the corner of the room gave access to a white tiled bathroom. Mr. Bellward, Desmond had reflected after his tour of the room on his arrival, evidently laid weight on his personal comfort; for the contrast between the cheerful comfort of his bedroom and the musty gloom of the rooms downstairs was very marked.A bright log fire hissed on the open hearth and the room was pleasantly warm. Old Martha’s coffee was excellent, and Desmond, very snug in Mr. Bellward’s comfortable bed, noted with regret that the clock on the mantel-shelf marked a quarter to twelve. But then he thought of the tête-à-tête luncheon that awaited him at one o’clock and his face cleared. He didn’t mind getting up so much after all.He fell again to the perusal of the documents which he had found, as indicated in the note from headquarters, in the desk by the bed. They were enclosed in two envelopes, one large, the other small, both without any superscription. The large envelope enclosed Mr. Bellward’s dossier which consisted of a fairly detailed account of his private life, movements, habits and friends, and an account of his arrest. The small envelope contained Desmond’s eagerly expected orders.Desmond examined the papers in the large envelope first. From them he ascertained that the house in which he found himself was called The Mill House, and was situated two and a half miles from the station of Wentfield on the Great Eastern Railway in Essex. Mr. Bellward had taken the place some eight years before, having moved there from the Surrey hills, but had been wont to spend not more than two months in the year there. For the rest of the time he traveled abroad, usually passing the winter months on the Riviera, and the spring in Switzerland or Italy. The war had brought about a change in his habits, and Harrogate, Buxton and Bath had taken the place of the Continental resorts which he had frequented in peace time.When in residence at The Mill House, Mr. Bellward had gone up to London nearly every morning, either walking or going by motor-cycle to the station, and not returning until dinner-time in the evening. Sometimes he passed the night in London, and on such occasions slept at a small hotel in Jermyn Street. His dossier included, a long and carefully compiled list of the people he knew in London, mostly men of the rich business set, stockbrokers, manufacturers, solicitors, and the like. Against every name was set a note of the exact degree of intimacy existing between Bellward and the man in question, and any other information that might serve Bellward’s impersonator in good stead. Desmond laid this list aside for the moment, intending to study it more closely at his leisure.Of intercourse with his neighbors in, the country, Mr. Bellward apparently had none. The Mill House stood in a lonely part of the country, remote from the more thickly populated centres of Brentwood and Romford, on the edge of a wide tract of inhospitable marshland, known as Morstead Fen, intersected by those wide deep ditches which in this part of the world are known as dykes. At this stage in the report there was a note to the effect that the rector of Wentfield had called twice at The Mill House but had not found Mr. Bellward at home, and that his visits had not been returned. There were also some opinions apparently culled locally regarding the tenant of the Mill House, set out something in this wise:—“Landlord of the Red Lion, Wentfield: The gentleman has never been to the Red Lion, but sometimes orders my Ford car and always pays regularly.“The Stationmaster at Wentfield: A gentleman who keeps himself to himself but very liberal with his money.“Sir Marsham Dykes, of The Chase, Stanning: A damned unsociable churlish fellow.“Mr. Tracy Wentfield, of the Channings, Home Green: A very rude man. He slammed the front door of the house in my face when I went to ask him for a contribution to our Cottage Hospital. It is not my habit to repeat idle gossip, but they do say he is a heavy drinker.”There was a lot more of this sort of thing, and Desmond turned from it with a smile to take up the account of Bellward’s arrest. It appeared that, about a fortnight before, on the eve of the departure for France of a very large draft of troops, a telegram was handed in at the East Strand telegraph office addressed to Bellward. This telegram ran thus:“Bellward, Bellward Hotel, Jermyn Street.“Shipping to you Friday 22,000 please advise correspondents.“MORTIMER.”The authorities were unable to deliver this telegram as no such an hotel as the Hotel Bellward was found to exist in Jermyn Street. An examination of the address showed clearly that the sender had absent mindedly repeated the addressee’s name in writing the name of the hotel. An advice was therefore addressed to the sender, Mortimer, at the address he had given on the back of the form, according to the regulations, to inform him that his telegram had not been delivered. It was then discovered that the address given by Mortimer was fictitious.Suspicion being thus aroused, the telegram was forwarded to the Postal Censor’s department whence it reached the Intelligence Authorities who promptly spotted the connection between the wording of the telegram and the imminent departure of the drafts, more especially as the dates tallied. Thereupon, Mr. Bellward was hunted up and ultimately traced by his correspondence to The Mill House. He was not found there, but was eventually encountered at his London hotel, and requested to appear before the authorities with a view to throwing some light on Mortimer. Under cross-examination Bellward flatly denied any knowledge of Mortimer, and declared that a mistake had been made. He cited various well known city men to speak for his bona-fides and protested violently against the action of the authorities in doubting his word. It was ultimately elicited that Bellward was of German birth and had never been