CHAPTER XVIII.THE GATHERING OF THE SPIES

CHAPTER XVIII.THE GATHERING OF THE SPIESAction, or the promise of action, always acted on Desmond Okewood like a nerve tonic. His visit to the inn, followed by the fencing with Mortimer at dinner, had galvanized his nerves jaded with the inaction of the preceding days. He averted his eyes from the future, he put the past resolutely away. He bent his whole attention on the problem immediately before him—how to carry off the role of Bellward in front of four strangers, one of whom, at least, he thought, must know the man he was impersonating; how to extract as much information as possible about the gang and its organization before uncovering his hand; finally, how to overpower the four men and the one woman when the moment had come to strike.Mortimer and he were in the library. By Desmond’s direction old Martha had put out two bridge tables and cards. A tantalus stand with siphons and glasses, an assortment of different colored liqueurs in handsome cut-glass carafes and some plates of sandwiches stood on a side-table. At Mortimer’s suggestion Desmond had told the housekeeper that, once the guests had arrived, she might go to bed.The library was very still. There was no sound except for the solemn ticking of the clock on the mantelpiece or the occasional rustle of the evening paper in Mortimer’s hand as he stood in front of the fire. Desmond was sitting on the settee, tranquilly smoking, studying Mortimer and thinking out the problem before him.He measured Mortimer with his eye. The latter was a bigger man than Desmond in every way and Desmond suspected that he was even stronger than he looked. Desmond wondered whether he should try and overpower him then and there. The other was almost certain to carry a revolver, he thought, while he was unarmed. Failure, he knew, would ruin everything. The gang would disperse to the four winds of heaven while as for Mr. Bellward—well, he would certainly be “for it,” as the soldiers say.No, he must hold his hand until the meeting had taken place. This was the first conference that Mortimer had summoned, and Desmond intended to see that it should be the last. But first he meant to find out all there was to know about the working of the gang.He resolved to wait and see what the evening would bring forth. The telephone was “a washout”: the motor-cycle was now his only chance to summon aid for he knew it was hopeless to think of tackling single-handed odds of four to one (to say nothing of the lady in the case). It must be his business tomakean opportunity to slip away on the motor-bike to Stanning. Ten minutes to get there, five minutes to deliver his message at the police station (if the Chief’s people made their headquarters there), and ten minutes to get back if they had a car. Could he leave the meeting for 25 minutes without arousing suspicions? He doubted it; but it must be. There was no other way. And then with a shock that made him cold with fear he remembered Mortimer’s motor-car.If, during his absence, anything occurred to arouse their suspicions, the whole crowd could pile into the car and be away long before Desmond could be back with help. The fog had lifted and it was a clear night outside. The car would have to be got rid of before he left the house, that was all about it. But how? A means to that end must also be discovered as the evening progressed. By the way, what had Mortimer done with his car?A very faint throbbing somewhere outside answered Desmond’s unspoken question.Mortimer flung aside his paper.“Isn’t that a car?” he asked, “that’ll be they. I sent Max to Wentfield station to meet our friends!”There was the sound of voices, of bustle in the hall. Then the door opened and a man came in. Desmond had a brief moment of acute suspense. Was he supposed to know him?He was a short, ugly fellow with immensely broad shoulders, a heavy puffy face, a gross, broad nose, and a tooth-brush moustache. He might have been a butcher to look at. In the top edge of his coat lapel, he wore a small black pin with a glass head.“Well, Max,” said Mortimer. “Have you brought them all?”The man was mustering Desmond with a suspicious, unfriendly stare.“My friend, Bellward!” said Mortimer, clapping Desmond on the shoulder. “You’ve heard of Bellward, Max!”And to Desmond’s surprise he made some passes in the air.The man’s mien underwent a curious change. He became cringing; almost overawed.“Reelly,” he grunted, “reelly now! You don’t siy! Glad to know yer, mister, I’m shore!”He spoke with a vile snuffing cockney accent, and thrust out his hand to Desmond. Then he added to Mortimer:“There’s three on ’em. That’s the count, ain’t it? I lef’ the car outside on the drive!”At this moment two more of the guests entered: One was a tall, emaciated looking man of about fifty who seemed to be in the last stages of consumption; the other a slightly built young fellow with a shock of black hair brushed back and an olive complexion. He wore pince-nez and looked like a Russian revolutionary. They, too, wore the badge of the brotherhood—the black pin in the coat lapel.“Goot efening, Mr. Mortimer,” said the tall man in a guttural voice, “this is Behrend”—he indicated the young man by his side—“you haft not meet him no?”Then, leaving Behrend to shake hands with Mortimer, he literally rushed at Desmond and shook him by the hand exactly as though he were working a pump handle.“My tear Pellward,” he cried, “it is a hondred year since I haf see you, not? And how are the powers!”He lowered his voice and gazed mysteriously at him.Desmond, at a loss what to make of this extraordinary individual, answered at random:“The powers? Still fighting, I believe!”The tall man stared open-mouthed at him for a moment. Then, clapping his hands together, he burst into a high-pitched cackle of laughter.