"There came a light, soft touch on his ring-finger"
"There came a light, soft touch on his ring-finger"
When she spoke again her voice was altered: "I shall dress immediately," she said. "I shall not keepyou waiting long. You will find the door open. Please come in when I have gone upstairs."
"Thank you."
He could hear her light, flying feet on the stairs; he waited a little longer, then opened the door.
The hallway was dark, and he left the door open, then entered the room to the left which seemed to be a library, music-room and living-room combined. Books, piano, easy chairs and sofas loomed in the dim light of drawn curtains. An easel on which stood a water-colour drawing occupied the end of the room, and beside it was a table on which were porcelain dishes, tubes of colour and scattered badger brushes.
It was evident that Miss Girard's talents were multiple, for he noticed also a violin and music stand near the piano, and on the violin score as well as on the score spread across the piano the same hand had written "Karen Girard."
He stood by the table, mechanically picking up, one after another, the books lying there. Some of the books were printed in French, some in German, in Italian, in Danish, in Swedish, in English. Miss Girard's name was written in all of them. Miss Girard appeared to be accomplished.
In the dim light Guild began to saunter around the room encountering various evidences of Miss Girard's taste and mode of living—one or two Braun photographs of Velasquez, Boucher, and Gainsborough on the walls—certainly a catholicism of taste entirely admirable;—one or two graceful bits of ancient Chineseart—blue and gold marvels of Pekin enamel; a mille-fleur tapestry panel, a bundle of golf clubs, a tennis bat, and a pair of spurs.
He thought for himself that when a girl goes in for all of these accomplishments it is because the gods have been otherwise unkind, and that she has to.
At the same time he remembered the voice he had heard through the scarcely opened door—the lovely voice of a young English girl—than which in all the world there is nothing half so lovely.
And it suddenly occurred to him that there had not been in it the faintest kind or trace of a German accent—that only its childish and sleepy sweetness had struck him first, and then its purity and its youthful and cultivated charm.
Yes, truly, the gods had been kind to this young German girl of nineteen, but it would be a little too much to ask of these same gods that they endow her with figure and features commensurate with her other charms and talents.
Then he suddenly remembered her profession, and that she was studying still for the dramatic profession. And he knew that this profession naturally required exterior charm of any woman who desired to embrace it.
While these ideas and speculations were occupying his mind he heard her on the stairs, and he turned and came forward as she entered the room.
She was a slender, straight girl of medium height; and her face was one of those fresh young faces whichlooked fragrant. And instantly the thought occurred to him that she was the vivid, living incarnation of her own voice, with her lilac-blue eyes and soft white neck, and the full scarlet lips of one of those goddesses who was not very austere.
She wore a loosely-belted jacket of tan-coloured covert-cloth, and narrow skirts of the same, and a wide golden-brown hat, and tan spats. The gods had been very, very kind to Miss Girard, for she even adorned her clothes, and that phenomenon is not usual in Great Britain or among German Fräuleins however accomplished and however well born.
She said: "I beg your pardon for detaining you so long on the outside door-step. Since the war began my maid and I have been annoyed by strangers telephoning and even coming here to ask silly and impertinent questions. I suppose," she added, disdainfully, "it is because there is so much suspicion of foreigners in England."
"I quite understand," he said. "Being German, your neighbors gossip."
She shrugged her indifference.
"Shall we talk here?" she asked gravely, resting one very white hand on the back of a chair. "You come from General Baron Kurt von Reiter. The ring is a credential beyond dispute."
"We can talk anywhere you wish," he said, "but there is little time, and somebody must pack a traveller's satchel for you. Have you a maid?"
"She went to London yesterday evening. She was tohave returned on the eleven o'clock train last night. I can't understand it."
"Are you alone in the house?"
"Yes. My cook sleeps out. She does not come until half-past nine. My maid serves my breakfast."
"You haven't had any, then?"
"No."
"Can you fix something for yourself?"
"Yes, of course. Shall I do so now?"
"Yes. I'll go to the kitchen with you while you are doing it. There are several things to say and the time is short."
She led the way; he opened the kitchen shutters and let in the sunshine, then stood a moment watching her as she moved about the place with graceful celerity, preparing cocoa over an alcohol lamp, buttering a roll or two and fetching cup, plate, spoon and marmalade.
"Have you breakfasted?" she asked, looking at him over her shoulder.
"Yes—it is very good of you——"
"There will be plenty of cocoa and rolls—if you care for them. The rolls are yesterday's and not fresh."
She poured the cocoa in two cups and looked at him again in grave invitation.
"You are sure there is plenty?" he asked, smilingly.
"Plenty."
"Then—I do seem to be rather hungry."
He drew a chair for her; she seated herself and ate with a youthful appetite. He drank his cocoa, ate his rolls, and tried not to look at her too often.
"This is why I am here," he said. "I saw General Baron von Reiter four days ago under somewhat extraordinary circumstances.
"He told me that since the war broke out he had not been able to communicate directly with you or to get you out of England, and he asked me to find you and bring you to his estate at Trois Fontaines in Luxembourg."
"To Quellenheim?" she asked, surprised and disturbed. "Is he there?"
"No, he is with a field army, and he does not know where orders from staff headquarters may send him."