naturalized, and he was detained in custody while a search was made at The Mill House.The search was conducted with great discretion, old Martha being got out of the way before the detectives arrived and a careful watch being kept to avoid any chance of interruption. The search had the most fruitful results. Hidden in a secret drawer of the Sheraton desk in Bellward’s bedroom, was found a most elaborate analysis of the movements of the transports to France, extremely accurate and right up to date. There was absolutely no indication, however, as to whence Bellward received his reports, and how or to whom he forwarded them. It was surmised that Mortimer was his informant, but an exhaustive search of the post office files of telegrams despatched showed no trace of any other telegram from Mortimer to Bellward save the one in the possession of the authorities. As for Mortimer, he remained a complete enigma.That, summarised, was the gist of the story of Bellward’s arrest. The report laid great stress on the fact that no one outside half a dozen Intelligence men had any knowledge (a) of Bellward being an unnaturalized German, (b) of his arrest.Desmond’s orders, which he reserved to the last were short and to the point. They consisted of five numbered clauses.“1. You will have a free hand. The surveillance of the house was withdrawn on your arrival and will not be renewed.“2. You will not leave the house until further orders.“3. You will keep careful note of any communication that may be made to you, whether verbal or in writing, of whatever nature it is. When you have anything to be forwarded, ring up 700 Slanning on the telephone and give Bellward’s name. You will hand your report to the first person calling at the house thereafter asking for the letter for Mr. Elias.“4. If help is urgently required, ring up 700 Stanning and ask for Mr. Elias. Assistance will be with you within 15 minutes after. This expedient must only be used in the last extremity.“5. Memorize these documents and burn the lot before you leave the house.”“Handy fellow, Mr. Elias,” was Desmond’s commentary, as he sprang out of bed and made for the bathroom. At a quarter to one he was ready dressed, feeling very scratchy and uncomfortable about the beard which he had not dared to remove owing to Nur-el-Din’s presence in the house. Before he left the bedroom, he paused a moment at the desk, the documents of the Bellward case in his hands. He had a singularly retentive memory, and he was loth to have these compromising papers in the house whilst Nur-el-Din was there. He took a quick decision and pitched the whole lot into the fire, retaining only the annotated list of Mr. Bellward’s friends. This he placed in his pocket-book and, after watching the rest of the papers crumble away into ashes, went downstairs to lunch.Nur-el-Din was in the drawing-room, a long room with two high windows which gave on a neglected looking garden. A foaming, churning brook wound its way through the garden, among stunted bushes and dripping willows, obviously the mill-race from which the house took its name. The drawing-room was a bare, inhospitable room, studded here and there with uncomfortable looking early Victorian armchairs swathed in dust-proof cloths. A fire was making an unsuccessful attempt to burn in the open grate.Nur-el-Din turned as he entered the room. She was wearing a gray cloth tailor-made with a white silk, blouse and a short skirt showing a pair of very natty brown boots. By contrast with her ugly surroundings she looked fresh and dainty. Her eyes were bright and her face as smooth and unwrinkled as a child’s.“Bon jour,” she cried gaily, “ah! but I am ’ungry! It is the air of the country! I love so the country!”“I hope you slept well, Madame!” said Desmond solicitously, looking admiringly at her trim figure.“Like a dead man,” she replied with a little laugh, translating the French idiom. “Shall we make a leetle promenade after thedéjeuner?And you shall show me your pretty English country,voulez-vous?You see, I am dressed forle footing!”She lifted a little brown foot.They had a delightful luncheon together. Old Martha, who proved to be quite a passable cook, waited on them. There was some excellent Burgundy and a carafe of old brandy with the coffee. Nur-el-Din was in her most gracious and captivating mood. She had dropped all her arrogance of their last interview and seemed to lay herself out to please. She had a keen sense of humor and entertained Desmond vastly by her anecdotes of her stage career, some not a littlerisqué, but narrated with the greatestbonhomie.But, strongly attracted as he was to the girl, Desmond did not let himself lose sight of his ultimate object. He let her run on as gaily as she might but steadily, relentlessly he swung the conversation round to her last engagement at the Palaceum. He wanted to see if she would make any reference to the murder at Seven Kings. If he could only bring in old Mackwayte’s name, he knew that the dancermustallude to the tragedy.Then the unexpected happened. The girl introduced the old comedian’s name herself.“The only pleasant memory I shall preserve of the Palaceum,” she said in French, “is my meeting with an old comrade of my youth. Imagine, I had not seen him for nearly twenty years. Monsieur Mackwayte, his name is, we used to call him Monsieur Arthur in the old days when I was the child acrobat of the Dupont Troupe. Such a charming fellow; and not a bit changed! He was doing a deputy turn at the Palaceum on the last night I appeared there! And he introduced me to his daughter!Une belle Anglaise!I shall hope to see my old friend again when I go back to London!”Desmond stared at her. If this were acting, the most hardened criminal could not have carried it off better. He searched the girl’s face. It was frank and innocent. She ran on about Mackwayte in the old days, his kindliness to everyone, his pretty wife, without a shadow of an attempt to avoid an unpleasant topic. Desmond began to believe that not only did the girl have nothing to do with the tragedy but that actually she knew nothing about it.