“A joke,” he yelled, “a mos’ excellent joke! I must tell this to Minna. My vriend, I haf not mean the great Powers.”He looked dramatically about him, then whispered:“I mean, the oggult!”Desmond, who was now quite out of his depth, wagged his head solemnly at the other as though to indicate that, his occult powers were something not to be lightly mentioned. He had no fear of the tall man, at any rate. He placedhimas a very ordinary German, a common type in the Fatherland, simple-minded, pedantic, inquisitive, and a prodigious bore withal but dangerous, for of this stuff German discipline kneads militarists.But the door opened again to admit the last of the guests. A woman entered. Desmond was immediately struck by the contrast she presented to the others, Mortimer with his goggle eyes and untidy hair, Max, gross and bestial, Behrend, Oriental and shifty, and the scarecrow figure of the tall man.Despite her age, which must have been nearly sixty, she still retained traces of beauty. Her features were very regular, and she had a pair of piercing black eyes of undimmed brightness. Her gray hair was tastefully arranged, and she wore a becoming black velvet gown with a black lace scarf thrown across the shoulders. A white silk rose was fastened to her bodice by a large black pin with a glass head.Directly she appeared, the tall man shouted to her in German.“Sag’ mal, Minna...” he began.Mortimer turned on him savagely.“Hold your tongue, No. 13,” he cried, “are you mad? What the devil do you mean by it? You know the rules!”By way of reply, “No. 13” broke into a regular frenzy of coughing which left him gasping for breath.“Pardon! I haf’ forgot!” he wheezed out between the spasms.The woman went over to Mortimer and put out her gloved hand.“I am Mrs. Malplaquet,” she said in a pleasant voice. “And you are Mr. Mortimer, I think!”Mortimer bowed low over her hand.“Madame, I am charmed to meet one of whom I have heard nothing but praise,” he said.“Verry pretty!” replied Mrs. Malplaquet smiling. “They tell me you have a great way with the ladies, my dear sir!”“But,” she went on, “I am neglecting our host, my dear Mr. Bellward. How are you, my friend? How well you are looking... so young... so fresh! I declare you seem to have got five years younger!”The keen black eyes searched Desmond’s face. He felt horribly uncomfortable. The woman’s eyes were like gimlets boring right into him. He suddenly felt that his disguise was a poor one. He remembered Crook’s warning to be wary of women, and he inwardly quailed.“I am so glad to meet you again!” he murmured. He didn’t like Mrs. Malplaquet’s eyes. They assorted strangely with the rest of her gentle and refined appearance. They were hard and cruel, those black eyes. They put him in mind of a snake.“It is so long since I’ve seen you,” she said, “that positively your voice seems to have changed.”“That’s because I have a cold,” said Desmond.“Fiddlesticks!” retorted the lady, “thetimbreis quite different! Bellward, I believe you’re in love! Don’t tell me you’ve been running after that hank of hair that Mortimer is so devoted to!” She glanced in Mortimer’s direction, but that gentleman was engaged in earnest conversation with Behrend and the tall man.“Whom do you meant” asked Desmond.“Where are your eyes, man?” rapped out Mrs. Malplaquet. “The dancer woman, of course, Nur-el-what-do-you-call-it. There’s the devil of a row brewing about the way our friend over there is neglecting us to run after the minx. They’re getting sharp in this country, Bellward—I’ve lived here for forty years so I know what I’m talking about—and we can’t afford to play any tricks. Mortimer will finish by bringing destruction on every one of us. And I shall tell him so tonight. And so will No. 13! And so will young Behrend! You ought to hear Behrend about it!”Mrs. Malplaquet began to interest Desmond. She was obviously a woman of refinement, and he was surprised to find her in this odd company. By dint of careful questioning, he ascertained the fact that she lived in London, at a house on Campden Hill. She seemed to know a good many officers, particularly naval men.“I’ve been keeping my eyes open as I promised, Bellward,” she said, “and I believe I’ve got hold of a likely subject for you—a submarine commander he is, and very psychic. When will you come and meet him at my house?”Mortimer’s voice, rising above the buzz of conversation, checked his reply.“If you will all sit down,” he said, “we’ll get down to business.”Despite all distractions, Desmond had been watching for this summons. He had marked down for himself a chair close to the door. For this he now made, after escorting Mrs. Malplaquet to the settee where she sat down beside Behrend. Max took the armchair on the left of the fireplace; while No. 13 perched himself grotesquely on a high music-stool, his long legs curled round the foot. Mortimer stood in his former position on the hearth, his back to the fire.A very odd-looking band! Desmond commented to himself but he thought he could detect in each of the spies a certain ruthless fanaticism which experience taught him to respect as highly dangerous. And they all had hard eyes!When they were seated, Mortimer said:“About the 14th of this month the British Admiralty will begin the work of shipping to France ten divisions of American troops now training in this country. The most extraordinary precautions are being taken to complete this huge undertaking with success. It seems to me that the moment has come for us to demonstrate the efficiency of our new organization.”He looked round at his audience but no one said a word. Desmond felt very distinctly that there was a hostile atmosphere against Mortimer in that room.