"Still," she said, hesitating, "I should think that he might wish me to go to Silesia——"
"Silesia is threatened by the Russian army."
"Silesia!" she repeated, incredulously. "Cossacks in Silesia?" She sat, her cup of cocoa half raised to her lips, her surprised and disconcerted eyes on his. Then she set the cup aside.
"He wishes me to go to Quellenheim? Withyou?"
"Yes."
"Why?"
"Travelling on the continent is precarious."
Her eyes rested on his; she said with a candour which he began to understand was characteristic of her: "He seems to have confidence in you. I never heard him speak of you. You are American?"
"Yes."
"That is odd. He never cared for Americans."
Guild said: "He could not send a German into England."
"That is true. Nor an Englishman either. No Englishman would be likely to do anything to oblige a German."
She rose: "I don't understand why Anna, my maid, is still absent," she added uneasily. "My maid often goes to London, but never before has she remained over night. I don't know why she remained. She knew I was alone in the house."
She lifted her serious blue eyes to Guild, then gazed out of the window, evidently perplexed to the point of apprehension.
"I am worried," she said, "very much worried. But that doesn't help, does it?"
"What was her errand in London?" asked Guild.
"She has a brother there. I suppose it's all right or she would have telephoned me."
He said: "No doubt it is all right. And, may I ask you to hasten?"
She rose: "Where am I to go with you?"
"To London and then to the steamer."
"Today?"
"Today is Wednesday. No other Holland Line boat sails for Amsterdam before Sunday, and I have yet our passage to secure and I must also go to the War Office for a few moments. You see we have very little time."
"But I can't pack my boxes then?"
"You will have to leave them."
"You mean I may take only a satchel?"
"A suit-case and satchel if you wish. Leave a notefor your maid instructing her to send by express whatever else you wish sent after you."
"Is this haste necessary, Mr. Guild?"
"Yes, it is. I want to get out of England. I am not sure that I can get out if we wait until Sunday."
"Why not?"
"I may be detained. I may not be permitted to leave with you. All foreigners are under more or less suspicion. I am rather sure that I have been under surveillance already at the Berkeley Hotel."
They had moved out into the hall together while he was speaking, and now, together, they went up the stairs.
"If you don't mind," she said, "my room is in disorder, but I'll have to pack there and you will have to sit there if you wish to talk to me."
It was a white and chintz room in dainty disorder.
She went away and returned in a moment or two with a satchel and suit-case. These she placed on the bed, opened, and then, dragging out various drawers of chiffonier and chest, began to transfer her apparel to the two bags.
"I am extremely sorry," he said, "to hurry you so inconveniently."
"I don't mind," she replied, busy with her packing. "You see I am an actress and I have travelled with a company in the provinces. Thatwasan experience!" She turned her pretty head and looked at Guild. "I had no maid then, except at the theatres where we played, and I had to share her with three other girls.Really, Mr. Guild, it taught me how to pack things rather rapidly."
Her white hands were flying as she folded and placed garment after garment in the suit-case, serene, self-possessed, quite undisturbed by his presence at the rather intimate display of her apparel.
The garments were bewilderingly frail to him; she tucked and packed them into place; a faint fresh scent seemed to freshen the place.
He said: "I don't think we are going to have any trouble about leaving England. But, if any trouble does arise, would you have sufficient confidence in me to do what I say?"
She continued her packing for a few moments without replying, then turned and looked at him.
And at the same moment the telephone on the table beside her bed tinkled.
"There is Anna now!" she exclaimed with the emphasis of relief. "Will you pardon me? No, I don't mean you are to leave the room——"
She lifted the receiver: "Yes, I am here.... Yes, this is Miss Girard. Yes, Miss Karen Girard.... Mr. Louis Grätz? Oh, good morning!"
At the name of the man with whom she was speaking Guild turned around surprised. At the same instant the girl's face flushed brightly as she sat listening to what the distant Mr. Grätz was saying to her.
Guild watched her; perplexity, surprise, a deeper flush of consternation, all were successively visible on her youthful face.
"Yes," she said to Mr. Grätz. "Yes, I will do whatever he wishes.... Yes, he is here—here in my room with me. We were talking while I packed. Yes, I will do so." And, turning her head a little she said to the young man behind her: "The Edmeston Agency desires to speak to you."
He rose and took the receiver from her hand and bent over beside her listening.
"Are you there?" inquired a pleasant voice.
"Yes."
"I am Grätz of the Edmeston Agency. Get that young lady out of the house at once. Do you understand?"
"Yes."
"Her maid is in trouble. This agency may be in trouble at any moment. She must not wait to pack. Get her into the car and take her to the wharf and on board at once. Do you understand?"
"Yes."
"Take her as your wife. Do you understand?"
"I understand what you say," he said, amazed.
"That is sufficient. Do as I tell you if you want to leave England."
"Very well. But I must first go to the War Office——"
"No!"
"I must!"
"No. It is useless; hopeless. It would have been the thing to do yesterday. An explanation there would have given you credentials and security. But not today.Shecould not hope to leave. Do you understand?"
"No, but I hear you."
"She could not expect permission to leave because her maid has been arrested."
"What!"
"Yes! The charge is most serious."
