Mr. Joseph Almer, proprietor of the Hotel Splendide, on Waterport Street, was absorbed, heart and soul, in a curious task. He was emptying the powder from two-grain quinine capsules on to a sheet of white letter paper on his desk.
It was noon of Wednesday, the day following the arrival of Captain Woodhouse. Almer was alone in the hotel's reception room and office behind the dingy glass partially enclosing his desk. His alpaca-covered shoulders were close to his ears; and his bald head, with its stripes of plastered hair running like thick lines of latitude on a polished globe, was held far forward so as to bring his eyes on the work in hand. Like some plump magpie he appeared, turning over bits of china in a treasure hole.
A round box of the gelatine cocoons lay at his left hand; it had just been delivered by an Arab boy, quick to pick up the street commission for a tuppence. Very methodically Almer picked the capsules from the box one by one, opened them, and spilled the quinine in a little heap under his nose. He grunted peevishly when the sixth shell had been emptied. The seventh capsule brought an eager whistle to his lips. When he had jerked the concentric halves apart, very little powder fell out. Instead, the thin, folded edges of a pellet of rice paper protruded from one of the containers. This Almer had extracted in an instant. He spread it against the black back of a ledger and read the very fine script written thereon. This was the message:
Danger. An informer from Alexandria has denounced our two friends to Crandall. You must warn; I can not.
The spy's heart was suddenly drained, and the wisp of paper in his hand trembled so that it scattered the quinine about in a thin cloud. Once more he read the note, then held a match to it and scuffed its feathery ash with his feet into the rug beneath his stool. The fortitude which had held Joseph Almer to the Rock in the never-failing hope that some day would bring him the opportunity to do a great service for the fatherland came near crumbling that minute. He groaned.
Our friends, he whispered, "Woodhouse and Louisa—trapped!"
The warning in the note left nothing open to ambiguity for Almer; there were but four of them—"friends" under the Wilhelmstrasse fellowship of danger—there in Gibraltar: Louisa, the man who passed as Woodhouse, and whose hand was to execute the great coup when the right moment came, himself, and that other one whose place was in Government House itself. From this latter the note of warning had come. How desperate the necessity for it Almer could guess when he took into reckoning the dangers that beset any attempt at communication on the writer's part. So narrow the margin of safety for this "friend" that he must look at each setting sun as being reasonably the last for him.
Almer did not attempt to go behind the note and guess who was the informer that had lodged information with the governor-general. He had forgotten, in fact, the incident of the night before, when the blustering Capper called the newly arrived Woodhouse by name. The flash of suspicion that attached responsibility to the American girl named Gerson was dissipated as quickly as it came; she had arrived by motor from Paris, not on the boat from Alexandria. His was now the imperative duty to carry warning to the two suspected, not to waste time in idle speculation as to the identity of the betrayer. There was but one ray of hope in this sudden pall of gloom, and that Almer grasped eagerly. He knew the character of General Crandall—the phlegmatic conservatism of the man, which would not easily be jarred out of an accustomed line of thought and action. The general would be slow to leap at an accusation brought against one wearing the stripes of service; and, though he might reasonably attempt to test Captain Woodhouse, one such as Woodhouse, chosen by the Wilhelmstrasse to accomplish so great a mission, would surely have the wit to parry suspicion.
Yes, he must be put on his guard. As for Louisa—well, it would be too bad if the girl should have to put her back against a wall; but she could be spared; she was not essential. After he had succeeded in getting word of his danger to Woodhouse, Almer would consider saving Louisa from a firing squad. The nimble mind of Herr Almer shook itself free from the incubus of dread and leaped to the exigency of the moment. Calling his head waiter to keep warm the chair behind the desk, Almer retired to his room, and there was exceedingly busy for half an hour.
The hour of parade during war time on Gibraltar was one o'clock. At that time, six days a week, the half of the garrison not actually in fighting position behind the great guns of the defense marched to the parade grounds down by the race track and there went through the grilling regimen that meant perfection and the maintenance of a hair-trigger state of efficiency. Down from the rocky eminences where the barracks stood, marched this day block after block of olive-drab fighting units—artillerymen for the most part, equipped with the rifle and pack of infantrymen. No blare of brass music gave the measure to their step; bandsmen in this time of reality paced two by two, stretchers carried between them. All the curl and snap of silken banners that made the parade a moving spectacle in ordinary times was absent; flags do not figure in the grim modern business of warfare. Just those solid blocks of men trained to kill, sweeping down on to the level grounds and massing, rank on rank, for inspection and the trip-hammer pound-pound-pound of evolutions to follow. Silent integers of power, flexing their muscles for the supreme test that any morning's sun might bring.
Mr. Henry J. Sherman stood with his wife, Kitty and Willy Kimball—Kimball had developed a surprising interest in one of these home folks, at least—under the shade of the row of plane trees fringing the parade grounds. They tried to persuade themselves that they were seeing something worth while. This pleasing fiction wore thin with Mr. Sherman before fifteen minutes had passed.
Shucks, mother! The boys at the national-guard encampment down to Galesburg fair last year made a better showing than this. He pursed out his lips and regarded a passing battalion with a critical eye.
Looked more like soldiers, anyway, mother admitted. "Those floppy, broad-brimmed hats our boys wear make them look more—more romantic, I'd say."
But, my dear Mrs. Sherman—Willy Kimball flicked his handkerchief from his cuff and fluttered it across his coat sleeve, where dust had fallen—"the guards back in the States are play soldiers, you know; these chaps, here—well, they are the real thing. They don't dress up like picture-book soldiers and show off——"
Play soldiers—huh! Henry J. had fire in his eye, and the pearl buttons on his white linen waistcoat creaked with the swelling of a patriot's pride. "You've been a long time from home, Willy. Perhaps you've forgotten that your own father was at Corinth. Guess you've overlooked that soldiers' monument in Courthouse Square back in little old Kewanee. They were 'play soldiers,' eh?—those boys who marched away with your dad in sixty-one. Gimme a regiment of those old boys in blue, and they could lick this whole bunch of——"
Father! Kitty had flipped her hand over her parent's mouth, her eyes round with real fear. "You'll get arrested again, talking that way here where everybody can hear you. Remember what that hotel man said last night about careless remarks about military things on the Rock? Be good, father."
There, there! Sherman removed the monitory hand and patted it reassuringly. "I forgot. But when I get aboard the Saxonia and well out to sea, I'm going to just bust information about what I think of things in general over here in this Europe place—their Bottycelly pictures and their broken-down churches and—and—— Why, bless my soul! The little store buyer and that Iowa girl who's married to the governor here!"
The patriot stopped short in his review of the Continent's delinquencies to wave his hat at Lady Crandall and Jane Gerson, who were trundling down under the avenue of planes in a smart dog-cart. Lady Crandall answered his hail with a flourish of her whip, turned her horse off the road, and brought her conveyance to a stop by the group of exiles. Hearty greetings passed around. The governor's wife showed her unaffected pleasure at the meeting.
I thought you wouldn't miss the parade, she called down from her high seat. "Only thing that moves on the Rock—these daily reviews. Brought Miss Gerson down here so when she gets back to New York she can say she's seen the defenders of Gibraltar, if not in action, at least doing their hard training for it."
Well, I don't mind tellin' you, Sherman began defiantly, "I think the national guard of Illynoy can run circles around these Englishmen when it comes to puttin' up a show. Now, Kitty, don't you try to drive a plug in your dad's sentiments again; Mrs. Crandall's all right—one of us." A shocked look from his daughter. "Oh, there I go again, forgettin'. Lady Crandall, I mean. Excuse me, ma'am."
Don't you dare apologize, the governor's wife playfully threatened Mr. Sherman with her whip. "I love the sound of good, old-fashioned 'Missis.' Just imagine—married five years, and nobody has called me 'Mrs. Crandall' until you did just now. 'Wedded, But Not a Missis'; wouldn't that be a perfectly gorgeous title for a Laura Jean novel? Miss Gerson, let's hop out and join these home folks; they're my kind."
The burst of laughter that greeted Lady Crandall's sally was not over before she had leaped nimbly from her high perch, Henry J. gallantly assisting. Jane followed, and the coachman from his little bob seat in the back drove the dog-cart over the road to wait his mistress' pleasure. The scattered blocks of olive-gray on the field had coalesced into a solid regiment now, and the long double rank of men was sweeping forward like the cutting arm of a giant mower. The party of Americans joined the sparse crowd of spectators at the edge of the field, the better to see. Jane Gerson found herself chatting with Willy Kimball and Kitty Sherman a little apart from the others. A light touch fell on her elbow. She turned to find Almer, the hotel keeper, smiling deferentially.