“Did you see the newspapers yesterday?” he asked suddenly.“My friend,” said Nur-el-Din, shaking her curls at him. “I never read your English papers. There is nothing but the war in them. And this war!”She gave a little shudder and was silent.At this moment old Martha, who had left them over their coffee and cigarettes, came into the room.“There’s a gentleman called to see you, sir!” she said to Desmond.Desmond started violently. He was scarcely used to his new rôle as yet.“Who is it, Martha?” he said, mastering his agitation.“Mr. Mortimer!” mumbled the old woman in her tired voice, “at least that’s what he said his name was. The gentleman hadn’t got a card!”Nur-el-Din sprang up from her chair so vehemently that she upset her coffee.“Don’t let him come in!” she cried in French.“Did you say I was in?” Desmond asked the old housekeeper, who was staring at the dancer.“Why, yes, sir,” the woman answered.Desmond made a gesture of vexation.“Where is this Mr. Mortimer?” he asked“In the library, sir!”“Tell him I will be with him at once.”Martha hobbled away and Desmond turned to the girl.“You heard what my housekeeper said? The man is here. I shall have to see him.”Nur-el-Din, white to the lips, stood by the table, nervously twisting a little handkerchief.“Non, non,” she said rapidly, “you must not see him. He has come to find me. Ah! if he should find out what I have done... you will not give me up to this man?”“You need not see him,” Desmond expostulated gently, “I will say you are not here! Who is this Mortimer that he should seek to do you harm?”“My friend,” said the dancer sadly, “he is my evil genius. If I had dreamt that you knew him I would never have sought refuge in your house.”“But I’ve never set eyes on the man in my life!” exclaimed Desmond.The dancer shook her head mournfully at him.“Very few of you have, my friend,” she replied, “but you are all under his orders,n’est-ce pas?”Desmond’s heart leaped. Was Mortimer’s the guiding hand of this network of conspiracy?“I’ve trusted you, Monsieur,” Nur-el-Din continued in a pleading voice, “you will respect the laws of hospitality, and hide me from this man. You will not give me up! Promise it, my friend?”Desmond felt strangely moved. Was this a callous murderess, a hired spy, who, with her great eyes brimming over with tears, entreated his protection so simply, so appealingly?“I promise I will not give you up to him,Mademoiselle!” he said and hated himself in the same breath for the part he had to play. Then he left her still standing by the table, lost in thought.Desmond walked through the hall to the room in which he had found Nur-el-Din asleep on his arrival. His nerves were strung up tight for the impending encounter with this Mortimer, whoever, whatever he was. Desmond did not hesitate on the threshold of the room. He quietly opened the door and walked in.A man in a black and white check suit with white gaiters stood on the hearthrug, his hands tucked behind his back. He had a curiously young-old appearance, such as is found in professors and scientists of a certain type. This suggestion was probably heightened by the very strong spectacles he wore, which magnified his eyes until they looked like large colored marbles. He had a heavy curling moustache resembling that affected by the late Lord Randolph Churchill. There was a good deal of mud on his boots, showing that he had come on foot.The two men measured one another in a brief but courteous glance. Desmond wondered what on earth this man’s profession was. He was quite unable to place him.“Mr. Bellward?” said Mortimer, in a pleasant cultivated voice, “I am pleased to have this opportunity of meeting you personally.”Desmond bowed and muttered something conventional. Mortimer had put out his hand but Desmond could not nerve himself to take it. Instead he pushed forward a chair.“Thanks,” said Mortimer sitting down heavily, “I’ve had quite a walk across the fen. It’s pleasant out but damp! I suppose you didn’t get my letter?”“Which letter was that” asked Desmond.“Why the one asking you to let me know when you would be back so that we might meet at last!”Desmond shook his head.“No,” he said, “I didn’t get that one. It must have gone astray. As a matter of fact,” he added, “I only got back this morning.”“Oh, well then, I am fortunate in my visit,” said Mortimer. “Did everything go off all right?”“Oh, yes,” Desmond hastened to say, not knowing what he was talking about, “everything went off all right.”“I don’t in the least grudge you the holiday,” the other observed, “one should always be careful to pay the last respects to the dead. It makes a good impression. That is so important in some countries!”He beamed at Desmond through his spectacles.“Was there anything left in your absence?” he asked, “no, there would be nothing; I suppose!”Desmond took a firm resolution. He must know what the man was driving at.“I don’t know what you mean,” he said bluntly.“God bless my soul!” ejaculated Mortimer turning round to stare at him through his grotesque glasses. And then he said very deliberately in German:“War niemand da?”Desmond stood up promptly.“What do you want with me?” he asked quietly, “and why do you speak German in my house?” Mortimer gazed at him blankly.