THE doctor arrived at eight. He could not afford to disregard the summons of such a man as Davenport Carstairs. So he told his wife to go on to the Opera without him; he would join her as soon as possible,—in fact, it might be possible to get there before the overture was ended, or, at the very latest, soon after the curtain went up. Make his apologies, and all that. This was an urgent case.
Close on his heels came two men to see Mr. Carstairs....
Miss Hansbury was in a pitiable condition. For the better part of two hours, Frieda Carstairs had been with her. Every one else, not excepting her uncle, was denied admission to the room. From time to time, the sound of voices came through the closed door,—one shrill and rising to the pitch of frenzy, the other firm, gentle, soothing—one that seemed to croon. A sharp-eared listener outside would have caught an occasional sentence wailed in the despairing treble, but he would have made little of it, for it dwindled away into a smothered, inarticulate jumble of words. He might have distinguished the oft-repeated cry: “You know it isn't true! You know it! You know it!”
Carstairs grasped the doctor's arm the instant he entered the apartment.
“For God's sake, Doctor, give her something to quiet her immediately. I—I cannot endure it. We should have waited. I had no idea it would be like this. Mrs. Carstairs hasn't left her for an instant. I can hear her moaning and—”
“Is it this—ah—news about young Steele?” inquired the doctor blandly. He rubbed his hands.
“Yes—yes! We thought it best to tell her before she got it from the servants, or the papers, or—”
“Dreadful affair,—most shocking. I knew him very slightly, but he seemed a most delightful chap. By Jove, it is really distressing, the way the Germans have undermined our very—”
“She is in a most deplorable condition, Doctor. Don't delay an instant, please,—and do not leave her until you are convinced there is no danger of—” He broke off abruptly.
“Ahem! Yes, yes,—ah,—I'll remain as long as—ah,—I feel the least bit uneasy about her.”
“All right, Doctor,—if there is the remotest danger of—”
“Oh, I fancy there isn't any real danger ofthat, Mr. Carstairs. Compose yourself. We 'll have her sleeping like a baby in no time at all. Had you an inkling that Steele was that sort of a—”
“And will you please send Mrs. Carstairs out of the room at once?”
“Yes, yes,—immediately. Leave it to me, leave it to me,” and off he went, with a sprightliness that would have, surprised his dignity if he had had the slightest notion at that moment that he still possessed such a thing.
But Mrs. Carstairs refused to be sent out of the room. She remained steadfast at the girl's side, holding and stroking her hand.
“I cannot,—I will not leave her, Doctor Browne,” she said, compressing her lips.
The butler apologetically stuck his head into Mr. Carstairs' study a few minutes after the doctor's arrival.
“Sorry, sir, but there's two gentlemen asking to see you.”
“I told you I was not at home to any one, Hollowell. Is it necessary for me to repeat your instructions?”
“No, sir,—thank you, sir. But these gentlemen say they must see you, sir. They are outside, sir,—in the hall. I asked—”
“Who are they? What is their business?”
“I asked both those questions, sir,” said the butler, in evident distress.
“Yes, yes,—well, and what did they say?”
“They simply said 'Never mind,'” said Hollowell, with a great deal of feeling.
Carstairs stopped suddenly in his tracks.
“I thought you said they were gentlemen.”
His brow darkened. He had sensed the truth. Secret service men.
“My mistake, sir,—my mistake,” mumbled Hollowell. “Ahem! I can only add, Mr. Carstairs, that they seem to think youareat home, and—ah—”
“Conduct them to this room,” said Carstairs. A few minutes later: “Come in, gentlemen, and be seated. I suppose you are here to ascertain if I can throw any light on the Derrol Steele affair. It is no secret, of course, that he was my niece's fiance, and that he was a constant visitor here. I am afraid, however, that I can be of no assistance to you. Captain Steele—”
“Pardon me, Mr. Carstairs,” said one of his visitors, a sharp-eyed, clean-cut man of forty, “but, as a matter of fact, our business here is really with Mrs. Carstairs. Will you be good enough to ask her to step into this room?”
His companion had closed the door, and both remained standing.
“I assure you she knows as little as I do about this distressing affair. My niece is very ill. She cannot leave her. You must allow me,—for the present, at least,—to speak for Mrs. Carstairs.”
“Deeply as I regret it, Mr. Carstairs, I must insist that your wife—”
“You heard what I said, didn't you?” demanded Carstairs coldly. Two vivid red blotches shot into his cheeks.
The two men looked at each other. Then the spokesman gave a significant jerk of his head. His companion opened the door and stepped quickly into the hall. As the door closed, the one who remained drew nearer to Carstairs.
“In the first place, Mr. Carstairs, you cannot speak for your wife. I am not here to make inquiries, sir, but to escort her to the offices of the United States Attorney, who will—”
Carstairs started up from his chair. “What infernal nonsense is this?”