"What is it?"
"Get into your car with the young lady and start at once. Don't go to the steamship office in Fenchurch Street. Don't go to the War Office. Go nowhere except to the wharf. Your passage has been secured as Mr. and Mrs. Kervyn Guild of New York. The initials on the baggage will be K. G. Your steamer tickets will be handed to you. You will pay no attention to the man who hands them to you, no attention to anybody. You will go aboard and go to your cabin until the ship is out at sea. Do you understand?"
"Perfectly."
"Good-bye."
Guild hung up the receiver, stood a moment in thought then turned around and looked gravely at the girl behind him. She gazed back at him as though still a trifle breathless after some sudden shock.
"What did that man say to you over the wire?" he asked in pleasant, even tones.
"He told me to trust you, and do what you told me to do. He said Anna, my maid, had been arrested."
"Who is he?" asked Guild grimly.
"Do you mean Mr. Grätz?"
"Yes; who is Mr. Grätz?"
"Don'tyouknow him?" she said, astonished.
"I have never laid eyes on him. Your father recommended to me the Edmeston Agency and mentioned the name of a Louis Grätz who might be of use to me. That is all I know."
"My—father—you say?"
"Certainly, General Baron von Reiter."
"Oh!... Then it must be quite all right. Only—I don't understand about my maid——"
"Did Mr. Grätz tell you she had been arrested?"
"Yes."
"On a serious charge?"
"Yes."
"Have you any idea what that charge may be?" he asked, studying her face.
"I haven't any idea," she said; "have you?"
"I don't know; perhaps I have. Is your maid German?"
"Yes."
"You brought her with you from Germany?"
"Yes."
"Where did you get her?"
"General von Reiter's housekeeper found her for me."
He hesitated, still looking steadily into those violet blue eyes of hers which seemed to question him so candidly. No, there could be no dishonesty there.
"Miss Girard," he said, "I find that I am going to be very much more frank with you than there once seemed any occasion for being. I am also going to say something to you that may possibly offend you. But I can't help it. It is this: Have you, through your letters to or from your father, imparted or received any military intelligence which might be detrimental to Great Britain or to her allies?"
"Do you mean am I a sort of spy?" she asked, flushing to the roots of her hair.
"In substance it amounts to that. And I shall have to ask you to answer me. And I'll tell you why Iask. I didn't intend to tell you; my personal and private affairs did not concern you. But they do now. And these happen to be the facts in my case: I was taken prisoner in Belgium by the cavalry forming the advance of your father's command. It happened four days ago; I was sentenced to military execution, led out for that purpose, reprieved by your father himself on condition that I undertake to find you and conduct you safely to Trois Fontaines near the Grand Duchy of Luxembourg.
"If I am unsuccessful in the undertaking, I am pledged to go back voluntarily and face a firing squad. If I am successful I am permitted to go free, and so are my fellow-hostages. And the little town where I was arrested is to be spared."
He passed one hand over his eyes, thoughtfully, then, looking at her very seriously:
"There seemed to be no reason why an honorable man might not accept such terms. I accepted them. But—things have happened here which I neither understand nor like. And I've got to say this to you; if my taking you back to your father means any detriment to England or to the cause England represents—in other words, if your returning to him means the imparting to him of any military information gathered here by you, then—I won't take you back; that's all!"
After a moment, half to herself, she said: "He really thinks me a spy. I knew it!"
"Idon'tthink so. I am merely asking you!" he retorted impatiently. "There is something dead wronghere. I was intending to go to the War Office to tell them there very frankly about my predicament, and to ask permission to take you back in order to save my fellow-hostages, the village, and my own life; and now a man named Grätz of whom I know nothing calls me on the telephone and warns me not to go to the War Office but to get you out of England as soon as I can do it.
"What am I to think of this? What does this man Grätz mean when he tells me that your maid has been arrested on a serious charge and that the Edmeston Agency of a German automobile is in danger?"
The girl stood very still with one slender hand resting on her satchel, her face pale and quietly serious, her brows bent slightly inward as though she were trying to remember something or to solve some unpleasant problem not yet plain to her.
"One thing is clear," she said after a moment, lifting her candid eyes to his; "and that is, if you don't take me back certain friends of yours will be executed and a village in which you seem interested will be destroyed."
"If taking you back means any harm to England," he said, "I won't take you."
"And—your friends? What becomes of them?"
"My friends and the village must take the same chances that I do."
"What chances? Do you mean to go back withoutme?"
"I said I would," he replied drily.
"You said that if you went back without me they'd execute you."
"That's what I said. But there's no use in speculating on what is likely to happen to me if I go back without you. If you don't mind I think we had better start at once. We have had our warning from this man Grätz."
He gave her a searching glance, hesitated, then apparently came to an abrupt conclusion.
"Miss Girard," he said coolly, "your father once took a good look at me and then made up his mind about me. And he was not mistaken; I am what he believes me to be. Now, I also have seen you, and I've made up my mind concerning you. And I don't expect to be mistaken. So I say to you frankly I am an enemy to Germany—to your country—and I will not knowingly aid her—not to save my own skin or the skins of anybody else. Tell me then have you any military knowledge which you intend to impart to your father?"
"No," she said.