Pardon—a thousand pardons for the intrusion, lady. I am Almer, of the Hotel Splendide.
You haven't remembered something more I owe you, Jane challenged bruskly.
Oh, no, lady! Almer spread out his hands. "I happened to see you here watching the parade, and I remembered a trivial duty I have which, if I may be so bold as to ask, you may discharge much more quickly than I—if you will."
I discharge a duty—for you? The girl did not conceal her puzzlement. Almer's hand fumbled in a pocket of his flapping alpaca coat and produced a plain silver cigarette case, unmonogrammed. She looked at it wonderingly.
Captain Woodhouse—you met him at my hotel last night, lady. He left this lying on his dresser when he quit his room to go to barracks to-day. For me it is difficult to send a messenger with it to the barracks—war time, lady—many restrictions inside the lines. I came here hoping perhaps to see the captain after the parade. But you——
You wish me to give this to Captain Woodhouse? Jane finished, a flicker of annoyance crossing her face. "Why me?"
You are at Government House, lady. Captain Woodhouse comes to tea—all newcomers to the garrison do that. If you would be so good——
Jane took the cigarette case from Almer's outstretched hand. Lady Crandall had told her the captain would be in for tea that afternoon. It was a small matter, this accommodation, as long as Almer did not insinuate—as he had not done—any impertinence; imply any over eagerness on her part to perform so minor a service for the officer. Almer bowed his thanks and lost himself in the crowd. Jane turned again to where Kitty and Kimball were chatting.
A dun for extra service the landlord forgot last night, I'll wager, the youth greeted her.
Oh, no, just a little present, Jane laughed back at him, holding up the silver case. "With Almer's compliments to Captain Woodhouse, who forgot it when he gave up his room to-day. I've promised to turn it over to the captain and save the hotel man a lot of trouble and red tape getting a messenger through to the captain's quarters."
By Jove! Kimball's tired eyes lighted up with a quick flash of smoker's yearning. "A life-saver! Came away from my room without my pet Egyptians—Mr. Sherman yelling at me to hurry or we'd miss this slow show and all that. I'm going to play the panhandler and beg one of your captain friend's smokes. He must be a good sort or you wouldn't be doing little favors for him, Miss Gerson. Come, now; in your capacity as temporary executrix will you invest one of the captain's cigarettes in a demand of real charity?"
Keen desire was scarcely veiled under Kimball's fiction of light patter. Smilingly the girl extended the case to him.
Just to make it businesslike, the executrix demands your note for—um—sixty days, say. 'For one cigarette received, I promise to pay——'
Given! He pulled a gold pencil from his pocket and made a pretense of writing the form on his cuff. Then he lit his borrowed cigarette and inhaled it gratefully.
Your captain friend's straight from Egypt; I don't have to be told that, Willy Kimball murmured, in polite ecstasy. "At Shepard's, in Cairo, you'll get such a cigarette as this, and nowhere else in a barren world. The breath of the acanthus blossom—if it really has a breath—never heard."
Back in Kewanee the Ladies' Aid Society will have you arrested, Kitty put in mischievously. "They're terribly wrought up over cigarettes—for minors."
Kimball cast her a glance of deep reproach. As he lifted the cigarette to his lips for a second puff, Jane's eyes mechanically followed the movement. Something caught and held them, wonder-filled.
On the side of the white paper cylinder nearest her a curious brown streak appeared—by the merest freak of chance her glance fell on it. As she looked, the thin stain grew darker nearest the fresh ash. The farther end of the faint tracing moved—yes, moved, like a threadworm groping its way along a stick.
Now what are they all doing out there? Kitty Sherman was asking. "All those men running top speed with their guns carried up so high."
Bayonet charge, Kimball answered. "Nothing like the real thing, of course."
Jane Gerson was watching the twisting and writhing of that filament of brown against the white. An invisible hand was writing in brown ink on the side of the cigarette—writing backward and away from the burning tip. It lengthened by seconds—"and Louisa to Crandall."
So the letters of silver nitrate formed themselves under her eyes. Kimball took the cigarette from his lips and held it by his side for a minute. He and Kitty were busy with each other's company for the time, ignoring Jane. She burned with curiosity and with excitement mounting like the fire of wine to her brain. Would he never put that cigarette to his lips again, so she could follow the invisible pen! So fleeting, so evanescent that worm track on the paper, wrought by fire and by fire to be consumed. A mystery vanishing even as it was aborning! After ages, the unconscious Kimball set the cigarette again in his lips.
"—nformer has denounced you and Louisa-t- —play your game and he will be slow to——
"Again the cigarette came away in Kimball's hand. Acting on impulse she did not stop to question, Jane struck it from the young man's outstretched hand and set her foot on it as it fell in the dust.
Oh, I'm clumsy! She fell lightly against Kimball's shoulder and caught herself in well-simulated confusion. "Standing tiptoe to see what that man on a horse is going to do—lost my balance. And—and your precious cigarette—gone!"
The anguish in Jane Gerson's voice was not play. It was real—terribly real.
Jane Gerson, alone for the first time since the incident of the cigarette on the parade ground a few hours back, sat before a narrow window in her room at Government House, fighting a great bewilderment. The window opened on a varied prospect of blooming gardens and sail-flecked bay beyond. But for her eyes the riot of color and clash of contrast between bald cliff and massed green had no appeal. Her hands locked and unlocked themselves on her lap. The girl's mind was struggling to coordinate scattered circumstances into a comprehensible whole, to grapple with the ethical problem of her own conduct.
What she knew, or thought she knew—and what she should do—those were the two saber points of the dilemma upon which she found herself impaled.
Could there now be any doubt of what she felt to be the truth? First, she had met Captain Woodhouse on the Express du Nord—an officer in the English army, by his own statement, returning from leave in England to his post in Egypt. Then, the encounter of last night at the Hotel Splendide, Captain Woodhouse first denying his identity, then admitting it under the enforced pledge that she should not reveal the former meeting. Captain Woodhouse, not in Egypt, but at Gibraltar, and, as she had soon learned, there with papers of transfer from an Egyptian post to the garrison of the Rock. Following this surprise had come General Crandall's dogged examination of that morning—his blunt declaration that a serious question as to the captain's position at Gibraltar had arisen, and his equally plain-spoken threat to have the truth from her concerning her knowledge of the suspected officer.
To cap all, the message on the cigarette! An informer—she guessed the prefix to the unfinished word—had denounced "you and Louisa" to General Crandall. To whom the pronoun referred was unmistakable—Almer's eagerness to insure Captain Woodhouse's receiving the cigarette case plainly defined that. As to "Louisa," involved with Woodhouse, the girl from Hildebrand's was sensible only of a passing flash of curiosity, made a bit more piquant, perhaps, by a little dart of jealousy, hardly comprehended as such. A hotel keeper warns an officer in the Gibraltar garrison that he has been denounced, but in the same message adjures him to "play your own game." That was the single compelling fact.
Jane Gerson flushed—in anger, or was it through guilt?—when she found her lips framing the word "spy"!
Now she understood why General Crandall had put her on the grill—why he, informed, had leaped to the significance of the gift of roses and deduced her previous acquaintance with their donor. Her host was not, after all, the possessor of magical powers of mind reading. He was, instead, just the sober, conscientious protector of the Rock on whom rested responsibility for the lives of its defenders and the maintenance of England's flag there. His duty was to catch—and shoot—spies.
Shoot spies! The girl's heart contracted at the thought. No, no! She would not—she could not reveal to the governor the knowledge she had. That would be to send death to a man as surely as if hers was the finger at the trigger.
Jane Gerson was on her feet now, pacing the room. Over and over again she told herself that this man who had come into her life, obliquely enough, had no claim on her; had brought nothing to her but distress. He had deceived her even, and then, when caught in the deception, had wrested from her a promise that she would help him continue further deception against others. Against her will he had made her a party to some deep and audacious plot, whose purpose she could not guess, but which must be but a part of the huge mystery of war.