“I am afraid it isn't nonsense,” said the other quietly. “My instructions,—my orders, I may say,—are to confront Mrs. Carstairs with certain charges, in your presence, by the way,—and to remain in this apartment until further orders. There is no alternative.”
“Charges?” gasped Davenport Carstairs, incredulously. “What do you mean? What charges have been brought againstus?”
“There is nothing againstyou, sir. I am instructed to exercise the greatest consideration for you. A great deal, I may add, is left to my discretion, after all. Your wife, I am compelled to inform you, is charged with a very serious offence. In plain words, we have indisputable proof that she is and has been for several years in direct communication with the German Government through—”
“It is a damned, outrageous lie!” shouted Carstairs, furiously. “How dare you come here—”
“Just a moment, please,” interrupted the other sharply. “My instructions are to treat you with the utmost respect and consideration. I must ask you to accord me the same treatment. Will you send for your wife, or must I resort to the authority that—”
“For God's sake, man,—wait! Let me get this thing through my head. I—I—-will try to control myself. There has been some terrible mistake. Let us discuss the matter calmly. I can explain everything. We must spare her the mortification, the humiliation of being—Why, my dear sir, it would—kill her. She would not survive the—”
The agent held up his hand. “There is no mistake. It may be possible to spare her the disgrace, the ignominy of public exposure. That, sir, rests with her—and with you. We recognize your position, Mr. Carstairs. There is a disposition on the part of the authorities to protect you. With that object in view, I am instructed to grant Mrs. Carstairs the privilege of remaining in her own room until tomorrow morning. We are to take no definite action tonight, unless, of course, you and she decide that it is best for her to accompany me to the—er—to headquarters. It is up to you and Mrs. Carstairs, sir.”
Davenport Carstairs was a strong, virile character. He possessed the arrogance born of power and a confidence in himself that had never been shaken. His home was his stronghold, his wife its treasure. In his serene strength he could not conceive of discredit falling upon either. Instead of faltering, now that the first shock had been weathered, he drew himself up and faced the situation with a courage that excited the wonder and admiration of the man who came with evil tidings.
“Be seated,” said he, indicating a chair. The man sat down. “You may be partially if not entirely ignorant of the nature of these charges. Am I right in assuming that you are not at liberty to discuss them with me?”
“On the contrary, Mr. Carstairs, I have been advised to do nothing until I have talked the matter over with you. I am in possession of all the facts.”
“Is the department content to allow me to pass judgment on my wife?” inquired Carstairs, with a touch of irony. He maintained a calm exterior,—at what cost no one but he will ever know. The secret service man made no response. “In any case, I shall have to ask you to explain everything to me before permitting you to approach my wife.”
The agent, who shall be called Jones, nodded his head, and then leaned forward in his chair.
“A man named Hodges was in your employ as a butler up to a fortnight ago. He had worked for you exactly seven weeks and one day. Do you know where he came from and who he really was, Mr. Carstairs?”
“No. Mrs. Carstairs engages the servants here. Are you going to tell me that he was a German spy?”
“Far from it, sir. 'He was a British secret service agent. His name was Bridgeford. He was killed by an automobile, but not accidentally as you have been led to believe. We have been looking for the driver of that car for two weeks. Last night we got him. He has confessed. Since six o'clock this evening three other men have been arrested,—all subordinate figures in the game. Before morning we expect to land at least one or two of the principal members of the shrewdest gang of spies operating in the name and interest of the Kaiser.”
“Including my wife,” said Carstairs, lifting his eyebrows.
Jones allowed the remark to pass without comment.
“Bridgeford,—or Hodges, as you knew him,—was sent to this city from London. For a long time he worked independently. A few days before his death, we received instructions from Washington to get in touch with him. That was the first we knew of him, I'll confess. The British Foreign Office advised our department that he had finally got hold of something big and tangible. But evidently the German Foreign Office also was wise to him. He reported to us on the afternoon of the day he was killed. He said that the time was not yet ripe to take positive steps, but that he would soon have the goods on four or five prominent people. He gave us the names of these people. Two of them he was sure about, the others were in doubt. Believe me, theywereprominent. We were to hold off till he said the word. That night he was killed. But they didn't do it soon enough. We had all his data, incomplete as it was, and we've followed it up. That's why I am here this evening.”
He paused; and Carstairs said, harshly: “Well, go on,—why do you hesitate?”
“We know now, beyond all possible doubt, that information of the most vital character has reached the German Admiralty and the Foreign Office through Mrs. Carstairs,” said Jones deliberately.
“I may be pardoned if I repeat that it is a damned lie,” said Carstairs, gripping the arms of his chair.
“You have said just what you were expected to say, Mr. Carstairs. Before I have finished, however, you will realize that it is not a damned lie. I am authorized to exhibit certain memoranda from the Department. You will then agree with us that the information came from this house,—from this apartment, in fact.”