“I asked you to come here to-night,” Mortimer went on, “to discuss the plans for sending prompt and accurate information regarding the movements of these transports to the other side. I warn you that this time our mode of procedure will have to be radically different from the methods we have pursued on former occasions. To expend our energies in collecting information at half a dozen different ports of war will be waste of time. The direction of the whole of this enterprise lies in the hands of one man at the Admiralty.”Behrend, who had struck Desmond as a rather taciturn young man, shook his head dubiously.“That makes things very difficult,” he remarked.“Wait,” replied Mortimer. “I agree, it is very difficult, the more so as I have reason to believe that the authorities have discovered the existence of our organization.”Mrs. Malplaquet and Behrend turned to one another simultaneously.“What did I say?” said Behrend.“I told you so,” said the lady.“Therefore,” Mortimer resumed, “our former activities on the coast will practically be paralyzed. We shall have to confine our operations to London while Max and Mr. Behrend here will be entrusted with the task of getting the news out to our submarines.”No. 13 broke in excitedly.“Vork in London, vork in London!” he cried. “It is too dangerous, my vriend. Vot do I know of London? Portsmouth” (he called it Portsmouse), “Sout’ampton, the Isle of Vight... good... it is my province. But, London... it is senseless!”Mortimer turned his gig-lamps on the interrupter.“You will take your orders from me as before,” he said quietly.Behrend adjusted his pince-nez.“No. 13 is perfectly right,” he remarked, “he knows his territory, and he should be allowed to work there.”“You, too,” Mortimer observed in the same calm tone as before, “will take your orders from me!”With a quick gesture the young man dashed his long black hair out of his eyes.“Maybe,” he replied, “but only as long as I feel sure that your orders are worth following.“Do you dare...” began Mortimer, shouting.“... At present,” the other continued, as though Mortimer had not spoken. “I don’t feel at all sure that they are.”The atmosphere was getting a trifle heated, thought Desmond. If he judged Mortimer aright, he was not the man to let himself be dictated to by anybody. He was wondering how the scene would end when suddenly something caught his eye that took his mind right away from the events going forward in the room.Opposite him, across the library, was a French window across which the curtains had been drawn. One of the curtains, however, had got looped up on a chair so that there was a gap at the bottom of the window showing the pane.In this gap was a face pressed up against the glass. To his astonishment Desmond recognized the weather-beaten features of the odd man, Mr. John Hill. The face remained there only for a brief instant. The next moment it was gone and Desmond’s attention was once more claimed by the progress of the conference.“Do I understand that you refuse to serve under me any longer?” Mortimer was saying to Behrend, who had risen from the settee and stood facing him.“As long as you continue to behave as you are doing at present,” replied the other, “you may understand that!”Mortimer made a quick dive for his pocket. In an instant Max had jumped at him and caught his arm.“Don’t be a fool!” he cried, “for Gawd’s sake, put it away, carn’t yer? D ’you want the ’ole ruddy plice abart our ears?”“I’ll have no disobedience of orders,” roared Mortimer, struggling with the other. In his fist he had a big automatic pistol. It was a prodigious weapon, the largest pistol that Desmond had ever seen.“He threatened him, he threatened him!” screamed No. 13 jumping about on his stool.“Take it away from him, Max, for Heaven’s sake!” cried the lady.Everybody was talking at once. The noise was so loud that Desmond wondered whether old Martha would hear the din. He sat in his chair by the door, a silent witness of the scene. Then suddenly, at the height of the hubbub, he heard the faint humming of a motor-car. It lasted for perhaps thirty seconds, then gradually died away.“What did it mean?” he asked himself. The only living being he knew of outside was John Hill, the odd man, whose face he had just seen; the only car was Mortimer’s. Had the odd man gone off in Mortimer’s car? He was thankful to note that, in the din, none save him seemed to have heard the car.By this time Mortimer had put up his pistol and Mrs. Malplaquet was speaking. Her remarks were effective and very much to the point. She upbraided Mortimer with his long and mysterious absences which she attributed to his infatuation for Nur-el-Din and complained bitterly of the dancer’s imprudence in consorting openly with notorious folk like Lazarro and Bryan Mowbury.“I went to the girl myself,” she said, “and begged her to be more circumspect. But Madame would not listen to advice; Madame was doubtless sure of her position with our revered leader, and thought she could reject the friendly counsel of one old enough to be her mother. Behrend and Max and No. 13 there—all of us—are absolutely agreed that we are not going on with this sort of thing any longer. If you are to remain in charge of our organization, Mr. Mortimer, we want to know where you are to be found and how you spend your time. In short, we want to be sure that you are not playing a game that most of us have at different times played on subordinate agents... I mean, that when the crisis comes, we fall into the trap andyouwalk away. You had better realize once and for all that we are too old hands for that sort of trick.”Here Max took up the thread. “Mrs. Malplaquet had put it very strite, so she ’ad, and wot he wanted to know was what Mortimer ’ad to siy?”Mortimer was very suave in his reply; a bad sign, thought Desmond, for it indicated that he was not sure of himself. He was rather vague, spoke about a vitally important mission that he had had to fulfil but which he had now brought to a successful conclusion, so that he was at length free to devote his whole attention once more to the great task in hand.Behrend brought his fist crashing down on the arm of the settee.