"Have you any suspicion that your maid has been involved in any such risky business?"
"I have no knowledge of anything military at all. I don't believe my maid has, either."
"You can recall no incident which might lead you to believe that your maid is engaged in that sort of affair?"
The girl was silent. He repeated the question. She said: "Anna has complained of being followed. I have already told you that she and I have been annoyedby impertinent telephone calls and by strange men coming here. Do you suppose they were from Scotland Yard?"
"Possibly. Have you any suspicion why your maid has been arrested?" he persisted. She hesitated; her straight brows knitted slightly again as though in a perplexed effort to remember and to understand. Then she looked up at Guild out of troubled eyes and shook her head:
"I don't know—I don'tknow—whatever my suspicions may be——"
"Suspicions!"
"My personal suspicions could scarcely concern you, Mr. Guild."
The snub was direct; he reddened.
"Very well," he said. "What you say gives me a decent chance for life." He drew a quick breath of relief. "I'm mighty glad," he said; "I have—have seen men die. It isn't—an—agreeable sight. I think we'd better go."
"In a moment."
She took her satchel and went into another room with it, closing the intervening door. She was gone only a few seconds. When she returned she had locked the satchel; he closed and strapped her suit-case and took it in his hand. Together they descended the stairway and started through the lower hall.
And what occurred there happened like lightning.
For, as he passed the door of the darkened living room, a man jumped out behind him and threw onearm around his throat, and another man stepped in front of him and snapped a pair of handcuffs on his wrists.
It was not even a struggle; Guild was being held too tightly. The girl shrank back against the wall, flattening herself against it, staring dumbly at the proceeding as though stunned. She did not even cry out when the man who had handcuffed Guild turned on her and caught her by the elbow.
"Come along quietly, miss," he began, when suddenly his voice died out in a groan and he crumpled up on the floor as Bush, the chauffeur, sprang from the passage-way behind him and struck him with something short and heavy.
The man who had thrown his arm around Guild's throat from behind, flung his handcuffed victim aside and whipped out a revolver, but the chauffeur knocked it out of his fist and hit him in the face two heavy, merciless blows, hurling him senseless across the stairs. And all the while the blond young chauffeur was smiling his fixed and murderous smile. And he was like a tiger now in every movement as he knelt, rummaged in the fallen men's pockets, found the key to the handcuffs, leaned over and unlocked them as Guild held out his manacled hands.
"The chauffeur hit him ... two heavy, merciless blows, hurling him senseless across the stairs"
"The chauffeur hit him ... two heavy, merciless blows, hurling him senseless across the stairs"
"Please watch them, sir," he said cheerfully. "I must find a curtain or something——"
He ran into the living-room, ripped off a long blue curtain, tore it into strips with his powerful blond hands, grinning cheerfully all the while.
"Best to tie them up, sir—this way—allow me, sir—this is the better way—the surer——"
Guild, working hard, he scarcely knew why, felt a touch on his arm.
"Are they dead?" whispered Karen Girard unsteadily.
"No—stunned."
"Are they robbers?"
The blond chauffeur looked up, laughed, then rolled a strip of cloth into a ball for a gag.
"I'm not entirely sure what they are," said Guild. "I'll tell you what I think when we're in the car."
The chauffeur completed his business, looked over the results of his efforts critically, rose to his feet, still smiling.
"Now, sir, if you please—and madam—" And he possessed himself of the luggage.
"Take the door-key, if you please, sir. Lock it on the outside. Thank you. This way, if you please, sir. I took it upon myself to bring the car up to the kitchen entrance."
The car stood there; the bags were flung in; Karen Girard stepped into the tonneau; Guild followed. At the same moment a woman appeared, coming along the brick walk.
"My maid of all work," exclaimed Karen. "What shall I say to her?"
"Anything, madam, but send her home," whispered Bush.
The girl leaned from the car and called out: "I have locked the house and am going away for theday, Mrs. Bulger. Please come tomorrow, as usual."
The woman thanked her, turned and went away again down the brick walk. They watched her out of sight.
"Now!" said Guild to the chauffeur, "drive to the Holland steamship wharf at——"
"I know, sir," smiled the blond chauffeur.
Which reply troubled the young man exceedingly, for it was evident to him now that, if not herself a spy, this young girl in his charge was watched, surrounded and protected by German agents of a sinister sort—agents known to her father, in evident communication with him, and thoroughly informed of the fact that he wanted his daughter to leave England at once and under the particular escort of Guild.
Nor had Guild the slightest doubt that the two men who had followed and handcuffed him were British Government agents, and that if this young girl's maid had really been arrested for espionage, and if the Edmeston people, too, were suspected, then suspicion had been also directed toward Miss Girard and naturally also to him, who was her visitor.
Guild's troubled gaze rested once more upon the young girl beside him. At the same moment, as though he had spoken to her she turned and looked at him out of eyes so honest, so fearless that he had responded aloud before he realized it: "It's all right. I knowyouare not deceiving me."
"No," she said, "I am not. But could you tell me what all this means—all this that has happened so swiftly, so terribly——"
"I have a pretty clear idea what it means.... It's just as well that those detectives did not arrest me.... Tell me, did you ever before see this chauffeur, Bush?"