And soon this Captain Woodhouse was to come to his trial—the purpose of his invitation to tea that afternoon flashed clear as white light. Soon she would be in the same room with him; would be forced to witness the spinning of the web set to trap him. He would come unwarned, unsuspecting. He might leave that room under guard and with guns at his back—guns soon to be leveled at his heart. Yet she, Jane Gerson, possessed the power to save him—as the warning of the cigarette surely would be saving, once a clever man were put on his guard by it.
Would she speak—and betray General Crandall, her kindly host? Would she lock her lips and see a man walk blindfolded to his death?
A few minutes before five o'clock, Major Bishop was announced at Government House and received by General Crandall in the library. Before Jaimihr Khan, who had preceded the visitor through the double doors from the hall, could retire, his master stopped him.
One minute, Jaimihr! Have a seat, Bishop; glad you've come a bit early. Come here, Jaimihr!
The tall reedlike figure of the Indian glided to General Crandall's side. His thin ascetic features were set in their usual mold of unseeing detachment; only his dark eyes showed animation.
Yes, my General, he said, as he stopped before the Englishman.
I have a little commission for you, Jaimihr, General Crandall began, weighing his words with care. "The utmost discretion—you understand?"
The utmost. I understand. Jaimihr Khan's lips moved ever so slightly, and his eyes looked steadily ahead.
In the course of a few minutes, Captain Woodhouse, of the signal service, will be here to tea, the general began. The Indian repeated mechanically: "Cap-tain Wood-house."
As soon as you have ushered him into this room, you will go as quickly as you can to the West Barracks. His room will be No. 36, on the second gallery. You will enter his room with a key I shall give you and search it from end to end—everything in it. Anything that is of a suspicious nature—you understand, Jaimihr, what that might be—you will bring here to me at once.
It shall be done, General Sahib.
No one, officer or man, must suspect your errand. No one must see you enter or leave that room.
No one, the Indian repeated.
General Crandall went to a wall safe set by the side of the double doors, turned the combination, and opened it. He took from a drawer therein a bunch of keys, selected one, and passed it to Jaimihr Khan.
The utmost care, remember! he warned again.
Is it likely I should fail you this time, General Sahib, when so many times I have succeeded?
Make the search complete. General Crandall ignored his servant's question. "But return as quickly as you can. I shall keep Captain Woodhouse here until you do so. You must report to me before he leaves this house."
When the moment arrives, your servant shall fly, General Sahib, the Indian replied, and withdrew.
I say, General, you have a great deal of faith in your Indian, Bishop ventured, accepting a cigarette from his superior's case. "Rather a delicate commission you've given him."
Absolute faith, yes. Been with me five years—picked him up in Rangoon—have tried him many times, and found him loyal as any officer in the service. General Crandall put in his words enough emphasis to carry slight rebuke for the other's implied criticism. But the pursy little major was too sure of the fine terms of personal friendship between himself and his superior to feel embarrassment.
About that girl, General—that cigar girl, Josepha, concerning whom your beach-comber friend sent that warning this morning from the safe ground of Spain——
Obvious thing would have been to clap her in a cell, the governor answered. "But I have not, for the very good reason that if there's anything in this fellow's accusations against her, as well as against Woodhouse, the game will be to keep her watched and give our captain an opportunity to communicate with her. Minute he does that—why, we've got our proof against both."
Then I take it you've put a trailer on the girl?
At eight o'clock to-night I'll know where she's been every hour of the day, the general returned confidently. "She can't leave the town without being arrested. Now, as to our plan for Woodhouse's reception—this affair of Craigen's wife; we might as well agree on points, so that——" He heard his wife's voice in the room off the library, and broke off abruptly. "Confound it; the women are coming! Just step into my room with me, and we'll go over this little matter, Major."
General Crandall held open a small door at the left of his desk and followed Bishop through. Lady Crandall and Jane entered the library almost at the same time.
This tea of George's is preposterous, the lady of Government House was grumbling. "Said we must have this man from Egypt here at once."
If you were English, no tea could be preposterous, Jane countered, with a brave attempt at lightness. She felt each passing moment a weight adding to the suspense of the inevitable event.
Well, I'm going to get it through with just as soon as I can, Lady Crandall snapped. Then Jaimihr Khan threw open the double doors and announced: "Cap-tain Wood-house, my lady!"
Show him up! she commanded; then in complaint to Jane: "Now where do you suppose that husband of mine went? Just like him to suggest a tea and forget to make an appearance."
Captain Woodhouse appeared between the opened doors in khaki and trim puttees. He stood very straight for an instant, his eyes shooting rapidly about the room. Lady Crandall hurried forward to greet him, and his momentary stiffness disappeared. The girl behind her followed slowly, almost reluctantly. Woodhouse grasped her extended hand.
It was good of you to send the flowers, she murmured. The man smiled appreciation.
Do you know, he said, "after I sent them I thought you'd consider me a bit—prompt."
I am learning something every day—about Englishmen, Jane managed to answer, with a ghost of a smile.
Always something good, I hope, Woodhouse was quick to retort, his eyes eagerly trying to fathom the cause of the girl's restraint.
Lady Crandall, who had been vainly ringing for Jaimihr Khan, excused herself on the necessity of looking after the tea things. Jane experienced a quick stab of dread at finding herself alone with this man. Unexpected opportunity was urging a decision which an hour of solitude in her room had failed to bring. Yet she trembled, appalled and afraid to speak, before the very magnitude of the moment's exigency. "A spy—a spy!" whispered austere duty. "He will die!" her heart cried in protest.
Miss Gerson, it's good to see you again and know by your handclasp you have forgiven me for—for what was very necessary at the moment—last night—our meeting in the Splendide. Captain Woodhouse was standing before her now, his grave eyes looking down into hers. The girl caught a deep note of sincerity and something else—something vibrantly personal. Yet her tongue would not be loosed of its burden.
A very pretty speech, she answered, with attempted raillery. "I shall think of it on the boat going home."
I say, I wish you weren't always in that horrid state of mind—on your way home mentally, Captain Woodhouse challenged.
I shall be so in reality day after to-morrow, I hope, she replied. "Away from all this bewildering war and back in comfortable little New York." The man seemed genuinely grieved at her announcement.
New York must be worth while; but I imagine you have nothing picturesque—nothing old there. I'll wager you haven't a single converted monastery like Government House in all your city.
Not many things in New York have been converted, she answered, with a smile. "Our greatest need is for a municipal evangelist."
False—all false, this banter! She knew it to be, and so she believed he must read it. And the man—his ease of manner was either that of innocence or of supreme nerve, the second not less to be admired than the first. Could it be that behind his serious eyes, now frankly telling her what she dared not let herself read in them, lay duplicity and a spy's cunning?
I fancy you New Yorkers suffer most from newness—newness right out of the shop, she heard him saying. "But the old things are the best. Imagine the monks of a long-ago yesterday toasting themselves before this ancient fireplace." He waved toward the massive Gothic mantel bridging a cavernous fireplace. An old chime bell, green with weathering, hung on a low frame beside the firedogs.
You're mistaken; that's manufactured antiquity, Jane caught him up. "Lady Crandall told me last night that fireplace is just five years old. One of the preceding governor's hobbies, it was."
Woodhouse caught at her answer with a quick lifting of the brows. He turned again to feast his eyes on the girl's piquant face, even more alluring now because of the fleeting color that left the cheeks with a tea rose's coldness.
Miss Gerson, something I have done or said—the man was laboring after words—"you are not yourself, and maybe I am respon——"
She turned from him with a slight shudder. Her hand was extended in mute appeal for silence. He waited while his eyes followed the heaving of her shoulders under the emotion that was racking her. Suddenly she faced him again, and words rushed from her lips in an abandon of terror:
Captain Woodhouse, I know too much—about you and why you are here. Oh, more than I want to! Accident—bad luck, believe me, it is not my seeking that I know you are a—a——
He had started forward at her outburst, and now he stood very close to her, his gray eyes cold and unchanging.
Say it—say the word! I'm not afraid to hear it, he commanded tensely. She drew back from him a little wildly, her hands fluttering up as if to fend him off.
You—you are in great danger this minute. You were brought here this afternoon to be trapped—exposed and made——
I was fully aware of that when I came, Miss Gerson, he interrupted. "The invitation, coming so suddenly—so pressing—I think I read it aright."
But the promise you made me give last night! Sudden resentment brushed aside for the instant the girl's first flood of sympathy. "That has involved me with you. Oh, that was unfair—to make me promise I would not allude to—to our first meeting!"