“Words, words,” he cried, “it won’t do for me. Isn’t there a man in the room besides me? You, Bellward, or you, Max, or you, No.13? Haven’t you got any guts any of you? Are you going to sit here and listen to the soft soap of a fellow who has probably sent better men than himself to their death with tripe of this kind? It may do for you, but by the Lord, it won’t do for me!”Mortimer cleared his throat uneasily.“Our host is silent,” said Mrs. Malplaquet, “what does Mr. Bellward think about it?”Desmond spoke up promptly.“I think it would be very interesting to hear something further about this mission of Mortimer’s,” he observed:Mortimer cast him a glance of bitter malice.“Well,” he said, after a pause, “you force my hand. I shall tell you of this mission of mine and I shall show you the evidence, because it seems essential in the interests of our organization. But I assure you I shall not forget this want of confidence you have shown in me; and I shall see that you don’t forget it, either!”As he spoke, he glared fiercely at Desmond through his glasses.“Let’s hear about the precious mission,” jeered Behrend, “let’s see the evidence. The threats’ll keep!”Then Mortimer told them of how the Star of Poland came into Nur-el-Din’s possession, and of the Crown Prince’s embarrassment when the German authorities claimed it for the regalia of the new Kingdom of Poland.“The Crown Prince,” he said, “summoned me to him in person and gave me the order to make my way to England immediately and recover the gem at all costs and by any means. Did I whine or snivel about being sent to my death as some of you were doing just now? No! That is not the way of the Prussian Guard...”“The Prussian Guard?” cried No. 13 in an awed voice. “Are you also of the Prussian Guard, comrade?”He had risen from his seat and there was something almost of majesty about his thin, ungainly figure as he drew himself to his full height.“Ay, comrade, I was,” replied Mortimer.“Then,” cried No. 13, “you are...”“No names, comrade,” warned Mortimer, “no names, I beg!”“No names, no names!” repeated the other and relapsed into his seat in a reverie.“How I got to England,” Mortimer continued, “matters nothing; how I fulfilled my mission is neither here nor there. But I recovered the gem and the proof...”He thrust a hand into the inner pocket of his coat and plucked out a white paper package sealed up with broad red seals.Desmond held his breath. It was the white paper package, exactly as Barbara had described.“Look at it well, Behrend,” said Mortimer, holding it up for the young man to see, “it cost me a man’s life to get that. If it had sent twenty men to their death, I should have had it just the same!”Mrs. Malplaquet clapped her hands, her eyes shining.“Bravo, bravo!” she exclaimed, “that’s the spirit! That’s the way to talk, Mortimer!”“Cut it out,” snarled Behrend, “and let’s see the goods!”All had left their seats and were gathered in a group about Mortimer as he began to break the gleaming red wag seals. One by one he burst them, the white paper slipped off and disclosed... a box of cigarettes.Mortimer stood gazing in stupefaction at the gaudy green and gold lettering of the box. Then, running his thumb-nail swiftly along the edge of the box, he broke the paper wrapping, the box burst open and a shower of cigarettes fell to the ground.“So that’s your Star of Poland, is it?” cried Behrend in a mocking voice.“Wot ’ave yer done wiv’ the sparklers, eh?” demanded Max, catching Mortimer roughly by the arm.But Mortimer stood, aimlessly shaking the empty box in front of him, as though to convince himself that the gem was not there. Behrend fell on his knees and raked the pile of cigarettes over and over with his fingers.“Nothing there!” he shouted angrily, springing to his feet. “It’s all bluff! He’s bluffing to the end! See, he doesn’t even attempt to find his famous jewel! He knows it isn’t there!”But Mortimer paid no heed. He was staring straight in front of him, a strangely woe-begone figure with his thatch of untidy hair and round goggle eyes. Then the cigarette box fell to the floor with a crash as Mortimer’s hands dropped, with, a hopeless gesture, to his sides.“Barbara Mackwayte!” he whispered in a low voice, not seeming to realize that he was speaking aloud, “so that’s what she wanted with Nur-el-Din!”Desmond was standing at Mortimer’s elbow and caught the whisper. As he heard Mortimer speak Barbara’s name, he had a sudden premonition that his own unmasking was imminent, though he understood as little of the purport of the other’s remark as of the pile of cigarettes lying on the carpet. As Mortimer turned to look at him, Desmond nerved himself to meet the latter’s gaze. But Mortimer’s face wore the look of a desperate man. There was no recognition in his eyes.Not so with Desmond. Perhaps the bitterness of his disappointment had made Mortimer careless, perhaps the way in which he had pronounced Barbara’s name struck a familiar chord in Desmond’s memory. The unkempt hair brushed down across the forehead, the thick glasses, the heavy moustache still formed together an impenetrable mask which Desmond’s eyes failed to pierce. But now he recalled the voice. As Mortimer looked at him, the truth dawned on Desmond and he knew that the man standing beside him was Maurice Strangwise, his comrade-in-arms in France.At that very moment a loud crash rang through the room, a cold blast of damp air came rushing in and the lamp on the table flared up wildly, flickered an instant and went out, leaving the room in darkness save for the glow of the fire.A deep voice cried:“May I ask what you are all doing in my house?”The secret door of the bookshelves had swung back and there, framed in the gaping void, Desmond saw the dark figure of a man.