“In the light of what happened last night, I may go so far as to concede that such may have been the case. Permit me to remind you of the suicide of Captain—”
He broke off abruptly, struck by the expression in the other's face. Jones shook his head slowly. There was genuine distress in his voice when he spoke.
“Captain Steele was murdered, Mr. Carstairs,” he said. “He did not kill himself.” Carstairs sprang to his feet. For an instant a flash of joy transfigured his face.
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“By 'gad, I knew it,—I knew it! I would have staked my soul on that boy's honour. Murdered? My God! And for what hellish purpose is his name blackened by the foul reports given to the press by your—”
“A very grave injustice has been done an honourable gentleman,” interrupted Jones, with real feeling. “Captain Steele was murdered by assassins in the employ of persons connected with the German Government. When I have finished my story,—I shall make it brief,—you will understand that, far from being a traitor to his country, Derrol Steele was a patriot who would not have hesitated to denounce—” He withheld the words that rose to his lips in vindication of the maligned officer. “A careful search of his rooms today resulted in the discovery of a document in his own handwriting, written after he left your apartment last night, and put under lock and key some time prior to the arrival of the assassins. I have a copy of it with me. You will observe that he does not make definite accusations against any one, and that he employs initials only in designating the persons involved. He goes no farther than to express his own misgivings, his suspicions and certain observations that prove how keenly alive he was to the—real situation. Sit down, Mr. Carstairs, and look over these papers. Begin here, sir,—with the data obtained by the man you knew as Hodges. I beg to assure you, in advance, that my superiors entertain no thought that you were at any time cognizant of what has been going on in your own home, and there is the profoundest desire on their part to spare you—”
“Enough, sir! Let me see the papers.”
“Just a moment, please. There is one gap in the sequence of events leading up to the death of Captain Steele. We are confident that the leaders of this great conspiracy were warned late last night that Captain Steele suspected a certain person, but we have been unable to discover by what means, or through whom, this warning was delivered. The men under arrest, with the exception of the chauffeur, absolutely refuse to make a statement of any kind, and he, we are confident, does not know who the go-between was. All he knows,—or thinks, at least,—is that he and his pals were double-crossed last night by—well, by Mrs. Carstairs.”
Davenport Carstairs read the papers placed in his hands by the Secret Service man. One by one, they fell from his stiff, trembling fingers, fluttering to the floor, each in its succeeding turn. At the end, he looked not into Jones's eyes, but past them, and from his own the light was gone.
“Will you ask your wife to come in now, Mr. Carstairs?” said Jones, a trifle unsteadily.
Carstairs stared at him for a moment, unseeingly. Then he passed his hand over his eyes as if to clear them of something revolting. The moment was tense, spasmodic, prophetic of approaching collapse. The strength and courage and confidence of the man had sustained a shock that made ruin of them all. He wondered dumbly whether he would ever have the power and the desire to lift his head again and look into the eye of this man who sat there with him. The whole fabric of existence was torn to shreds by the merciless revelations contained in the papers he had read with the steel in his heart. They were complete, irrefutable indictments. There was no such thing as going behind them. Steele's blighting conjectures suddenly became truths of the most appalling nature; the astonishing record of Hodges the butler laid bare a multitude of secrets; the brief, almost laconic summing-up of facts in the possession of the Department took the heart out of his body and scorched it with conviction,—for he knew that the Secret Eye had looked into the very soul of the woman he loved and cherished and trusted....
“If you do not object, I will speak with her—alone,” said he, lifelessly. He struggled to his feet, and, by the mightiest effort of the will, lifted his head and fixed his haggard eyes upon the face of the man who had cast the bomb at his feet:—a far more potent agent of destruction than any that Germany herself had ever hurled! It was to destroy heaven and earth for him.
Jones, cleared his throat. “That is for you to decide, Mr. Carstairs,” he said, and there was something significant in his voice and manner. “Will you take these documents—”
“No. I do not wish her to see them. Be good enough to step into the drawing-room,—and wait. This way—through this door. And please call your companion. It is not necessary for him to stand guard over her. You have my word that she shall not escape.”
“We are to respect your wishes in every particular, Mr. Carstairs. The authorities appreciate your position. It is their desire to spare you, if possible, the disgrace, the pain—” He stopped.
“I think I understand,” said Davenport Carstairs slowly. A moment later he was alone.
Presently he unlocked and opened a small drawer in his desk. He took out something that glittered, examined it carefully, and then stuck it into his coat pocket. His jaws were set; in his eyes lay the hard, cold light of steel.
He did not falter.
She had not been fair with him, but he would be fair with her. He would stand by her to the end.... She should have her chance. He would see to it that the newspapers,—and the world,—dealt kindly with her. He had loved her.