“Excellence, most excellent,” he gasped. “I love prudence. My friend, where are your eyes?”He put a large, firm hand up and touched the upper edge of the left lapel of his jacket. Desmond followed his gesture with his eyes and saw the other’s first finger resting on the shiny glass head of a black pin. Almost instinctively Desmond imitated the gesture. His fingers came into contact with a glassheaded pin similarly embedded in the upper edge of the lapel of his own coat.Then he understood. This must be the distinguishing badge of this confraternity of spies. It was a clever idea, for the black pin was practically invisible, unless one looked for it, and even if seen, would give rise to no suspicions. It had obviously escaped the notice of the Chief and his merry men, and Desmond made a mental resolve to rub this omission well into his superior on the first opportunity. He felt he owed the Chief one.Mr. Mortimer cleared his throat, as though to indicate the conclusion of the episode. Desmond sat down on the settee.“Nothing came while I was away!” he said.“Now that you are back,” Mortimer remarked, polishing his glasses with a bandanna handkerchief, “the service will be resumed. I have come to see you, Mr. Bellward,” he went on, turning to Desmond, “contrary to my usual practice, mainly because I wished to confirm by personal observation the very favorable opinion I had formed of your ability from our correspondence. You have already demonstrated your discretion to me. If you continue to show that your prudence is on a level with your zeal, believe I shall not prove myself ungrateful.”So saying he settled his glasses on his nose again.The action woke Desmond from a brown study. During the operation of wiping his spectacles, Mr. Mortimer had given Desmond a glimpse of his eyes in their natural state without the protection of those distorting glasses. To his intense surprise Desmond had seen, instead of the weak, blinking eyes of extreme myopia, a pair of keen piercing eyes with the clear whites of perfect health. Those blue eyes, set rather close together, seemed dimly familiar. Someone, somewhere, had once looked at him like that.“You are too kind,” murmured Desmond, grappling for the thread of the conversation.Mortimer did not apparently notice his absentmindedness.“Everything has run smoothly,” he resumed, “on the lines on which we have been working hitherto, but more important work lies before us. I have found it necessary to select a quiet rendezvous where I might have an opportunity of conferring in person with my associates. The first of these conferences will take place very shortly. I count upon your attendance, Bellward!”“I shall not fail you,” replied Desmond. “But where is this rendezvous of yours, might I ask?”Mortimer shot a quick glance at him.“You shall know in good time,” he answered drily. Then he added:“Do you mind if I have a few words with Nur-el-Din before I go!”The unexpected question caught Desmond off his guard.“Nur-el-Din?” he stammered feebly.“She is staying with you, I believe,” said Mortimer pleasantly.Desmond shook his head.“There must be some mistake,” he averred stoutly, “of course I know who you mean, but I have never met the lady. She is not here. What led you to suppose she was?”But even as he spoke, his eyes fell on a black object which lay near his arm stretched out along the back of the settee. It was a little velvet hat, skewered to the upholstery of the settee by a couple of jewelled hat-pins. A couple of gaudy cushions lay between it and Mortimer’s range of vision from the chair in which the latter was sitting. If only Mortimer had not spotted it already!Desmond’s presence of mind did not desert him. On the pretext of settling himself more comfortably he edged up another cushion until it rested upon the other two, thus effectively screening the hat from Mortimer’s view even when he should get up.“I wish she were here,” Desmond added, smiling, “one could not have a more delightful companion to share one’s solitude, I imagine.”“The lady has disappeared from London under rather suspicious circumstances;” Mortimer said, letting his grotesque eyes rest for a moment on Desmond’s face, “to be quite frank with you, my dear fellow, she has been indiscreet, and the police are after her.”“You don’t say!” cried Desmond.“Indeed, it is a fact,” replied the other, “I wish she would take you as her model, my dear Bellward. You are the pattern of prudence, are you not?”He paused perceptibly and Desmond held his breath.“She has very few reputable friends,” Mortimer continued presently, “under a cloud as she is, she could hardly frequent the company of her old associates, Mowbury and Lazarro and Mrs. Malplaquet, you doubtless know whom I mean. I know she has a very strong recommendation to you, so I naturally thought—well, no matter!”He rose and extended his hand.“Au revoir, Bellward,” he said, “you shall hear from me very soon. You’ve got a snug little place here, I must say, and everything in charming taste. I like your pretty cushions.”The blood flew to Desmond’s face and he bent down, on pretense of examining the cushions, to hide his confusion.“They aren’t bad,” he said, “I got them at Harrod’s!”He accompanied Mortimer to the front door and watched him disappear down the short drive and turn out of the gate into the road. Then feeling strangely ill at ease, he went back to join Nur-el-Din in the dining-room. But only the housekeeper was there, clearing the table.“If you’re looking for the young lady, sir,” said old Martha, “she’s gone out!”“Oh!” said Desmond, with a shade of disappointment in his voice, “will she be back for tea?”“She’s not coming back at all,” answered the old woman, “she told me to tell you she could not stop, sir. And she wouldn’t let me disturb you, neither, sir.”“But did she leave no note or anything for me?” asked Desmond.“No, sir,” answered old Martha as she folded up the cloth.Gone! Desmond stared gloomily out at the sopping garden with an uneasy feeling that he had failed in his duty.
Clad in a suit of Mr. Basil Bellward’s pyjamas of elaborate blue-flowered silk, Desmond lay propped up in bed in Mr. Bellward’s luxuriously fitted bedroom, sipping his morning coffee, and studying with absorbed interest a sheet of blue foolscap. A number of papers lay strewn about the eiderdown quilt. At the head of the bed a handsome Sheraton bureau stood open.