Action, or the promise of action, always acted on Desmond Okewood like a nerve tonic. His visit to the inn, followed by the fencing with Mortimer at dinner, had galvanized his nerves jaded with the inaction of the preceding days. He averted his eyes from the future, he put the past resolutely away. He bent his whole attention on the problem immediately before him—how to carry off the role of Bellward in front of four strangers, one of whom, at least, he thought, must know the man he was impersonating; how to extract as much information as possible about the gang and its organization before uncovering his hand; finally, how to overpower the four men and the one woman when the moment had come to strike.

Mortimer and he were in the library. By Desmond’s direction old Martha had put out two bridge tables and cards. A tantalus stand with siphons and glasses, an assortment of different colored liqueurs in handsome cut-glass carafes and some plates of sandwiches stood on a side-table. At Mortimer’s suggestion Desmond had told the housekeeper that, once the guests had arrived, she might go to bed.

The library was very still. There was no sound except for the solemn ticking of the clock on the mantelpiece or the occasional rustle of the evening paper in Mortimer’s hand as he stood in front of the fire. Desmond was sitting on the settee, tranquilly smoking, studying Mortimer and thinking out the problem before him.

He measured Mortimer with his eye. The latter was a bigger man than Desmond in every way and Desmond suspected that he was even stronger than he looked. Desmond wondered whether he should try and overpower him then and there. The other was almost certain to carry a revolver, he thought, while he was unarmed. Failure, he knew, would ruin everything. The gang would disperse to the four winds of heaven while as for Mr. Bellward—well, he would certainly be “for it,” as the soldiers say.

No, he must hold his hand until the meeting had taken place. This was the first conference that Mortimer had summoned, and Desmond intended to see that it should be the last. But first he meant to find out all there was to know about the working of the gang.

He resolved to wait and see what the evening would bring forth. The telephone was “a washout”: the motor-cycle was now his only chance to summon aid for he knew it was hopeless to think of tackling single-handed odds of four to one (to say nothing of the lady in the case). It must be his business tomakean opportunity to slip away on the motor-bike to Stanning. Ten minutes to get there, five minutes to deliver his message at the police station (if the Chief’s people made their headquarters there), and ten minutes to get back if they had a car. Could he leave the meeting for 25 minutes without arousing suspicions? He doubted it; but it must be. There was no other way. And then with a shock that made him cold with fear he remembered Mortimer’s motor-car.

If, during his absence, anything occurred to arouse their suspicions, the whole crowd could pile into the car and be away long before Desmond could be back with help. The fog had lifted and it was a clear night outside. The car would have to be got rid of before he left the house, that was all about it. But how? A means to that end must also be discovered as the evening progressed. By the way, what had Mortimer done with his car?

A very faint throbbing somewhere outside answered Desmond’s unspoken question.

Mortimer flung aside his paper.

“Isn’t that a car?” he asked, “that’ll be they. I sent Max to Wentfield station to meet our friends!”

There was the sound of voices, of bustle in the hall. Then the door opened and a man came in. Desmond had a brief moment of acute suspense. Was he supposed to know him?

He was a short, ugly fellow with immensely broad shoulders, a heavy puffy face, a gross, broad nose, and a tooth-brush moustache. He might have been a butcher to look at. In the top edge of his coat lapel, he wore a small black pin with a glass head.

“Well, Max,” said Mortimer. “Have you brought them all?”

The man was mustering Desmond with a suspicious, unfriendly stare.

“My friend, Bellward!” said Mortimer, clapping Desmond on the shoulder. “You’ve heard of Bellward, Max!”

And to Desmond’s surprise he made some passes in the air.

The man’s mien underwent a curious change. He became cringing; almost overawed.

“Reelly,” he grunted, “reelly now! You don’t siy! Glad to know yer, mister, I’m shore!”

He spoke with a vile snuffing cockney accent, and thrust out his hand to Desmond. Then he added to Mortimer:

“There’s three on ’em. That’s the count, ain’t it? I lef’ the car outside on the drive!”

At this moment two more of the guests entered: One was a tall, emaciated looking man of about fifty who seemed to be in the last stages of consumption; the other a slightly built young fellow with a shock of black hair brushed back and an olive complexion. He wore pince-nez and looked like a Russian revolutionary. They, too, wore the badge of the brotherhood—the black pin in the coat lapel.

“Goot efening, Mr. Mortimer,” said the tall man in a guttural voice, “this is Behrend”—he indicated the young man by his side—“you haft not meet him no?”

Then, leaving Behrend to shake hands with Mortimer, he literally rushed at Desmond and shook him by the hand exactly as though he were working a pump handle.

“My tear Pellward,” he cried, “it is a hondred year since I haf see you, not? And how are the powers!”

He lowered his voice and gazed mysteriously at him.

Desmond, at a loss what to make of this extraordinary individual, answered at random:

“The powers? Still fighting, I believe!”

The tall man stared open-mouthed at him for a moment. Then, clapping his hands together, he burst into a high-pitched cackle of laughter.

“A joke,” he yelled, “a mos’ excellent joke! I must tell this to Minna. My vriend, I haf not mean the great Powers.”

He looked dramatically about him, then whispered:

“I mean, the oggult!”