Involved you? He closed one of her hands in his as if to calm her and force more rational speech. "Then you have been——"
Questioned by General Crandall—about you, she broke in, struggling slightly to free her hand. "Questioned—and even bullied and threatened."
And you kept your promise? The question was put so low Jane could hardly catch it. She slowly nodded.
Miss Gerson, you will never have cause to regret that you did. Woodhouse pressed her hand with almost fierce intenseness, then let it go. Her face was flaming now under the stress of excitement. She knew tears stood in her eyes, and was angered at their being there; he might mistake them. Woodhouse continued, in the same suppressed tone:
You were on the point of using a word a minute ago, Miss Gerson, which was hard for you to voice because you thought it an ugly word. You seemed sure it was the right word to fit me. You only hesitated out of—ah—decency. Yet you kept faith with me before General Crandall. May I hope that means——
You may hope nothing! Quick rebellion at what she divined to be coming flamed in Jane's eyes. "You have no right to hope for more from me than what you forced by promise. I would not be saying what I have to you if—if I did not feel I—that your life——"
You misunderstood, he broke in stiffly. "I was on the point of saying I hoped you would not always believe me a——"
Not believe! Her hand went to the broad ribbon belt she wore and brought out the silver cigarette case. This she passed to him with a swift gesture.
Almer, the Hotel Splendide man, gave me this to-day at parade, urging that I deliver it to you. She was speaking hurriedly. "By a miracle—the strangest circumstance in the world—I learned the message this cigarette case was to carry to you. Oh, no, innocently enough on my part—it came by a chance I must not take the time to explain."
A message from—Almer to me? Woodhouse could not conceal the start her words gave him. He took a step toward her eagerly.
"Yes, a message. You must have it to protect yourself. The message was this: Informer has denounced you and Louisa to——""
"Her voice died in her throat. Over Captain Woodhouse's shoulder she saw a door open. General Crandall and a short fat man in officer's uniform entered the library.
Good afternoon, Captain Woodhouse.
General Crandall came forward and shook the captain's hand cordially. "Miss Gerson, Major Bishop, of my staff."
Jane acknowledged the introduction. Major Bishop advanced to the meeting with Woodhouse expectantly. With an air of ill-assumed ease, the governor made them known to each other.
Major Bishop, your new man in the signal tower, Captain Woodhouse, from Wady Halfa. Captain, do you happen to remember the major? Was a captain when you were here on the Rock—captain in the engineers.
I'm afraid we never met, Woodhouse began easily. "I was here such a short time. Expected to meet Major Bishop when I reported at his office this morning, but he was over at the wireless station, his aid told me."
Right, Captain! Bishop chirped, shaking his subordinate's hand. "I—ah—imagine this is the first time we've met." He put the least shade of emphasis on the verb.
Woodhouse met his eyes boldly. Lady Crandall, bustling in at this minute, directed a maid where to wheel the tea wagon, while Jane went to assist her with the pouring. The men soon had their cups, and the general and major contrived to group themselves with Woodhouse sitting between them. Sir George, affecting a gruff geniality, launched a question:
Rock look familiar to you, Captain?
After a fashion, yes, Woodhouse answered slowly. "Though three months is so short a time for one to get a lasting impression."
Nonsense! the general reproved gustily. "Some places you see once you never forget. This old Rock is one of them; eh, Bishop?"
I don't know, the chunky little officer replied. "The powers back home never give me a chance to get away and forget." There was a pause as the men sipped their tea. Woodhouse broke the silence:
Man can be stationed in worse places than Gibraltar.
If you mean Egypt, I agree with you, Crandall assented. "There six years."
Were you, General? What station? Woodhouse was coolly stirring his tea, emphatically at his ease. Jane, her back to the men as she fussed over the tea wagon, filled her own cup with hot water inadvertently. She tried to laugh over the mistake, but her fingers trembled as she poured the water back into the kettle.
Not on the lazy old Nile, as you were—lucky dog! the general returned. "Out on the yellow sands—at Arkowan—a place in the sun, never fear!"
The women had their cups now, and joined the men, sitting a little behind. Jane caught a shrewd sidewise glance from the general—a glance that sought a quick and sure reading of her emotions. She poised her cup as if expecting a question and the glance turned aside. But it had warned the girl that she was not altogether a passive factor in the situation. She set a guard over her features.
Let me see, Captain Woodhouse—it was little Bishop who took up the probe—"you must have been here in the days when Craigen was governor—saw your papers have it that you were here three months in nineteen seven."
Yes, Craigen was governor then, Woodhouse answered guardedly.
You never saw him, General. Bishop turned to Sir George. "Big, bluff, blustering chap, with a voice like the bull of Bashan. Woodhouse, here, he'll recognize my portrait."
Woodhouse smiled—secret disdain for the clumsy trap was in that smile.
I'm afraid I do not, he said. "Craigen was considered a small, almost a delicate, man." He had recognized the bungling emphasis laid by Bishop on the Craigen characteristics, and his answer was pretty safely drawn by choosing the opposites. Bishop looked flustered for an instant, then admitted Woodhouse was right. He had confused Sir David Craigen with his predecessor, he said in excuse.
I fancy I ought to remember the man. I had tea in this very room with him several times, Woodhouse ventured. He let his eyes rove as if in reminiscence. "Much the same here—as—except, General Crandall, I don't recall that fireplace." He indicated the heavy Gothic ornament on the opposite side of the room.
Jane caught her breath under the surge of secret elation. The resource of the man so to turn to advantage a fact that she had carelessly given him in their conversation of a few moments back! The girl saw a flicker of surprise cross General Crandall's face. Lady Crandall broke in:
You have a good memory, after all, Captain Woodhouse. That fireplace is just five years old.
Um—yes, yes, her husband admitted. "Clever piece of work, though. Likely to deceive anybody by its show of antiquity."
General Crandall called for a second slice of lemon in his cup. He was obviously sparring for another opening, but was impressed by the showing the suspected man was making. Bishop pushed the inquisition another step:
Did you happen to be present, Captain, at the farewell dinner we gave little Billy Barnes? I think it must have been in the spring you were here.
There were many dinners, Major Bishop. Woodhouse was carefully selecting his words, and he broke his sentences with a sip from his cup. "Seven years is a long time, you know. We had much else to think about in Egypt than old dinners elsewhere."
Bishop appeared struck by an inspiration. He clapped his cup into its saucer with a sudden bang.
Hang it, man, you must have been here in the days of Lady Evelyn. Remember her, don't you?
Would I be likely to forget? the captain parried. Out of the tail of his eye he had a flash of Jane Gerson's white face, of her eyes seeking his with a palpitant, hunted look. The message of her eyes brought to him an instant of grace in sore trial.
Seven years of Egypt—or of a hotter place—couldn't make a man forget her! The major was rattling on for the benefit of those who had not come under the spell of the charmer. "Sir David Craigen's wife, and as lovely a woman as ever came out from England. Every man on the Rock lost his heart that spring. Woodhouse, even in three months' time you must have fallen like the rest of us."
I'd rather not incriminate myself. Woodhouse smiled sagely as he passed his cup to Lady Crandall to be refilled.
Don't blame you, Bishop caught him up. "A most outrageous flirt, and there was the devil to pay. Broken hearts were as thick on the Rock that year as strawberries in May, including poor Craigen's. And after one young subaltern tried to kill himself—you'll remember that, Woodhouse—Sir David packed the fair charmer off to England. Then he simply ate his heart out and—died."
What an affecting picture! Jane commented. "One lone woman capturing the garrison of Gibraltar!"
General Crandall rose to set his cup on the tea wagon. With the most casual air in the world, he addressed himself to Woodhouse:
When Sir David died, many of his effects were left in this house to await their proper owner's disposition, and Lady Craigen has been—er—delicate about claiming them. Among them was the portrait of Lady Craigen herself which still hangs in this room. Have you recognized it, Captain?
Woodhouse, whose mind had been leaping forward, vainly trying to divine the object of the Lady Evelyn lead, now knew, and the knowledge left him beyond his resources. He recognized the moment of his unmasking. But the man's nerve was steady, even in extremity. He rose and turned to face the rear wall of the library, against the tapestry of which hung four oil portraits in their deep old frames of heavy gold. Three of these were of women. A fourth, also the likeness of a woman, hung over the fireplace. Chances were four to one against blind choice.