"Never, Mr. Guild."
He nodded; he was slowly coming to a definite conclusion concerning the episode but he kept his own counsel. She said in a low, embarrassed voice: "You think me cowardly. I know it. But I really didn't know what to do."
She was very much in earnest, very intent on his expression, and he did not dare smile.
"Whatcouldyou have done, Miss Girard?" he asked, pleasantly.
"I don't know. I—I felt as though we—you and I—were allies—and that I ought to help you. But it all passed too quickly——"
"There was nothing you could have done for me," he smiled.
She said reflectively: "I myself don't quite see how I could have helped matters. But I didn't wish you to believe me afraid to help you."
He looked into her wistful eyes smilingly: "Somehow," he said, "I don't believe you are really very much afraid of anything."
A slight shudder passed over her. "Violence is new to me. I am not very experienced—not very old you know. And I never saw men fight. And when"—she lowered her voice—"when that chauffeur struck them so heavily—so dreadfully—I—I have never seen menfight like that—strike each other in the face as though they—they meant murder——"
"Don't think of it now, Miss Girard. You must keep your nerve." He forced a laugh; "you'll need all your composure, too, because I've got something to tell you which you won't like. Shall I tell you now?"
"Yes, please."
"Then—the man, Grätz, says that you must go aboard that steamer as my wife."
The girl looked at him bewildered. "Somebody," continued Guild, "has taken passage for us as Mr. and Mrs. Kervyn Guild. Grätz warned me. My name is Kervyn. Yours is Karen. Our initials are alike. If there is any suspicion directed toward us there are the initials on your satchel and suit-case—and presumably on your clothing. Do you understand?"
"Yes."
"Do you mind?"
"I mind a little—yes. But I'll do what is necessary," she said, confused.
"I think it is necessary. This man Grätz who seems to know more about my business than I do, tells me so. I believe he is right."
She raised her tragic eyes to his but said nothing.
He leaned nearer to her and spoke in a low voice:
"I've been trying to reason it out," he said, "and I'll tell you what my conclusion is: A German automobile took me to the British lines under a white flag. No doubt Government agents had been informed by telegraphand they followed me as soon as I landed on English soil.
"At the Berkeley Hotel I felt very sure that I was being watched. Now, it appears, that this maid of yours has been arrested, and, from what I suspect in regard to the Edmeston Agency—the agency to which your father directed me—I feel very certain that somehow your maid has been involved in the espionage maintained here by the German Government.
"That chauffeur in front of us is from the Edmeston garage; you see what he did to those two detectives! It's very plain to me now that, innocent as you are, you never will be permitted to leave England, even if they don't arrest you, unless you can get out today with me.
"And if you don't leave England it means for me something very serious. It means that I shall have to keep my word and go back alone."
"I know," she nodded, looking up at him very earnestly.
He said without the slightest dramatic emphasis: "It really does mean my death, Miss Girard. I think, knowing your father, that there could be no possible hope for me if I go back there without you.... And so, knowing that, I am naturally most anxious to clear out of England while I can do so—get away from here with you—if I can take you with a clear conscience. And"—he looked at her, "I feel that I can do that because you have told me that you have gathered no information for the enemies of England. And"—hesmiled—"to look into your face, Miss Girard, is to believe you."
Some of the pretty color faded from her cheeks; she said: "You asked me if I were a spy. I am not. You asked me if, knowingly, I carry any military information which might aid the enemies of England. And I answered you that, knowingly, I do not carry any such information."
"That is sufficient," he concluded, smilingly.
"No, it is not sufficient," she said. "I wish to say a little more. Let me go to Trois Fontaines alone. I am accustomed to travel. There is no need to involve you. As long as I arrive there what difference does it make whether or not you accompany me?"
"I promised to accompany you."
"You promised that I should arrive safely at Trois Fontaines. It doesn't matter whether you accompany me. Please—please don't. I had rather you did not go."
He said, gravely: "I know how you must feel about travelling as my wife——"
"It isn't that."
"What is it then?" he asked, surprised.
"I don't wish you to take the risk of travelling with me."
"What risk? The worst that could happen to you would be your arrest and detention. If you are not a spy, you can not be proven one."
Her blue eyes gazed absently out across the sunny landscape through which they were speeding.
"You are not a spy," he replied; "what risk do you run—or I?"
She said, still gazing into the sunlit distance: "What is done to spies—if they are caught?"
"It usually means death, Miss Girard."
"I have—" she swallowed, caught her breath, breathed deeply; then—"I have heard so.... It is possible that I might be suspected and detained.... I had rather you did not attempt to go with me.... Because—I do not wish you to get into any difficulty—on my—account."
"Nothing serious could happen to either you or me through anything that you have done."
"I am not sure."
"I am," he said. And added in a lower voice: "It is very generous of you—very kind."
Her own voice was lower still: "Please don't go with me, Mr. Guild. Let me go to the wharf alone. Let me take my chances alone. If there is any difficulty they will arrest you, too. And if I—were convicted——"
"You could not be. That is utterly impossible. Don't think of such things, Miss Girard."
"Imustthink of them. Will you tell me something?" She turned and looked at him curiously, almost wistfully.