As the French say, Mr. Bellward had refused himself nothing. His bedroom was most tastefully furnished. The furniture was mahogany, every piece carefully chosen, and the chintz of curtains and upholstery was bright and attractive. A most elaborate mahogany wardrobe was fitted into the wall, and Desmond, investigating it, had found it to contain a very large assortment of clothes of every description, all new or nearly so, and bearing the name of a famous tailor of Cork Street. Folding doors, resembling a cupboard, disclosed, when open, a marble basin with hot water laid on, while a curtained door in the corner of the room gave access to a white tiled bathroom. Mr. Bellward, Desmond had reflected after his tour of the room on his arrival, evidently laid weight on his personal comfort; for the contrast between the cheerful comfort of his bedroom and the musty gloom of the rooms downstairs was very marked.
A bright log fire hissed on the open hearth and the room was pleasantly warm. Old Martha’s coffee was excellent, and Desmond, very snug in Mr. Bellward’s comfortable bed, noted with regret that the clock on the mantel-shelf marked a quarter to twelve. But then he thought of the tête-à-tête luncheon that awaited him at one o’clock and his face cleared. He didn’t mind getting up so much after all.
He fell again to the perusal of the documents which he had found, as indicated in the note from headquarters, in the desk by the bed. They were enclosed in two envelopes, one large, the other small, both without any superscription. The large envelope enclosed Mr. Bellward’s dossier which consisted of a fairly detailed account of his private life, movements, habits and friends, and an account of his arrest. The small envelope contained Desmond’s eagerly expected orders.
Desmond examined the papers in the large envelope first. From them he ascertained that the house in which he found himself was called The Mill House, and was situated two and a half miles from the station of Wentfield on the Great Eastern Railway in Essex. Mr. Bellward had taken the place some eight years before, having moved there from the Surrey hills, but had been wont to spend not more than two months in the year there. For the rest of the time he traveled abroad, usually passing the winter months on the Riviera, and the spring in Switzerland or Italy. The war had brought about a change in his habits, and Harrogate, Buxton and Bath had taken the place of the Continental resorts which he had frequented in peace time.
When in residence at The Mill House, Mr. Bellward had gone up to London nearly every morning, either walking or going by motor-cycle to the station, and not returning until dinner-time in the evening. Sometimes he passed the night in London, and on such occasions slept at a small hotel in Jermyn Street. His dossier included, a long and carefully compiled list of the people he knew in London, mostly men of the rich business set, stockbrokers, manufacturers, solicitors, and the like. Against every name was set a note of the exact degree of intimacy existing between Bellward and the man in question, and any other information that might serve Bellward’s impersonator in good stead. Desmond laid this list aside for the moment, intending to study it more closely at his leisure.
Of intercourse with his neighbors in, the country, Mr. Bellward apparently had none. The Mill House stood in a lonely part of the country, remote from the more thickly populated centres of Brentwood and Romford, on the edge of a wide tract of inhospitable marshland, known as Morstead Fen, intersected by those wide deep ditches which in this part of the world are known as dykes. At this stage in the report there was a note to the effect that the rector of Wentfield had called twice at The Mill House but had not found Mr. Bellward at home, and that his visits had not been returned. There were also some opinions apparently culled locally regarding the tenant of the Mill House, set out something in this wise:—
“Landlord of the Red Lion, Wentfield: The gentleman has never been to the Red Lion, but sometimes orders my Ford car and always pays regularly.“The Stationmaster at Wentfield: A gentleman who keeps himself to himself but very liberal with his money.“Sir Marsham Dykes, of The Chase, Stanning: A damned unsociable churlish fellow.“Mr. Tracy Wentfield, of the Channings, Home Green: A very rude man. He slammed the front door of the house in my face when I went to ask him for a contribution to our Cottage Hospital. It is not my habit to repeat idle gossip, but they do say he is a heavy drinker.”
There was a lot more of this sort of thing, and Desmond turned from it with a smile to take up the account of Bellward’s arrest. It appeared that, about a fortnight before, on the eve of the departure for France of a very large draft of troops, a telegram was handed in at the East Strand telegraph office addressed to Bellward. This telegram ran thus:
“Bellward, Bellward Hotel, Jermyn Street.“Shipping to you Friday 22,000 please advise correspondents.“MORTIMER.”
The authorities were unable to deliver this telegram as no such an hotel as the Hotel Bellward was found to exist in Jermyn Street. An examination of the address showed clearly that the sender had absent mindedly repeated the addressee’s name in writing the name of the hotel. An advice was therefore addressed to the sender, Mortimer, at the address he had given on the back of the form, according to the regulations, to inform him that his telegram had not been delivered. It was then discovered that the address given by Mortimer was fictitious.
Suspicion being thus aroused, the telegram was forwarded to the Postal Censor’s department whence it reached the Intelligence Authorities who promptly spotted the connection between the wording of the telegram and the imminent departure of the drafts, more especially as the dates tallied. Thereupon, Mr. Bellward was hunted up and ultimately traced by his correspondence to The Mill House. He was not found there, but was eventually encountered at his London hotel, and requested to appear before the authorities with a view to throwing some light on Mortimer. Under cross-examination Bellward flatly denied any knowledge of Mortimer, and declared that a mistake had been made. He cited various well known city men to speak for his bona-fides and protested violently against the action of the authorities in doubting his word. It was ultimately elicited that Bellward was of German birth and had never been naturalized, and he was detained in custody while a search was made at The Mill House.