As Woodhouse slowly lifted his eyes to the line of portraits, he noticed that Jane had moved to place the broad tent shade of a floor lamp on its tall standard of mahogany between herself and the other two men so that her face was momentarily screened from them. She looked quickly at the portrait over the mantel and away again. Woodhouse, knowing himself the object of two pairs of hostile eyes, made his survey deliberately, with purpose increasing the tension of the moment. His eyes ranged the line of portraits on the rear wall, then turned to that one over the fireplace.
Ah, yes, a rather good likeness, eh, Major? He drawled his identification with a disinterested air.
Crandall's manner underwent instant change. His former slightly strained punctiliousness gave way to naturalness and easy spirits. One would have said he was advocate for a man on trial, for whom the jury had just pronounced, "Not proven." Scotch verdict, yes, but one acceptable enough to the governor of Gibraltar. The desk telephone sounded just then, and General Crandall answered. After listening briefly, he gave the orders, "Dress flags!" and hung up the receiver.
'Fleet's just entering the harbor,' signal tower reports, he explained to the others. "Miss Gerson, if you care to step here to the window you'll see something quite worth while."
Jane, light-hearted almost to the point of mild hysteria at the noticeable relaxation of strain denoting danger passed, bounded to a double French window giving on a balcony and commanding a view of all the bay to the Spanish shore. She exclaimed, in awe:
Ships—ships! Hundreds of them! Why, General, what——
The Mediterranean fleet, young woman, bound home to protect the Channel against the German high-seas fleet. Deep pride was in the governor's voice. His eyes kindled as they fell on the distant pillars of smoke—scores of them mounting straight up to support the blue on their blended arches. Captain Woodhouse could scarcely conceal the start General Crandall's announcement gave him. He followed the others to the window more slowly.
Wirelessed they'd be in ten hours ago, the governor explained to his wife. "Rear-admiral won't make his official call until morning, however. In these times he sticks by his flagship after five o'clock."
Wonderful—wonderful! Bishop turned in unfeigned enthusiasm to Woodhouse, behind him. "There is the power—and the pride—of England. Sort of thrills a chap, eh?"
Rather! Woodhouse replied.
Well, must get down to the quay to receive any despatches that may come ashore, the major exclaimed. "Gad, but it gives me a little homesick tug at the heart to see these grim old dogs of war. They represent that tight little island that rules the waves."
Ah, London—London—the big, old town where they pull the strings that make us dance! General Crandall, leaning against the window frame, his eyes on the incoming fleet, voiced the chronic nostalgia of the man in the service.
The town for me! Woodhouse exclaimed with fervor. "I'm sick for the sight of her—the sounds of her—the smells of her: the orange peel and the asphalt and the gas coming in over Vauxhall Bridge."
Bishop turned on him admiringly.
By George, that does hit it off, old man—no mistake!
Jane was out on the balcony now with field glasses she had picked up from the governor's desk. She called back through the curtains, summoning Woodhouse to come and pick out for her the flagship. When he had joined her, Bishop stepped quickly to his superior's side.
What do you think, General? By George, it seems to me it would need an Englishman to give one that sniff of London this chap just got off.
Exactly, the general caught him up crisply. "And an Englishman's done it—Rudyard Kipling. Any German who can read English can read Kipling."
But what do you think, General? Chap strikes me as genuine—that portrait of Lady Evelyn clenched things, I take it.
Confound it! We haven't absolutely proved anything, pro or con, General Crandall grumbled, in perplexity. "Thing'll have to be decided by the Indian—what he finds, or doesn't find—in Woodhouse's room. Let you know soon as I hear."
Bishop hurried to make his adieux to Lady Crandall and her guest, and was starting for the doors when Woodhouse, stepping in from the balcony, offered to join him. The governor stopped him.
By the way, Captain, if you'll wait for me a minute I should like your company down the Rock.
Bishop had gone, and the general, taking Woodhouse's agreement for granted, also left the room.
Woodhouse, suddenly thrown back on his guard, could find nothing to do but assent. But when Lady Crandall excused herself on the score of having to dress for dinner, he welcomed compensation in being alone with the girl who had gone with him steadfastly, unflinchingly, through moments of trial. She stood before the curtains screening the balcony, hesitant, apparently meditating flight. To her Woodhouse went, in his eyes an appeal for a moment alone which would not be denied.
You were—very kind to me, he began, his voice very low and broken. "If it had not been—for your help, I would have——"
I could not see you—see you grope blindly—and fail. She turned her head to look back through the opened glass doors to the swiftly moving dots in the distance that represented the incoming battle fleet.
But was there no other reason except just humanity to prompt you? He had possessed himself of one of her hands now, and his eyes compelled her to turn her own to meet their gaze. "Once when they—were trying to trip me, I caught a look from your eyes, and—and it was more than—than pity."
You are presuming too much, the girl parried faintly; but Woodhouse would not be rebuffed.
You must hear me, he rushed on impetuously. "This is a strange time for me to say this, but you say you are going—going away soon. I may not have another opportunity—hear me! I am terribly in earnest when I tell you I love you—love you beyond all believing. No, no! Not for what you have done for me, but for what you are to me—beloved."
She quickly pulled her hand free from his grasp and tried to move to the door. He blocked her way.
I can not have you go without a word from you, he pleaded. "Just a word to tell me I may——"
How can you expect—that—I—knowing what I do—— She was stumbling blindly, but persisted: "You, who have deceived others, are deceiving them now—how can I know you are not deceiving me, too?"
I can not explain. He dropped his head hopelessly, and his voice seemed lifeless. "It is a time of war. You must accept my word that I am honest—with you."
She slowly shook her head and started again for the double doors. "Perhaps—when you prove that to me——." He took an eager step toward her. "But, no, you can not. I will be sailing so soon, and—and you must forget."
You ask the impossible! Woodhouse quickly seized her hand and raised it to his lips. As he did so, the double doors opened noiselessly and Jaimihr Khan stood between them, sphinx-like.
Jane, startled, withdrew her hand, and without a farewell glance, ran across the library and through the door to Lady Crandall's room. Jaimihr Khan, with a cold glance at Woodhouse, moved silently to the door of General Crandall's room and knocked.
It is I—Jaimihr Khan, he answered to the muffled hail from within. "Yes, General Sahib, I will wait."
He turned and looked toward Woodhouse. The latter had taken a cigarette from the case Almer had sent him through Jane, and was turning it over in his hand curiously. The Indian, treading like a hunting cat, began lighting candles. His tour of the room brought him to the captain's side, and there he stood, motionless, until Woodhouse, with a start, observed him.
Cap-tain Wood-house has been most in-discreet, he said, in his curious mechanical way of speech.
Woodhouse turned on him angrily.
What do you mean? he snapped.
Is it that they have ceased to teach discretion—at the Wilhelmstrasse? The Indian's face was a mask.
I know nothing about the Wilhelmstrasse, the white man answered, in a voice suddenly strained.
Then it is veree, veree foolish for the captain to leave in his room these plans. Jaimihr Khan took from his girdle a thin roll of blue prints—the plans of the signal tower and Room D which Almer had given Woodhouse the night before. He held them gingerly between slender thumb and forefinger.
Woodhouse recoiled.
The general sahib has sent me to search the cap-tain's room, the even voice of Jaimihr Khan ran on. "Behold the results of my journey!"
Woodhouse sent a lightning glance at the door leading to the governor's room, then stepped lightly away from the Indian and regarded him with hard calculating eyes.
What do you propose to do—with those plans?
What should I do? The white shoulders of the Indian went up in a shrug. "They will stand you before a wall, Cap-tain Wood-house. And fire. It is the price of in-discretion at a time like this."
Woodhouse's right hand whipped back to his holster, which hung from his sword belt, and came forward again with a thick, short-barreled weapon in it.
Give me those plans, you yellow hound!
Shoot! Jaimihr Khan smiled. "Add one in-discretion to another. Shoot, my youthful fool!"
The door to General Crandall's room opened, and the general, in uniform evening dress, stepped into the library. Woodhouse swiftly slipped his revolver behind his back, though keeping it ready for instant use.
All ready, Captain. Smoke. The general extended his cigarette case toward Woodhouse.
The latter smilingly declined, his eyes all the while on the Indian, who stood by the corner of the general's desk. Between the sleek brown hands a tiny blue roll of paper was twisting into a narrower wisp under the careless manipulation of thin fingers.
Well, Jaimihr, Crandall briskly addressed the servant, "have you completed the errand I sent you on?"