"I want to ask you something. You—you said to me that if you thought me a spy, you would not help me to escape from England. You said so, didn't you?"
"Yes."
"You mean it, don't you?"
"I am afraid I do."
"Why? You are not English. You are an American. America is neutral. Why are you an enemy to Germany?"
"I can't tell you why," he said.
"Areyou an enemy to Germany?"
"Yes—a bitter one."
"And if I were a spy, trying to escape from England—trying to escape—death—you would refuse to help me?"
She had turned entirely toward him on the seat beside him; her child-like hands clasped on the robe over her knees, her child-like face, pale, sweet, wistful, turned to his.
"Would you abandon me?" she asked.
"The situation is impossible——"
"Yes, but tell me."
"I don't care to think of such a——"
"Please answer me. Is your partisanship so bitter that you would wash your hands of me—let me go to my death?—go to your own, too, rather than help me?"
"Miss Girard, you are losing your composure——"
"No; I am perfectly composed. But I should like to know what you would do under such circumstances with a girl nineteen years old who stood in danger of death."
"I can't tell you," he said, perplexed and impatient. "I can't tell now what I might do."
"Would you denounce me?"
"No, of course not."
"Would you feel—sorry?"
"Sorry!" He looked at her; "I should think I would!"
"Sorry enough for me to help me get away?"
"Yes."
"Even if I carried military information to Germany?"
He looked into her eyes searchingly for a moment. "Yes," he said; "I'd do what I could for you to get you out of England."
"Even if I had lied to you?"
"You couldn't lie to anybody."
"But if I could? If I have lied and you found it out, would you still try to help me to get away?"
"You are asking something that——"
"Yes, you can answer it. You can think a while first and then answer. I want you to answer. I want to know what you'd do with me."
"You make it a personal matter?"
"Yes. I don't want to know what you'd do in theory; I wish you to tell me what you, personally, would do with me, Karen Girard, if you believed me to be a spy, and if you came to the conclusion that I had lied to you."
"Why do you ask all this? You are over-wrought, unstrung——"
"I am absolutely mistress of myself. And I wish to know what you would do withme? Would you let me die?"
"No."
"You'd stand by me still?"
"Yes. There's no use mincing matters. Yes, I would."
"You'd help me to leave England?"
"Yes."
"Why?"
There fell a silence between them, and his face slowly reddened.
"I am not sure why," he said slowly.
"I am. Shall I tell you?"
"Yes, tell me," he said, forcing himself to meet her clear gaze.
"Very well, I'll tell you. It is because we are friends. And that is the real truth. I realize it. From the very beginning it was a friendship, without effort, instantly and mutually understood. Is it not true?"
"Yes."
"And that—the instant liking—was the basis for our confidence in each other. Was it not?"
"It must have been. I trusted you without hesitation."
"And I you.... And I did tell you the truth.... But not all of it."
"What have you left untold?" he asked.
"Enough to—to frighten me—a little. I am beginning to be afraid—just enough afraid to feel troubled—rather deeply troubled about—you."
"Aboutme!"
"Because—we are friends. I don't understand how it has happened so quickly. But it has happened to us—hasn't it?"
"Yes," he said, "it has. I—I am already—devoted to—our friendship."
"I am, too. It seems odd, doesn't it. I have had no friends among men. This is new to me. I don't know what to do about it. I want to be so loyal about it—I wish to be what a man—such a man as you are—desires of a friend—what he requires of friendship....Doyou understand? I am really a trifle bewildered—with the surprise and pleasure of friendship—and with its obligations.... But I am very sure that unselfishness is one of its obligations and that truth is another."
"Both are part of you."
"They seem to be now. And so—because we are friends—don't go to the wharf with me. Because I think I may be—arrested. And if I am—it may go hard with me."
She said it so gently, and her eyes were so clear and sweet that for a moment he did not grasp the subtler significance of her appeal.
"Youcan'tbe involved seriously," he insisted.
"I'm afraid it is possible."
"How?"
"I can only guess how. I may be wrong. But I dare not risk involving you."
"Can't you tell me a little more?"
"Please don't ask."
"Very well. But I shall not leave you."
"Please."
"No. You ask too little of friendship."
"I do not wish to ask too much. Let me get clear ofthis affair if I can. If I can't—let me at least remember that I have not involved you in my—ruin."
"Your ruin!"
"Yes. It may come to that. I don't know. I don't know exactly what all this tangle means—what really threatens me, what I have to dread. But I am afraid—afraid!" Her voice became unsteady for a moment and she stared straight ahead of her at the yellow haze which loomed nearer and nearer above the suburbs of London.
He slipped one arm under hers, quietly, and his hand fell over both of hers, where they rested clasped tightly on her lap.
"This won't do," he said coolly. "You are not to be frightened whatever happens. We must go through with this affair, you and I. I know you have plenty of courage."
"Yes—except about you——"
"I stand or fall with you."
"Please, you must not——"
"I must and shall. Within the next few minutes you must regain your composure and self-command. Will you?"
"Yes."
"Because our safety may depend on your coolness."
"I know it."
"Will you remember that we are married?"
"Yes."
"Will it be difficult for you to carry out that rôle?"
"I—don't know what to do. Could you tell me?"