Desmond, who was now quite out of his depth, wagged his head solemnly at the other as though to indicate that, his occult powers were something not to be lightly mentioned. He had no fear of the tall man, at any rate. He placedhimas a very ordinary German, a common type in the Fatherland, simple-minded, pedantic, inquisitive, and a prodigious bore withal but dangerous, for of this stuff German discipline kneads militarists.

But the door opened again to admit the last of the guests. A woman entered. Desmond was immediately struck by the contrast she presented to the others, Mortimer with his goggle eyes and untidy hair, Max, gross and bestial, Behrend, Oriental and shifty, and the scarecrow figure of the tall man.

Despite her age, which must have been nearly sixty, she still retained traces of beauty. Her features were very regular, and she had a pair of piercing black eyes of undimmed brightness. Her gray hair was tastefully arranged, and she wore a becoming black velvet gown with a black lace scarf thrown across the shoulders. A white silk rose was fastened to her bodice by a large black pin with a glass head.

Directly she appeared, the tall man shouted to her in German.

“Sag’ mal, Minna...” he began.

Mortimer turned on him savagely.

“Hold your tongue, No. 13,” he cried, “are you mad? What the devil do you mean by it? You know the rules!”

By way of reply, “No. 13” broke into a regular frenzy of coughing which left him gasping for breath.

“Pardon! I haf’ forgot!” he wheezed out between the spasms.

The woman went over to Mortimer and put out her gloved hand.

“I am Mrs. Malplaquet,” she said in a pleasant voice. “And you are Mr. Mortimer, I think!”

Mortimer bowed low over her hand.

“Madame, I am charmed to meet one of whom I have heard nothing but praise,” he said.

“Verry pretty!” replied Mrs. Malplaquet smiling. “They tell me you have a great way with the ladies, my dear sir!”

“But,” she went on, “I am neglecting our host, my dear Mr. Bellward. How are you, my friend? How well you are looking... so young... so fresh! I declare you seem to have got five years younger!”

The keen black eyes searched Desmond’s face. He felt horribly uncomfortable. The woman’s eyes were like gimlets boring right into him. He suddenly felt that his disguise was a poor one. He remembered Crook’s warning to be wary of women, and he inwardly quailed.

“I am so glad to meet you again!” he murmured. He didn’t like Mrs. Malplaquet’s eyes. They assorted strangely with the rest of her gentle and refined appearance. They were hard and cruel, those black eyes. They put him in mind of a snake.

“It is so long since I’ve seen you,” she said, “that positively your voice seems to have changed.”

“That’s because I have a cold,” said Desmond.

“Fiddlesticks!” retorted the lady, “thetimbreis quite different! Bellward, I believe you’re in love! Don’t tell me you’ve been running after that hank of hair that Mortimer is so devoted to!” She glanced in Mortimer’s direction, but that gentleman was engaged in earnest conversation with Behrend and the tall man.

“Whom do you meant” asked Desmond.

“Where are your eyes, man?” rapped out Mrs. Malplaquet. “The dancer woman, of course, Nur-el-what-do-you-call-it. There’s the devil of a row brewing about the way our friend over there is neglecting us to run after the minx. They’re getting sharp in this country, Bellward—I’ve lived here for forty years so I know what I’m talking about—and we can’t afford to play any tricks. Mortimer will finish by bringing destruction on every one of us. And I shall tell him so tonight. And so will No. 13! And so will young Behrend! You ought to hear Behrend about it!”

Mrs. Malplaquet began to interest Desmond. She was obviously a woman of refinement, and he was surprised to find her in this odd company. By dint of careful questioning, he ascertained the fact that she lived in London, at a house on Campden Hill. She seemed to know a good many officers, particularly naval men.

“I’ve been keeping my eyes open as I promised, Bellward,” she said, “and I believe I’ve got hold of a likely subject for you—a submarine commander he is, and very psychic. When will you come and meet him at my house?”

Mortimer’s voice, rising above the buzz of conversation, checked his reply.

“If you will all sit down,” he said, “we’ll get down to business.”

Despite all distractions, Desmond had been watching for this summons. He had marked down for himself a chair close to the door. For this he now made, after escorting Mrs. Malplaquet to the settee where she sat down beside Behrend. Max took the armchair on the left of the fireplace; while No. 13 perched himself grotesquely on a high music-stool, his long legs curled round the foot. Mortimer stood in his former position on the hearth, his back to the fire.

A very odd-looking band! Desmond commented to himself but he thought he could detect in each of the spies a certain ruthless fanaticism which experience taught him to respect as highly dangerous. And they all had hard eyes!

When they were seated, Mortimer said:

“About the 14th of this month the British Admiralty will begin the work of shipping to France ten divisions of American troops now training in this country. The most extraordinary precautions are being taken to complete this huge undertaking with success. It seems to me that the moment has come for us to demonstrate the efficiency of our new organization.”

He looked round at his audience but no one said a word. Desmond felt very distinctly that there was a hostile atmosphere against Mortimer in that room.

“I asked you to come here to-night,” Mortimer went on, “to discuss the plans for sending prompt and accurate information regarding the movements of these transports to the other side. I warn you that this time our mode of procedure will have to be radically different from the methods we have pursued on former occasions. To expend our energies in collecting information at half a dozen different ports of war will be waste of time. The direction of the whole of this enterprise lies in the hands of one man at the Admiralty.”