Yes, General Sahib. The brown fingers still caressed the plans of the signal tower.
Have you anything to report? The general had his cigarette in his mouth and was pawing his desk for a match. Jaimihr Khan slowly lifted the tip of the paper wisp in his fingers to the flame of a candle on the end of the desk, then held the burning tip to his master's cigarette.
Jaimihr Khan held the tip to his master's cigarette.
Jaimihr Khan held the tip to his master's cigarette.
Nothing, General Sahib.
Very good. Come, Woodhouse; sorry to have kept you waiting. The general started for the double doors. Woodhouse followed. He passed very close to the Indian, but the latter made no sign. His eyes were on the burning wisp of paper between his fingers.
The next day, Thursday, was one of hectic excitement for Gibraltar. Focus of the concentrated attention of town and Rock was the battle fleet, clogging all the inner harbor with its great gray hulks. Superdreadnaughts, like the standing walls of a submerged Atlantis, lay close to the quays, barges lashed alongside the folded booms of their torpedo nets. Behind them, battle cruisers and scouts formed a protecting cordon. Far out across the entrance to the harbor, the darting black shapes of destroyers on constant guard were shuttles trailing their threads of smoke through the blue web of sea and sky. Between fleet and shore snorting cockleshells of launches established lanes of communication; khaki of the Rock's defenders and blue of the fleet's officers met, passed, and repassed. In wardroom and club lounge glasses were touched in pledges to the united service. The high commander of the Mediterranean fleet paid his official visit to the governor of Gibraltar, and the governor, in, turn, was received with honors upon the quarterdeck of the flagship. But under the superficial courtesies of fanfare and present arms the stern business of coaling fleet progressed at high tension. It was necessary that all of the fighting machines have their bunkers filled by noon of the following day. Every minute that the Channel up under the murky North Sea fogs lay without full strength of her fleet protection was added danger for England.
That morning, Captain Woodhouse went on duty in the signal tower. Major Bishop, his superior, had summoned him to his office immediately after breakfast and assigned him to his tasks there. Sufficient proof, Woodhouse assured himself, with elation, that he had come through the fire in General Crandall's library, tested and found genuine. Through this pretext and that, he had been kept off duty the day before, denied access to the slender stone tower high up on the Rock's crest which was the motor center of Gibraltar's ganglia of defense.
The small office in which Woodhouse was installed was situated at the very top of the tower—a room glassed on four sides like the lantern room of a lighthouse, and provided with telescope, a telephone switchboard, range finders, and all the complicated machinery of gunfire control. On one side were trestle boards supporting charts of the ranges—figured areas representing every square yard of water from the nearer harbor below out to the farthest reaching distance of the monster disappearing guns. A second graphic sheet showed the harbor and anchorages and the entrance to the straits; this map was thickly spotted with little, red, numbered dots—the mines. Sown like a turnip field with these deadly capsules of destruction were all the waters thereabouts; their delicate tendrils led under water and through conduits in the Rock up to this slender spire called the signal tower. As he climbed the winding stairway to his newly assigned post, Woodhouse had seen painted on a small wooden door just below the room he was to occupy the single white letter "D."
Room D—where the switches were, where a single sweep of the hand could loose all the hidden death out there in the crowded harbor—it lay directly below his feet.
Captain Woodhouse's duties were not arduous. He had as single companion a sergeant of the signal service, whose post was at the window overlooking the harbor. The sergeant read the semaphore message from the slender signal arm on the flagship's bridge—directions for the coal barges' movements, businesslike orders to be transmitted to the quartermaster in charge of the naval stores ashore, and such humdrum of routine. These Woodhouse recorded and forwarded to their various destinations over the telephone.
He had much time for thought—and much to think about.
Yesterday's scene in the library of Government House—his grilling by the two suspicious men, when a false answer on his part would have been the first step toward a firing squad. Yes, and what had followed between himself and the little American—the girl who had protected and aided him—ah, the pain of that trial was hardly less poignant than had been the terror of the one preceding it. She had asked him to prove to her that he was not what she thought him. Before another day was past she would be out of his life and would depart, believing—yes, convinced—that the task he had set himself to do was a dishonorable one. She could not know that the soldiers of the Hidden Army have claim to heroism no less than they who join battle under the sun. But he was to see Jane Gerson once more; Woodhouse caught at this circumstance as something precious. To-night at Government House Lady Crandall's dinner to the refugee Americans on the eve of their departure would offer a last opportunity. How could he turn it to the desire of his heart?
One more incident of a crowded yesterday gave Woodhouse a crust for rumination—the unmasking Jaimihr Khan, the Indian, had elected for himself at that critical minute when it lay in his power to betray the stranger in the garrison. The captain reviewed the incident with great satisfaction—how of a sudden the wily Indian had changed from an enemy holding a man's life in his hand to that "friend in Government House," of whose existence the cautious Almer had hinted but whose identity he had kept concealed. Almer had said that this "friend" could lay his hand on the combination to Room D in the signal tower when the proper moment arrived. Now that he knew Jaimihr Khan in his true stripe, Woodhouse made no doubt of his ability to fulfill Almer's prophecy.
And the proper moment would be this night! To-night, on the eve of the great fleet's sailing, what Woodhouse had come to Gibraltar to do must be accomplished or not at all.
The man's nerves were taut, and he rose to step to the bayward window, there to look down on the embattled splendor of England's defense. Steel forts ranged all in rows, awaiting but the opportunity to loose their lightnings of obliteration against the ships of an enemy. Cardboard ships! Shadows of dreams! In Room D, just below his feet, a hand on the switches—a downward push, and then——
Lady Crandall's dinner in Government House was in full tide of hilarity. Under the heavy groined ceiling the spread table with its napery and silver was the one spot of light in the long shadowed dining-room. Round it sat the refugees—folk who had eaten black bread and sausage and called that a meal; who had dodged and twisted under the careless scourge of a war beyond their understanding and sympathies, ridden in springless carts, been bullied and hectored by military martinets and beggared by panicky banks. Now, with the first glimpse of freedom already in sight and under the warming influence of an American hostess' real American meal, they were swept off their feet by high spirits almost childlike. Henry J. Sherman, Kewanee's vagrant son returning from painful pilgrimage, sat at the right of Lady Crandall; his pink face was glowing with humor. To Consul Reynolds, who swore he would have to pay for thus neglecting his consulate for so much as two hours, had fallen the honor of escorting Mrs. Sherman to table. Willy Kimball, polished as to shirt bosom and sleek hair, had eyes and ears for none but the blithe Kitty. Next to General Crandall sat Jane Gerson, radiant in a dinner gown of tricky gauze overlaid on silk. At her right was Captain Woodhouse, in proper uniform dinner coat faced with red and gold. Of the whole company, Woodhouse alone appeared constrained. The girl by his side had been cool in her greeting that evening; to his conversational sallies she had answered with indifference, and now at table she divided her favors between General Crandall and the perky little consul across the table. It seemed to Woodhouse that she purposely added a lash of cruelty to her joy at the approaching departure on the morrow.
Oh, you must all listen to this! Kitty Sherman commanded the attention of the table, with a clapping of hands. "Go ahead, Will; he had the funniest accident—tell them about it."
Young Kimball looked conscious and began to stammer.
You're getting us all excited, Willy, Henry J. boomed from the opposite side of the table. "What happened?"
Why—ah—really quite ridiculous, you know. Hardly a matter to—ah—talk about. Willy fumbled the rose in the lapel of his jacket and searched for words. "You see, this morning I was thinking very hard about what I would do when I got back to Kewanee—oh, quite enthusiastic I am about the little town, now—and I—well, I mean to say, I got into my bath with my wrist watch on."
Shouts of laughter added to the youth's confusion. Sherman leaned far across the table and advised him in a hoarse whisper:
Buy a dollar Ingersoll, Willy. It floats!
Well, you might give him one of yours, father, Kitty put in, in quick defense. "Anybody who'd carry two watches around——"
Two watches? Lady Crandall was interested.
Henry J. beamed expansively, pulled away his napkin, and proudly lifted from each waistcoat pocket a ponderous watch, linked by the thick chain passing through a buttonhole.