"Yes. If you speak to me call me by my first name. Do you remember it?"
"Kervyn," she said.
"You won't forget?"
"No."
"I think you had better say 'no, dear.' Try it."
"No—dear."
"Try it again."
"No, dear."
"Letter perfect," he said, trying to speak lightly. "You see you look about seventeen, and it's plain we couldn't have been married very long. So it's safer to say 'yes, dear,' and 'no, dear,' every time. You won't forget, Karen, will you?"
She flushed a trifle when her name fell from his lips. "No, dear," she said in a low voice.
"And if anybody addresses you as Mrs. Guild—will you try to be prepared?"
"Yes—dear. Yes, I will—Kervyn."
He laughed a trifle excitedly. "You are perfect—and really adorable in the part," he said. And his nervous excitement in the imminence of mutual danger subtly excited her.
"I ought to do it well," she said; "I have studied dramatic art and I have had some stage experience. It's a part and Imustdo it well. I shall, really—Kervyn, dear."
He laughed; the dangerous game was beginning to exhilarate them both, and a vivid colour began to burn in her delicate cheeks.
Suddenly the blond chauffeur pulled the car up along the curb in a crowded street and stopped.
"It is better, sir, to take a hansom from here to the wharf."
"Do you think so?"
"Yes, sir.... Pardon, sir, here are passports for madam and yourself." And he handed the papers very coolly to Guild.
The young man changed colour, realizing instantly that the papers were forged.
"Had I better take these?" he asked under his breath.
"Yes, sir," said Bush, smiling his eternal smile and opening the car door for them.
Guild descended. Bush set the luggage on the curb, touched his cap, and said: "Walk south, sir, until a cabby hails you. Good-bye, sir. A pleasant trip, madam." And he sprang back into the car, started it, and rolled away grinning from ear to ear.
Guild took the luggage in both hands; Karen walked beside him. At the end of the square the driver of a hansom held up one hand inquiringly, then smiled and drew in to the curb.
"Fresh Wharf, sir?" asked the cabby.
"Yes," said Guild, calmly, red with surprise.
"Thanks, sir. I understand all about it."
It was only a short drive to Fresh Wharf by London Bridge. A marching column of kilted Territorials checked them for a while and they looked on while the advanced guard of civilians surged by, followed by pipers and then by the long leaf-brown column at a smart swinging stride.
When the troops had passed the hansom moved on very slowly through the human flotsam still eddying in the wake of the regiment; and after a few more minutes it pulled up again and Guild sprang out, lifted the young girl to the sidewalk, and handed the fare to the driver.
The latter leaned over and as he took the coins he thrust a parcel into Guild's hands. "Your change, sir," he said genially, touched his top hat and drove off, looking right and left for another fare.
Guild's surprised eyes fell on the packet. It contained two steamer tickets strapped together by a rubber band.
Pushing through the throng where policemen, wharf officials and soldiers in khaki were as numerous as civilians,Guild finally signalled a porter to take the luggage aboard. Karen retained her satchel. A brief scrutiny of his tickets detained them for a moment, then the porter led them up the gang-plank and aboard and a steward directed them to their stateroom. At the same moment a uniformed official stepped up to Guild.
"Sorry to trouble you, sir," he said politely, "but may I have your name?"
"My name is Kervyn Guild."
The official glanced over the steamer list. "You have papers of identification, Mr. Guild?"
Guild handed him his forged passports. The official took them, glanced at Karen, at the luggage which the porter bore.
"Where do you go from Amsterdam, Mr. Guild?"
"Through Holland."
"Naturally. And then?"
"To the Grand Duchy."
"Luxembourg?"
"Yes."
"Where in Luxembourg?"
"I have been invited to visit friends."
"Where?"
"At Lesse Forest."
"Where is that?"
"Partly in the Duchy, partly in Belgium."
"Who are your friends?"
"Mrs. and Miss Courland of New York and a Mr. Darrel."
"Madam goes with you?"
"Yes."
The official began to unfold the passports, while he looked sideways at the luggage. Holding the passports partly open in one hand he pointed to Karen's satchel with the other.
"Please open that," he said, and began to examine the passports. A deadly pallour came over the girl's face; she did not stir. Guild turned to glance at her and was stricken dumb. But she found her speech. "Dear," she said, with white lips, "would you mind stepping ashore and getting me something at a chemist's?" And under her breath, pressing close to him: "Go, for God's sake. I am afraid I shall be arrested." A terrible fear struck through him.
"The satchel!" he motioned with his lips.
"Yes. Go while you can. Go—go—dear."
"I'll be back in a moment, Karen," he said, coolly took the satchel from the porter, turned with it toward the gang-plank.
The official raised his eyes from the passport he was scanning.
"One moment, sir," he said.
"I'll be back directly," returned Guild, continuing on his way.
"Where are you going, Mr. Guild?"
"To a chemist's."
"Be kind enough to leave that satchel and remain here until I have finished," said the official coldly. And to Karen: "Mrs. Guild, will you kindly open that bag?"
"Certainly. I have the key somewhere"—searchingin her reticule. And as she searched she lifted her eyes to Guild. Her face was dead white.
"Dearest," she said in a steady voice, "will you go to the chemist's while I am opening my bag. Imusthave something for this headache."