The search was conducted with great discretion, old Martha being got out of the way before the detectives arrived and a careful watch being kept to avoid any chance of interruption. The search had the most fruitful results. Hidden in a secret drawer of the Sheraton desk in Bellward’s bedroom, was found a most elaborate analysis of the movements of the transports to France, extremely accurate and right up to date. There was absolutely no indication, however, as to whence Bellward received his reports, and how or to whom he forwarded them. It was surmised that Mortimer was his informant, but an exhaustive search of the post office files of telegrams despatched showed no trace of any other telegram from Mortimer to Bellward save the one in the possession of the authorities. As for Mortimer, he remained a complete enigma.
That, summarised, was the gist of the story of Bellward’s arrest. The report laid great stress on the fact that no one outside half a dozen Intelligence men had any knowledge (a) of Bellward being an unnaturalized German, (b) of his arrest.
Desmond’s orders, which he reserved to the last were short and to the point. They consisted of five numbered clauses.
“1. You will have a free hand. The surveillance of the house was withdrawn on your arrival and will not be renewed.
“2. You will not leave the house until further orders.
“3. You will keep careful note of any communication that may be made to you, whether verbal or in writing, of whatever nature it is. When you have anything to be forwarded, ring up 700 Slanning on the telephone and give Bellward’s name. You will hand your report to the first person calling at the house thereafter asking for the letter for Mr. Elias.
“4. If help is urgently required, ring up 700 Stanning and ask for Mr. Elias. Assistance will be with you within 15 minutes after. This expedient must only be used in the last extremity.
“5. Memorize these documents and burn the lot before you leave the house.”
“Handy fellow, Mr. Elias,” was Desmond’s commentary, as he sprang out of bed and made for the bathroom. At a quarter to one he was ready dressed, feeling very scratchy and uncomfortable about the beard which he had not dared to remove owing to Nur-el-Din’s presence in the house. Before he left the bedroom, he paused a moment at the desk, the documents of the Bellward case in his hands. He had a singularly retentive memory, and he was loth to have these compromising papers in the house whilst Nur-el-Din was there. He took a quick decision and pitched the whole lot into the fire, retaining only the annotated list of Mr. Bellward’s friends. This he placed in his pocket-book and, after watching the rest of the papers crumble away into ashes, went downstairs to lunch.
Nur-el-Din was in the drawing-room, a long room with two high windows which gave on a neglected looking garden. A foaming, churning brook wound its way through the garden, among stunted bushes and dripping willows, obviously the mill-race from which the house took its name. The drawing-room was a bare, inhospitable room, studded here and there with uncomfortable looking early Victorian armchairs swathed in dust-proof cloths. A fire was making an unsuccessful attempt to burn in the open grate.
Nur-el-Din turned as he entered the room. She was wearing a gray cloth tailor-made with a white silk, blouse and a short skirt showing a pair of very natty brown boots. By contrast with her ugly surroundings she looked fresh and dainty. Her eyes were bright and her face as smooth and unwrinkled as a child’s.
“Bon jour,” she cried gaily, “ah! but I am ’ungry! It is the air of the country! I love so the country!”
“I hope you slept well, Madame!” said Desmond solicitously, looking admiringly at her trim figure.
“Like a dead man,” she replied with a little laugh, translating the French idiom. “Shall we make a leetle promenade after thedéjeuner?And you shall show me your pretty English country,voulez-vous?You see, I am dressed forle footing!”
She lifted a little brown foot.
They had a delightful luncheon together. Old Martha, who proved to be quite a passable cook, waited on them. There was some excellent Burgundy and a carafe of old brandy with the coffee. Nur-el-Din was in her most gracious and captivating mood. She had dropped all her arrogance of their last interview and seemed to lay herself out to please. She had a keen sense of humor and entertained Desmond vastly by her anecdotes of her stage career, some not a littlerisqué, but narrated with the greatestbonhomie.
But, strongly attracted as he was to the girl, Desmond did not let himself lose sight of his ultimate object. He let her run on as gaily as she might but steadily, relentlessly he swung the conversation round to her last engagement at the Palaceum. He wanted to see if she would make any reference to the murder at Seven Kings. If he could only bring in old Mackwayte’s name, he knew that the dancermustallude to the tragedy.
Then the unexpected happened. The girl introduced the old comedian’s name herself.
“The only pleasant memory I shall preserve of the Palaceum,” she said in French, “is my meeting with an old comrade of my youth. Imagine, I had not seen him for nearly twenty years. Monsieur Mackwayte, his name is, we used to call him Monsieur Arthur in the old days when I was the child acrobat of the Dupont Troupe. Such a charming fellow; and not a bit changed! He was doing a deputy turn at the Palaceum on the last night I appeared there! And he introduced me to his daughter!Une belle Anglaise!I shall hope to see my old friend again when I go back to London!”
Desmond stared at her. If this were acting, the most hardened criminal could not have carried it off better. He searched the girl’s face. It was frank and innocent. She ran on about Mackwayte in the old days, his kindliness to everyone, his pretty wife, without a shadow of an attempt to avoid an unpleasant topic. Desmond began to believe that not only did the girl have nothing to do with the tragedy but that actually she knew nothing about it.