This one—he raised the right-hand time-piece—"tells the time of the place I happen to be in—changed it so often I guess the works'll never be the same again. But this one is my pet. Here's Kewanee time—not touched since we pulled out of the C., B. & Q. station on the twentieth of last May." He turned the face around for the others to read. "Just three in the afternoon there now. Old Ed Porter's got the Daily Enterprise out on the street, and he's tilted back in his office chair, readin' the Chicago Tribune that's just got in on the two-five train. The boys at the bank are goin' out to the country club for golf—young Pete Andrews wearin' the knickerbockers his wife cut down from his old overcoat; sort of a horse-blanket pattern, you might say. The town's just dozin' in the afternoon sun and—and not givin' a hang whether Henry J. Sherman and family gets back or not."
You're an old dear! Lady Crandall bubbled. "Some day Kewanee will erect a statue to you."
The talk turned to art, and the man from Kewanee even had the stolid general wiping the tears from his eyes by his description and criticism of some of the masters his wife had trotted him around to admire.
Willy, you'll be interested to know we got a painter in Kewanee now, Henry J. cried. "'Member young Frank Coales—old Henry Coales' son? Well, he turned out to be an artist. Too bad, too; his folks was fine people. But Frank was awfully headstrong about art. Painted a war picture about as big as that wall there. Couldn't find a buyer right away, so he turned it over to Tim Burns, who keeps the saloon on Main Street. Been busy ever since, sorta taking it out in trade, you might say."
Table talk was running at a gay rate when Mrs. Sherman, who had sent frequent searching glances at Captain Woodhouse over the nodding buds of the flower piece in the center of the board, suddenly broke out:
Ah, Captain Woodhouse, now I remember where I've seen you before! I thought your face was familiar the minute I set my eyes on you this evening.
Jaimihr Khan, who stood behind the general's chair, arms folded and motionless, swiftly lifted one hand to his lips, but immediately mastered himself again. General Crandall looked up with a sharp crinkle of interest between his eyes. Captain Woodhouse, unperturbed, turned to the Kewanee dowager.
You have seen me before, Mrs. Sherman?
I am sure of it, the lady announced, with decision. The other diners were listening now.
Indeed! And where? Woodhouse was smiling polite attention.
Why, at the Winter Garden, in Berlin—a month ago! Mrs. Sherman was hugely satisfied with her identification. She appealed to her husband for confirmation. "Remember, father, that gentleman I mistook for Albert Downs, back home, that night we saw that—er—wicked performance?"
Can't say I do, Sherman answered tolerantly.
Woodhouse, still smiling, addressed Mrs. Sherman:
Frightfully sorry to disappoint you, Mrs. Sherman, but I was not in Berlin a month ago. I came here from Egypt, where I had been several years. Woodhouse heard Jane at his elbow catch her breath.
See, mother, there you go on your old hobby of recognizin' folks, Sherman chided. Then, to the others: "Why, she's seen all Kewanee since she came here to Europe. Even got a glimpse of the Methodist minister at Monte Carlo."
I have never been in Berlin in my life, Mrs. Sherman, Woodhouse was adding. "So, of course——"
Well, I suppose I am wrong, the lady admitted. "But still I could swear."
The governor, who had kept a cold eye on his subordinate during this colloquy, now caught Woodhouse's glance. The captain smiled frankly.
Another such unexpected identification, General, and you'll have me in the cells as a spy, I dare say, he remarked.
Quite likely, Crandall answered shortly, and took up his fork again. A maid stepped to Lady Crandall's chair at this juncture and whispered something. The latter spoke to Woodhouse:
You're wanted on the telephone in the library, Captain. Very important, so the importunate person at the other end of the wire informs the maid.
Woodhouse looked his confusion.
Probably that silly ass at the quay who lost a bag of mine when I landed, he apologized, as he rose. "If you'll pardon me——"
Woodhouse passed up the stairs and into the library. He was surprised to find Jaimihr Khan standing by the telephone, his hand just in the act of setting the receiver back on the hook. The Indian stepped swiftly to the double doors and shut them behind the captain.
A thousand pardons, Cap-tain—he spoke hurriedly—"the cap-tain will stand near the telephone. They may come from the dining-room at any minute."
What is all this? Woodhouse began. "I was called on the telephone."
A call I had inspired, Cap-tain. It was necessary to see you—at once and alone.
Tactless! With the general suspecting me—you heard what that woman from America said at the table—she has eyes in her head!
I think he still trusts you, Cap-tain, the Indian replied. "And to-night we must act. The fleet sails at noon to-morrow."
We? Woodhouse was on his guard at once. "What do you mean by 'we'?"
Jaimihr Khan smiled at the evasion.
Yesterday in this room, Cap-tain, I burned a roll of plans——
Which I had good reason to wish saved, Woodhouse caught him up.
No matter; I burned them—at a moment when you were—in great peril, Cap-tain.
Burned them, yes—perhaps to trap me further.
The Indian made a gesture of impatience. "Oh, excellent discretion!" he cried in suppressed exasperation. "But we waste time that is precious. To-night——"
Before another word is spoken, let me have your card—your Wilhelmstrasse number, Woodhouse demanded.
I carry no card. I am more discreet than—some, the other answered insinuatingly.
No card? Your number, then?
Jaimihr Khan brought his lips close to the white man's ear and whispered a number.
Is that not correct? he asked.
Woodhouse nodded curtly.
And now that we are properly introduced, Jaimihr began, with a sardonic smile, "may I venture a criticism? Your pardon, Cap-tain; but our critics, they help us to per-fection. Since when have men who come from the Wilhelmstrasse allowed themselves to make love in drawing-rooms?"
You mean——
You and the young woman from America—when I found you together here yesterday——
That is my affair, was Woodhouse's hot response.
The affair on which we work—this night—that is my affair, be veree sure! There was something of menace in the Indian's tone.
Woodhouse bowed to his demand for an explanation. "That young woman, as it happens, must be kept on our side. She saw me in France, when Captain Woodhouse was supposed to be in Egypt."
Ah, so? Jaimihr inclined his head with a slight gesture craving pardon. "For that reason you make a conquest. I did not un-derstand."
No matter. The fleet sails at noon.
And our moment is here—to-night, Jaimihr whispered in exultation. "Not until to-day did they admit you to the tower, Cap-tain. How is it there?"
A simple matter—with the combination to the door of Room D.
With a single stride the Indian was over before the door of the wall safe. He pointed.
The combination of the inner door—it is in a special compartment of that safe, protected by many wires. Before dawn I cut the wires—and come to you with the combination.
At whatever hour is best for you, Woodhouse put in eagerly.
Let us say three-thirty, Jaimihr answered. "You will be waiting for me at the Hotel Splendide with—our friends there. I shall come to you there, give you the combination, and you shall go through the lines to the signal tower."
There must be no slip, Woodhouse sternly warned.
Not on my part, Cap-tain—count on that. For five years I have been waiting—waiting. Five years a servant—yes, my General; no, my General; very good, my General. The man's voice vibrated with hate. "To-morrow, near dawn—the English fleet shattered and ablaze in the harbor—the water red, like blood, with the flames. Then, by the breath of Allah, my service ends!"
Voices sounded in the hallway outside the double doors. Jaimihr Khan, a finger to his lips, nodded as he whispered: "Three-thirty, at the Splendide." He faded like a white wraith through the door to General Crandall's room as the double doors opened and the masculine faction of the dinner party entered. Woodhouse rose from a stooping position at the telephone and faced them. To the general, whose sharp scrutiny stabbed like thin knives, he made plausible explanation. The beggar who lost his bag wanted a complete identification of it—had run it down at Algeciras.
I understand, Crandall grunted.
When the cigars were lit, General Crandall excused himself for a minute, sat at his desk, and hurriedly scratched a note. Summoning Jaimihr, he ordered that the note be despatched by orderly direct to Major Bishop and given to no other hands. Woodhouse, who overheard his superior officer's command, was filled with vague apprehension. What Mrs. Sherman had said at table—this hurried note to Bishop; there was but one interpretation to give to the affair—Crandall's suspicions were all alive again. Yet at three-thirty—at the Hotel Splendide——
But when Crandall came back to join the circle of smokers, he was all geniality. The women came in by way of Jane Gerson's room; they had been taking a farewell peek at her dazzling stock of gowns, they said, before they were packed for the steamer.
There was one or two I just had to see again, Mrs. Sherman explained for the benefit of all, "before I said good-by to them. One of them, by Madam Paquin, father, I'm going to copy when we get home. I'll be the first to introduce a Paquin into little Kewanee."
Well, don't get into trouble with the minister, mother, Henry J. warned. "Some of the French gowns I've seen on this trip certainly would stir things up in Kewanee."