Behrend, who had struck Desmond as a rather taciturn young man, shook his head dubiously.

“That makes things very difficult,” he remarked.

“Wait,” replied Mortimer. “I agree, it is very difficult, the more so as I have reason to believe that the authorities have discovered the existence of our organization.”

Mrs. Malplaquet and Behrend turned to one another simultaneously.

“What did I say?” said Behrend.

“I told you so,” said the lady.

“Therefore,” Mortimer resumed, “our former activities on the coast will practically be paralyzed. We shall have to confine our operations to London while Max and Mr. Behrend here will be entrusted with the task of getting the news out to our submarines.”

No. 13 broke in excitedly.

“Vork in London, vork in London!” he cried. “It is too dangerous, my vriend. Vot do I know of London? Portsmouth” (he called it Portsmouse), “Sout’ampton, the Isle of Vight... good... it is my province. But, London... it is senseless!”

Mortimer turned his gig-lamps on the interrupter.

“You will take your orders from me as before,” he said quietly.

Behrend adjusted his pince-nez.

“No. 13 is perfectly right,” he remarked, “he knows his territory, and he should be allowed to work there.”

“You, too,” Mortimer observed in the same calm tone as before, “will take your orders from me!”

With a quick gesture the young man dashed his long black hair out of his eyes.

“Maybe,” he replied, “but only as long as I feel sure that your orders are worth following.

“Do you dare...” began Mortimer, shouting.

“... At present,” the other continued, as though Mortimer had not spoken. “I don’t feel at all sure that they are.”

The atmosphere was getting a trifle heated, thought Desmond. If he judged Mortimer aright, he was not the man to let himself be dictated to by anybody. He was wondering how the scene would end when suddenly something caught his eye that took his mind right away from the events going forward in the room.

Opposite him, across the library, was a French window across which the curtains had been drawn. One of the curtains, however, had got looped up on a chair so that there was a gap at the bottom of the window showing the pane.

In this gap was a face pressed up against the glass. To his astonishment Desmond recognized the weather-beaten features of the odd man, Mr. John Hill. The face remained there only for a brief instant. The next moment it was gone and Desmond’s attention was once more claimed by the progress of the conference.

“Do I understand that you refuse to serve under me any longer?” Mortimer was saying to Behrend, who had risen from the settee and stood facing him.

“As long as you continue to behave as you are doing at present,” replied the other, “you may understand that!”

Mortimer made a quick dive for his pocket. In an instant Max had jumped at him and caught his arm.

“Don’t be a fool!” he cried, “for Gawd’s sake, put it away, carn’t yer? D ’you want the ’ole ruddy plice abart our ears?”

“I’ll have no disobedience of orders,” roared Mortimer, struggling with the other. In his fist he had a big automatic pistol. It was a prodigious weapon, the largest pistol that Desmond had ever seen.

“He threatened him, he threatened him!” screamed No. 13 jumping about on his stool.

“Take it away from him, Max, for Heaven’s sake!” cried the lady.

Everybody was talking at once. The noise was so loud that Desmond wondered whether old Martha would hear the din. He sat in his chair by the door, a silent witness of the scene. Then suddenly, at the height of the hubbub, he heard the faint humming of a motor-car. It lasted for perhaps thirty seconds, then gradually died away.

“What did it mean?” he asked himself. The only living being he knew of outside was John Hill, the odd man, whose face he had just seen; the only car was Mortimer’s. Had the odd man gone off in Mortimer’s car? He was thankful to note that, in the din, none save him seemed to have heard the car.

By this time Mortimer had put up his pistol and Mrs. Malplaquet was speaking. Her remarks were effective and very much to the point. She upbraided Mortimer with his long and mysterious absences which she attributed to his infatuation for Nur-el-Din and complained bitterly of the dancer’s imprudence in consorting openly with notorious folk like Lazarro and Bryan Mowbury.

“I went to the girl myself,” she said, “and begged her to be more circumspect. But Madame would not listen to advice; Madame was doubtless sure of her position with our revered leader, and thought she could reject the friendly counsel of one old enough to be her mother. Behrend and Max and No. 13 there—all of us—are absolutely agreed that we are not going on with this sort of thing any longer. If you are to remain in charge of our organization, Mr. Mortimer, we want to know where you are to be found and how you spend your time. In short, we want to be sure that you are not playing a game that most of us have at different times played on subordinate agents... I mean, that when the crisis comes, we fall into the trap andyouwalk away. You had better realize once and for all that we are too old hands for that sort of trick.”

Here Max took up the thread. “Mrs. Malplaquet had put it very strite, so she ’ad, and wot he wanted to know was what Mortimer ’ad to siy?”

Mortimer was very suave in his reply; a bad sign, thought Desmond, for it indicated that he was not sure of himself. He was rather vague, spoke about a vitally important mission that he had had to fulfil but which he had now brought to a successful conclusion, so that he was at length free to devote his whole attention once more to the great task in hand.

Behrend brought his fist crashing down on the arm of the settee.

“Words, words,” he cried, “it won’t do for me. Isn’t there a man in the room besides me? You, Bellward, or you, Max, or you, No.13? Haven’t you got any guts any of you? Are you going to sit here and listen to the soft soap of a fellow who has probably sent better men than himself to their death with tripe of this kind? It may do for you, but by the Lord, it won’t do for me!”