“Did you see the newspapers yesterday?” he asked suddenly.
“My friend,” said Nur-el-Din, shaking her curls at him. “I never read your English papers. There is nothing but the war in them. And this war!”
She gave a little shudder and was silent.
At this moment old Martha, who had left them over their coffee and cigarettes, came into the room.
“There’s a gentleman called to see you, sir!” she said to Desmond.
Desmond started violently. He was scarcely used to his new rôle as yet.
“Who is it, Martha?” he said, mastering his agitation.
“Mr. Mortimer!” mumbled the old woman in her tired voice, “at least that’s what he said his name was. The gentleman hadn’t got a card!”
Nur-el-Din sprang up from her chair so vehemently that she upset her coffee.
“Don’t let him come in!” she cried in French.
“Did you say I was in?” Desmond asked the old housekeeper, who was staring at the dancer.
“Why, yes, sir,” the woman answered.
Desmond made a gesture of vexation.
“Where is this Mr. Mortimer?” he asked
“In the library, sir!”
“Tell him I will be with him at once.”
Martha hobbled away and Desmond turned to the girl.
“You heard what my housekeeper said? The man is here. I shall have to see him.”
Nur-el-Din, white to the lips, stood by the table, nervously twisting a little handkerchief.
“Non, non,” she said rapidly, “you must not see him. He has come to find me. Ah! if he should find out what I have done... you will not give me up to this man?”
“You need not see him,” Desmond expostulated gently, “I will say you are not here! Who is this Mortimer that he should seek to do you harm?”
“My friend,” said the dancer sadly, “he is my evil genius. If I had dreamt that you knew him I would never have sought refuge in your house.”
“But I’ve never set eyes on the man in my life!” exclaimed Desmond.
The dancer shook her head mournfully at him.
“Very few of you have, my friend,” she replied, “but you are all under his orders,n’est-ce pas?”
Desmond’s heart leaped. Was Mortimer’s the guiding hand of this network of conspiracy?
“I’ve trusted you, Monsieur,” Nur-el-Din continued in a pleading voice, “you will respect the laws of hospitality, and hide me from this man. You will not give me up! Promise it, my friend?”
Desmond felt strangely moved. Was this a callous murderess, a hired spy, who, with her great eyes brimming over with tears, entreated his protection so simply, so appealingly?
“I promise I will not give you up to him,Mademoiselle!” he said and hated himself in the same breath for the part he had to play. Then he left her still standing by the table, lost in thought.
Desmond walked through the hall to the room in which he had found Nur-el-Din asleep on his arrival. His nerves were strung up tight for the impending encounter with this Mortimer, whoever, whatever he was. Desmond did not hesitate on the threshold of the room. He quietly opened the door and walked in.
A man in a black and white check suit with white gaiters stood on the hearthrug, his hands tucked behind his back. He had a curiously young-old appearance, such as is found in professors and scientists of a certain type. This suggestion was probably heightened by the very strong spectacles he wore, which magnified his eyes until they looked like large colored marbles. He had a heavy curling moustache resembling that affected by the late Lord Randolph Churchill. There was a good deal of mud on his boots, showing that he had come on foot.
The two men measured one another in a brief but courteous glance. Desmond wondered what on earth this man’s profession was. He was quite unable to place him.
“Mr. Bellward?” said Mortimer, in a pleasant cultivated voice, “I am pleased to have this opportunity of meeting you personally.”
Desmond bowed and muttered something conventional. Mortimer had put out his hand but Desmond could not nerve himself to take it. Instead he pushed forward a chair.
“Thanks,” said Mortimer sitting down heavily, “I’ve had quite a walk across the fen. It’s pleasant out but damp! I suppose you didn’t get my letter?”
“Which letter was that” asked Desmond.
“Why the one asking you to let me know when you would be back so that we might meet at last!”
Desmond shook his head.
“No,” he said, “I didn’t get that one. It must have gone astray. As a matter of fact,” he added, “I only got back this morning.”
“Oh, well then, I am fortunate in my visit,” said Mortimer. “Did everything go off all right?”
“Oh, yes,” Desmond hastened to say, not knowing what he was talking about, “everything went off all right.”
“I don’t in the least grudge you the holiday,” the other observed, “one should always be careful to pay the last respects to the dead. It makes a good impression. That is so important in some countries!”
He beamed at Desmond through his spectacles.
“Was there anything left in your absence?” he asked, “no, there would be nothing; I suppose!”
Desmond took a firm resolution. He must know what the man was driving at.
“I don’t know what you mean,” he said bluntly.
“God bless my soul!” ejaculated Mortimer turning round to stare at him through his grotesque glasses. And then he said very deliberately in German:
“War niemand da?”
Desmond stood up promptly.
“What do you want with me?” he asked quietly, “and why do you speak German in my house?” Mortimer gazed at him blankly.
“Excellence, most excellent,” he gasped. “I love prudence. My friend, where are your eyes?”