If possible, he would see to it that he was the only one in all the world to hate her.
He went to her room.
FAR in the night he said to her: “It is the only way. I shall leave you to yourself now, Frieda. The rest is with God and you. Tomorrow morning they will take you away. They may—they probably will shoot you as a spy. I cannot save you,—nothing that I can do will be of avail in turning aside or tempering the wrath of Justice.”
She sat, limply, with bowed head. Her fine body seemed to have shrivelled; emptied of its vitality, it had shrunk as with age before his eyes. Everything that had fed her blood for years seeped away, leaving a waste of sunken flesh: pride, arrogance, defiance, and, last of all, fury,—all had gone out of the house of her soul. There was nothing left but the pitiful thing called life.
She raised her eyes.
“I cannot takeyourway out, Davenport,” she said dully.
He pointed to the revolver he had laid on her dressing-table.
“That, Frieda, is the only friend you have in all this world tonight.”
“Oh, my God! Are you heartless? Have you no pity, no love, no—”
“I have pity,—nothing more. Love? I have given you love for twenty years and more. You have defiled it. Do not speak of love!”
“You know I love you—you know I would die for you a thousand times over. You are my man,—my master, my—”
“Enough, Frieda! You have played a great game,—but an ignoble one,—and you have lost. You have begged me to—to become your executioner. You ask me to kill you. You—”
“I do not ask it now,” she broke in, looking him full in the eye. “Go, Davenport. Leave me to myself. Thank you for—for being kind to me tonight,—after all. I have told you the truth,—you know everything that my conscience permits me to reveal. You know more than that man who sits out there like a vulture, waiting for—waiting forme. What I have confessed to you I would die a thousand times over rather than confess to another living soul. They could take me away tonight and torture me till I died, and not one word of what I have said to you would pass my lips. They know enough, but you alone know all. You say the world will never know what I have done. I do not care. Let the world know. I am proud of my blood—I rejoice in the little I have been able to do for——”
“Hush! Do not say it.”
“Very well. It hurts you. I do not want to hurt you now, husband. The world is to believe that I—that an accident—a sudden—” She buried her face in her hands. Her body shook.
“I would spare your son, Frieda,” said he.
She looked up, dry-eyed. A quick flash,—could it have been of joy?—lighted her haggard face.
“Yes, yes,—he must be spared,” she cried. A deep, inscrutable expression came into her eyes. She drew a deep, full breath. “Thank God! He is young,—he has a long and useful life to live. I gave it him. That is the best, the biggest thing I have done. Now, go, Davenport. Shall we say—good-night?”
The following day,—in the noon issues—all of the New York evening papers printed, under varied headlines, the details, so far as available, of the shocking accident which resulted in the death of Mrs. Davenport Carstairs. She had fallen from a window in her bed-chamber to the brick-paved courtyard ten stories below. Death was instantaneous. “Accidental,” was the prompt decision of the coroner.
Deduction readily established the fact. Mrs. Carstairs must have become ill in the night. A bottle of smelling salts was found on the floor near the window which was open to the full. Evidently, she had gone to the window for air. After opening it wide, a sudden faintness or dizziness caused her to topple forward.... Before retiring for the night, she had complained to her husband of a dull, throbbing headache, due, no doubt, to anxiety over the alarming illness of her niece, Miss Hansbury.... Sometime after one o'clock, Mr. Carstairs, in the adjoining bed-room, heard her moaning as if in pain. He arose instantly and opened the connecting door. She was lying on her bed, and, in response to his inquiry, begged him not to worry about her. Dr. Browne, called in to attend Miss Hansbury, had decided to remain for the night. He was lying down in a guest-chamber, and had fallen asleep.
Uneasy over his wife's condition, Mr. Carstairs awoke the physician and together they returned to her room. A knock on the door brought no response,—but some relief in the thought that she was asleep. The husband opened the door slightly and listened. There was no sound. He entered the room, which was dark, and approached the bed. Then, he called out to the doctor to switch on the lights.... A cold icy draft,—the Night-Wind,—rushing into the room through the open window....
Continuing, the papers spoke profoundly of the great loss to society, of the qualities that made Mrs. Davenport Carstairs one of the most sincerely beloved women in all the great city, of her prominence in the conduct of important war charities and reliefs, of her unswerving devotion to the cause for which America and her sons were fighting, of her manifold charms and graces. Her untimely death created a void that could never be filled. Eulogy upon eulogy!
Among the hundreds of telegrams of condolence received by Davenport Carstairs was one from Mr. Paul Zimmerlein, couched in most exquisite terms, conveying tribute to the dead and sympathy to the living. It was sent on the second day from the smart club to which he belonged; on the third flowers went up with his card.
As business went on as usual at the offices of Mr. Paul Zimmerlein, it would be sheer presumption to even suggest that this unhappy chronicle has reached