Mortimer cleared his throat uneasily.

“Our host is silent,” said Mrs. Malplaquet, “what does Mr. Bellward think about it?”

Desmond spoke up promptly.

“I think it would be very interesting to hear something further about this mission of Mortimer’s,” he observed:

Mortimer cast him a glance of bitter malice.

“Well,” he said, after a pause, “you force my hand. I shall tell you of this mission of mine and I shall show you the evidence, because it seems essential in the interests of our organization. But I assure you I shall not forget this want of confidence you have shown in me; and I shall see that you don’t forget it, either!”

As he spoke, he glared fiercely at Desmond through his glasses.

“Let’s hear about the precious mission,” jeered Behrend, “let’s see the evidence. The threats’ll keep!”

Then Mortimer told them of how the Star of Poland came into Nur-el-Din’s possession, and of the Crown Prince’s embarrassment when the German authorities claimed it for the regalia of the new Kingdom of Poland.

“The Crown Prince,” he said, “summoned me to him in person and gave me the order to make my way to England immediately and recover the gem at all costs and by any means. Did I whine or snivel about being sent to my death as some of you were doing just now? No! That is not the way of the Prussian Guard...”

“The Prussian Guard?” cried No. 13 in an awed voice. “Are you also of the Prussian Guard, comrade?”

He had risen from his seat and there was something almost of majesty about his thin, ungainly figure as he drew himself to his full height.

“Ay, comrade, I was,” replied Mortimer.

“Then,” cried No. 13, “you are...”

“No names, comrade,” warned Mortimer, “no names, I beg!”

“No names, no names!” repeated the other and relapsed into his seat in a reverie.

“How I got to England,” Mortimer continued, “matters nothing; how I fulfilled my mission is neither here nor there. But I recovered the gem and the proof...”

He thrust a hand into the inner pocket of his coat and plucked out a white paper package sealed up with broad red seals.

Desmond held his breath. It was the white paper package, exactly as Barbara had described.

“Look at it well, Behrend,” said Mortimer, holding it up for the young man to see, “it cost me a man’s life to get that. If it had sent twenty men to their death, I should have had it just the same!”

Mrs. Malplaquet clapped her hands, her eyes shining.

“Bravo, bravo!” she exclaimed, “that’s the spirit! That’s the way to talk, Mortimer!”

“Cut it out,” snarled Behrend, “and let’s see the goods!”

All had left their seats and were gathered in a group about Mortimer as he began to break the gleaming red wag seals. One by one he burst them, the white paper slipped off and disclosed... a box of cigarettes.

Mortimer stood gazing in stupefaction at the gaudy green and gold lettering of the box. Then, running his thumb-nail swiftly along the edge of the box, he broke the paper wrapping, the box burst open and a shower of cigarettes fell to the ground.

“So that’s your Star of Poland, is it?” cried Behrend in a mocking voice.

“Wot ’ave yer done wiv’ the sparklers, eh?” demanded Max, catching Mortimer roughly by the arm.

But Mortimer stood, aimlessly shaking the empty box in front of him, as though to convince himself that the gem was not there. Behrend fell on his knees and raked the pile of cigarettes over and over with his fingers.

“Nothing there!” he shouted angrily, springing to his feet. “It’s all bluff! He’s bluffing to the end! See, he doesn’t even attempt to find his famous jewel! He knows it isn’t there!”

But Mortimer paid no heed. He was staring straight in front of him, a strangely woe-begone figure with his thatch of untidy hair and round goggle eyes. Then the cigarette box fell to the floor with a crash as Mortimer’s hands dropped, with, a hopeless gesture, to his sides.

“Barbara Mackwayte!” he whispered in a low voice, not seeming to realize that he was speaking aloud, “so that’s what she wanted with Nur-el-Din!”

Desmond was standing at Mortimer’s elbow and caught the whisper. As he heard Mortimer speak Barbara’s name, he had a sudden premonition that his own unmasking was imminent, though he understood as little of the purport of the other’s remark as of the pile of cigarettes lying on the carpet. As Mortimer turned to look at him, Desmond nerved himself to meet the latter’s gaze. But Mortimer’s face wore the look of a desperate man. There was no recognition in his eyes.

Not so with Desmond. Perhaps the bitterness of his disappointment had made Mortimer careless, perhaps the way in which he had pronounced Barbara’s name struck a familiar chord in Desmond’s memory. The unkempt hair brushed down across the forehead, the thick glasses, the heavy moustache still formed together an impenetrable mask which Desmond’s eyes failed to pierce. But now he recalled the voice. As Mortimer looked at him, the truth dawned on Desmond and he knew that the man standing beside him was Maurice Strangwise, his comrade-in-arms in France.

At that very moment a loud crash rang through the room, a cold blast of damp air came rushing in and the lamp on the table flared up wildly, flickered an instant and went out, leaving the room in darkness save for the glow of the fire.

A deep voice cried:

“May I ask what you are all doing in my house?”

The secret door of the bookshelves had swung back and there, framed in the gaping void, Desmond saw the dark figure of a man.

Back to IndexNext