He put a large, firm hand up and touched the upper edge of the left lapel of his jacket. Desmond followed his gesture with his eyes and saw the other’s first finger resting on the shiny glass head of a black pin. Almost instinctively Desmond imitated the gesture. His fingers came into contact with a glassheaded pin similarly embedded in the upper edge of the lapel of his own coat.
Then he understood. This must be the distinguishing badge of this confraternity of spies. It was a clever idea, for the black pin was practically invisible, unless one looked for it, and even if seen, would give rise to no suspicions. It had obviously escaped the notice of the Chief and his merry men, and Desmond made a mental resolve to rub this omission well into his superior on the first opportunity. He felt he owed the Chief one.
Mr. Mortimer cleared his throat, as though to indicate the conclusion of the episode. Desmond sat down on the settee.
“Nothing came while I was away!” he said.
“Now that you are back,” Mortimer remarked, polishing his glasses with a bandanna handkerchief, “the service will be resumed. I have come to see you, Mr. Bellward,” he went on, turning to Desmond, “contrary to my usual practice, mainly because I wished to confirm by personal observation the very favorable opinion I had formed of your ability from our correspondence. You have already demonstrated your discretion to me. If you continue to show that your prudence is on a level with your zeal, believe I shall not prove myself ungrateful.”
So saying he settled his glasses on his nose again.
The action woke Desmond from a brown study. During the operation of wiping his spectacles, Mr. Mortimer had given Desmond a glimpse of his eyes in their natural state without the protection of those distorting glasses. To his intense surprise Desmond had seen, instead of the weak, blinking eyes of extreme myopia, a pair of keen piercing eyes with the clear whites of perfect health. Those blue eyes, set rather close together, seemed dimly familiar. Someone, somewhere, had once looked at him like that.
“You are too kind,” murmured Desmond, grappling for the thread of the conversation.
Mortimer did not apparently notice his absentmindedness.
“Everything has run smoothly,” he resumed, “on the lines on which we have been working hitherto, but more important work lies before us. I have found it necessary to select a quiet rendezvous where I might have an opportunity of conferring in person with my associates. The first of these conferences will take place very shortly. I count upon your attendance, Bellward!”
“I shall not fail you,” replied Desmond. “But where is this rendezvous of yours, might I ask?”
Mortimer shot a quick glance at him.
“You shall know in good time,” he answered drily. Then he added:
“Do you mind if I have a few words with Nur-el-Din before I go!”
The unexpected question caught Desmond off his guard.
“Nur-el-Din?” he stammered feebly.
“She is staying with you, I believe,” said Mortimer pleasantly.
Desmond shook his head.
“There must be some mistake,” he averred stoutly, “of course I know who you mean, but I have never met the lady. She is not here. What led you to suppose she was?”
But even as he spoke, his eyes fell on a black object which lay near his arm stretched out along the back of the settee. It was a little velvet hat, skewered to the upholstery of the settee by a couple of jewelled hat-pins. A couple of gaudy cushions lay between it and Mortimer’s range of vision from the chair in which the latter was sitting. If only Mortimer had not spotted it already!
Desmond’s presence of mind did not desert him. On the pretext of settling himself more comfortably he edged up another cushion until it rested upon the other two, thus effectively screening the hat from Mortimer’s view even when he should get up.
“I wish she were here,” Desmond added, smiling, “one could not have a more delightful companion to share one’s solitude, I imagine.”
“The lady has disappeared from London under rather suspicious circumstances;” Mortimer said, letting his grotesque eyes rest for a moment on Desmond’s face, “to be quite frank with you, my dear fellow, she has been indiscreet, and the police are after her.”
“You don’t say!” cried Desmond.
“Indeed, it is a fact,” replied the other, “I wish she would take you as her model, my dear Bellward. You are the pattern of prudence, are you not?”
He paused perceptibly and Desmond held his breath.
“She has very few reputable friends,” Mortimer continued presently, “under a cloud as she is, she could hardly frequent the company of her old associates, Mowbury and Lazarro and Mrs. Malplaquet, you doubtless know whom I mean. I know she has a very strong recommendation to you, so I naturally thought—well, no matter!”
He rose and extended his hand.
“Au revoir, Bellward,” he said, “you shall hear from me very soon. You’ve got a snug little place here, I must say, and everything in charming taste. I like your pretty cushions.”
The blood flew to Desmond’s face and he bent down, on pretense of examining the cushions, to hide his confusion.
“They aren’t bad,” he said, “I got them at Harrod’s!”
He accompanied Mortimer to the front door and watched him disappear down the short drive and turn out of the gate into the road. Then feeling strangely ill at ease, he went back to join Nur-el-Din in the dining-room. But only the housekeeper was there, clearing the table.
“If you’re looking for the young lady, sir,” said old Martha, “she’s gone out!”
“Oh!” said Desmond, with a shade of disappointment in his voice, “will she be back for tea?”
“She’s not coming back at all,” answered the old woman, “she told me to tell you she could not stop, sir. And she wouldn’t let me disturb you, neither, sir.”
“But did she leave no note or anything for me?” asked Desmond.
“No, sir,” answered old Martha as she folded up the cloth.
Gone! Desmond stared gloomily out at the sopping garden with an uneasy feeling that he had failed in his duty.