Her agonized eyes said: "Save yourself while you can; I am caught!"
But Guild turned and came back to her, close, standing beside her.
"I'll open the luggage," he said quietly. "You had better step ashore and get what you need." And, in a whisper: "Go straight to the American Ambassador and tell him everything."
She whispered: "No; I beg of you go. I beg of you, Kervyn."
He shook his head and they stood there together; he grave and silent, assailed by a terrible premonition; she white as death, mechanically fumbling in her reticule with slim, childish fingers.
The official was deeply immersed in the passports and continued so even when Karen's tremulous fingers held the key. "Give it to me," whispered Guild.
"No—" She beckoned the porter, took the satchel, and at the same moment the official looked up at her, then holding both passports, came over to where they were standing.
"Your papers are in order, Mr. Guild," he said. "Now, Mrs. Guild, if you will open your satchel——"
"I'll attend to that, Holden," broke in a careless voice, and the satchel was taken out of Karen's handsby a short, dark young man in uniform. "I want you to go forward and look at a gentleman for The Hague who has no papers. He's listed as Begley. Do you mind?"
"Right," said Holden. "Here, Mitchell, these papers are satisfactory. Look over Mr. Guild's luggage and come forward when you're finished. What's his name? Begley?"
"Yes, American. I'll be with you in a moment."
Holden hastened forward; Mitchell looked after him for a moment, then calmly handed back the unopened satchel to Karen and while she held it he made a mark on it with a bit of chalk.
"I pass your luggage," he said in a low voice, stooping and marking the suit-case and Guild's sack. "You have nothing to fear at Amsterdam, but there are spies on this steamer. Best go to your cabin and stay there until the boat docks."
The girl bent her little head in silence; the porter resumed the luggage and piloted them aft through an ill-lighted corridor. When he came to the door of their cabin he called a steward, took his tip from Guild, touched his cap and went away.
The steward opened the stateroom door for them, set the luggage on the lounge, asked if there was anything more he could do, was told that there was not, and took himself off.
Guild locked the door after him, turned and looked down at the girl, who had sunk trembling upon the lounge.
"What is there in that satchel?" he asked coldly.
"I don't know."
"What!" he said in a contemptuous voice.
"Kervyn—my friend—I do not know," she stammered.
"Youmustknow! You packed it!"
"Yes. But I do not know. Can't you believe me?"
"How can I? You know what you put into that satchel, don't you?"
"I—put in toilet articles—night clothes—money."
"What else? You put in something else, didn't you? Something that has made you horribly afraid!"
"Yes."
"What is it?"
"Kervyn—I don'tknowwhat it is. I must not know. It is a matter of honour."
"If you don't know what it is you carry in that satchel you evidently suspect what it might prove to be."
"Yes."
"You have very strong suspicions?"
"Yes, I have."
"Why did you take such a thing?"
"I promised."
"Whom?"
"I can't tell you. It is a matter of honour. I—I didn't want to involve you if things turned badly. I asked you to leave me.... Even at the last moment I tried to give you a chance to go ashore and escape. Kervyn, I've tried to be honourable and to be loyal toyou at the same time. I've tried—I've tried—" Her childish voice faltered, almost broke, and she turned her head sharply away from him.
He dropped onto the lounge beside her, sick with anxiety, and laid his hand over hers where it lay in her lap.
"I'm afraid that you have papers in that satchel which might mean the end of the world for you," he said under his breath. "God alone knows why you carry them if you suspect their contents.... Well, I won't ask you anything more at present.... If your conscience acquits you, I do. I do anyway. You have given me plenty of chances to escape. You have been very plucky, very generous to me, Karen."
"I have tried to be," she said unsteadily. "You have been far too kind to me, Kervyn.... I—I don't mean to tremble so. I think I am, feeling the—the reaction."
"Lie down. I am afraid I'll have to stay here——"
"Yes; don't go out on deck. Don't take any more risks.... I'll lie down if I may." She rose, looked around with eyes still darkly dilated by fear:
"Oh!" she breathed—"if we were only out of British waters!"
He looked at his watch, and at the same moment a deep blast from the steamer vibrated through the cabin.
"They've cast off," he said calmly.
The girl had flung herself on the bed and buried her face in the pillow. Her brown velvet hat had fallen to the floor, her thick brown hair clustered in glossy disorder over neck and cheek. One slim hand clutchedconvulsively a tiny handkerchief crushed into a ball.
"We have every chance now," he said very gently, bending over the pillow—"barring a wireless to some British guard-ship. Don't give way yet, Karen." He laid a cool, firm hand over hers and tried to speak jestingly. "Wait until there's no danger at all before you go all to pieces," he whispered.
As he bent above her, he became conscious of the warm fragrance of tears. But no sound came, not a quiver. And after a while he went over to the sofa and sat down, staring at the locked satchel on the floor, vaguely aware that the boat was in steady motion.
"Karen," he said after a moment.
"Yes—dear."
"You know," he said, forcing a laugh, "you needn't say it when we're alone—except for practice."
"Yes, dear, I know."
"May I ask you something?"
"Yes, please."
"Did you know that official named Mitchell?"
"Yes."
"Who was he?"
"Mr. Grätz."