Jaimihr served the coffee. Woodhouse tried to maneuver Jane into a tête-à-tête in an angle of the massive fireplace, but she outgeneraled him, and the observant Mrs. Sherman cornered him inexorably.
Tell me, Captain Woodhouse, she began, in her friendly tones, "you said a while ago the general might mistake you for a spy. Don't you have a great deal of trouble with spies in your army in war time? Everybody took us for spies in Germany, and in France they thought poor Henry was carrying bombs to blow up the Eiffel Tower."
Perhaps I can answer that question better than Captain Woodhouse, the general put in, rising and striding over to where Mrs. Sherman kept the captain prisoner. "Captain Woodhouse, you see, would not be so likely to come in touch with those troublesome persons as one in command of a post, like myself." The most delicate irony barbed this speech, lost to all but the one for whom it was meant.
Oh, I know I'm going to hear something very exciting, Mrs. Sherman chortled. "Kitty, you'd better hush up Willy Kimball for a while and come over here. You can improve your mind better listening to the general."
Crandall soon was the center of a group. He began, with sober directness.
Well, in the matter of spies in war time, Mrs. Sherman, one is struck by the fact of their resemblance to the plague—you never can tell when they're going to get you or whence they came. Now here on the Rock I have reason to believe we have one or more spies busy this minute.
Jane Gerson, sitting where the light smote her face, drew back into the shadow with a swift movement of protectiveness. Woodhouse, who balanced a dainty Satsuma coffee cup on his knee, kept his eyes on his superior's face with a mildly interested air.
In fact, Crandall continued evenly, "I shouldn't be surprised if one—possibly two spies—should be arrested before the night is over. And the point about this that will interest you ladies is that one of these—the one whose order for arrest I have already given—is a woman—a very clever and pretty woman, I may add, to make the story more interesting."
And the other, whose arrest may follow, is an accomplice of hers, I take it, General! Woodhouse put the question with easy indifference. He was stirring his coffee abstractedly.
Not only the accomplice, but the brains for both, Captain. A deucedly clever person, I'm frank to admit.
Oh, people! Come and see the flagship, signaling to the rest of the fleet with its funny green and red lights! It was Jane who had suddenly risen and stood by the curtains screening the balcony windows. "They look like little flowers opening and shutting."
The girl's diversion was sufficient to take interest momentarily from General Crandall's revelation. When all had clustered around the windows, conversation skipped to the fleet, its power, and the men who were ready to do battle behind its hundreds of guns. Mrs. Sherman was disappointed that the ships did not send up rockets. She'd read somewhere that ships sent up rockets, and she didn't see why these should prove the exception. Interruption came from Jaimihr Khan, who bore a message for Consul Reynolds. The fussy little man ripped open the envelope with an air of importance.
Ah, listen, folks! Here we have the latest wireless from the Saxonia. 'Will anchor about two—sail six. Have all passengers aboard by five-thirty.' Excited gurgles from the refugees. "That means," Reynolds wound up, with a flourish, "everybody at the docks by five o'clock. Be there myself, to see you off. Must go now—lot of fuss and feathers getting everybody fixed." He paused before Jane.
You're going home at last, young lady, he chirped.
That depends entirely on Miss Gerson herself. It was the general who spoke quietly but emphatically.
Reynolds looked at him, surprised.
Why, I understood it was all arranged——
I repeat, it depends entirely on Miss Gerson.
Woodhouse caught the look of fear in Jane's eyes, and, as they fell for the instant on his, something else—appeal. He turned his head quickly. Lady Crandall saved the situation.
Oh, that's just some more of George's eternal red tape. I'll snip it when the time comes.
The consul's departure was the signal for the others. They crowded around Lady Crandall and her husband with voluble praise for the American dinner and thanks for the courtesy they had found on the Rock. Woodhouse, after a last despairing effort to have a word of farewell with Jane, which she denied, turned to make his adieu to his host and hostess.
No hurry, Captain, Crandall caught him up. "Expect Major Bishop in every minute—small matter of official detail. You and he can go down the Rock together when he leaves."
Woodhouse's mind leaped to the meaning behind his superior's careless words. The hastily despatched note—that was to summon Bishop to Government House; Crandall's speech about the two spies and the arrest of one of them—Louisa, he meant—and now this summary order that he wait the arrival of Bishop—would the second arrest be here in this room? The man who carried a number from the Wilhelmstrasse felt the walls of the library slowly closing in to crush him; he could almost hear the whisper and mutter of the inexorable machine moving them closer—closer. Be alone with the man whose word could send bullets into his heart!
A very pleasant dinner—Lady Crandall's, Woodhouse began, eager to lighten the tenseness of the situation.
Yes, it seemed so. Crandall offered the younger man his cigarette case, and, lighting a smoke himself, straddled the hearth, his eyes keenly observant of Woodhouse's face.
Rather odd, Americans. But jolly nice. The captain laughed in reminiscence of the unspoiled Shermans.
I thought so—I married one, Crandall retorted.
The ear of Woodhouse's mind could hear more plainly now the grinding of the cogs; the immutable power of fate lay there.
Oh—er—so you did. Very kind she has been to me. I got very little of this sort of thing at Wady Halfa.
By the way, Woodhouse—Crandall blew a contemplative puff toward the ceiling—"strange Mrs. Sherman should have thought she saw you at Berlin."
Odd mistake, to be sure, Woodhouse admitted, struggling to put ease into his voice. "The lady seems to have a penchant, as her husband says, for finding familiar faces."
Major Bishop! Jaimihr Khan announced at the double doors. The major in person followed immediately. His greeting to Woodhouse was constrained.
Woodhouse will wait for you to go down the Rock with him, Crandall explained to the newcomer. "Captain, excuse us for a minute, while we go into my room and run over a little matter of fleet supplies. Must check up with the fleet before it sails in the morning." Woodhouse bowed his acquiescence and saw the door to the general's room close behind the twain.
He was not long alone. Noiselessly the double doors opened and Jaimihr Khan entered. Woodhouse sprang to meet him where he stood poised for flight just inside the doors.
The woman's prattle of Berlin—— the Indian whispered.
Yes, the general's suspicions are all aroused again.
Listen! I saw the note he sent to Bishop. The major is to be set to watch you to-night—all night. A false step and you will be under arrest. Jaimihr's thin face was twisted in wrath. "One man's life will not stand in our way now."
No, Woodhouse affirmed.
Success is veree near. When Bishop goes with you down the Rock——
Yes, yes! What?
The pistol screams, but the knife is dumb. Quick, Cap-tain! With a swift movement of his hand the Indian passed a thin-bladed dirk to the white man. The latter secreted the sheathed weapon in a pocket of his dinner jacket. He nodded understanding.
One man's life—nothing! Jaimihr breathed.
It shall be done, Woodhouse whispered.
Jaimihr faded through the double doors like a spirit in a medium's cabinet. He had seen what the captain was slower to notice. The door from Jane Gerson's room was opening. The girl stepped swiftly into the room, and was by Woodhouse's side almost before he had seen her.
I could not—go away—without—without——
Miss Gerson—Jane! He was beside her instantly. His hand sought and found one of hers and held it a willing prisoner. She was trembling, and her eyes were deep pools, riffled by conflicting currents. Her words came breathlessly:
I was not myself—I tried to tell myself you were deceiving me just—just as a part of this terrible mystery you are involved in. But when I heard General Crandall tell you to wait—that and what he said about the spies—I knew you were again in peril, and—and——
And you have come to me to tell me as good-by you believe I am honest and that you care—a little? Woodhouse's voice trembled with yearning. "When you think me in danger, then you forget doubts and maybe—your heart——"
Oh, I want to believe—I want to! she whispered passionately. "Every one here is against you. Tell me you are on the level—with me, at least."
I am—with you.
I—believe, she sighed, and her head fell near his shoulder—so near that with alacrity Captain Woodhouse settled it there.
When this war is over, if I am alive, he was saying rapturously, "may I come to America for you? Will you—wait?"
Perhaps.
The door to General Crandall's room opened. They sprang apart just as Crandall and Bishop entered the library. The former was not blind to the situation; he darted a swift glance into the girl's face and read much there.
Ready, Captain? Bishop chirped, affecting not to notice the momentary confusion of the man and the girl.
Woodhouse gave Jane's hand a lingering clasp; mutely his eyes adjured her to remember her plighted troth. In another minute he was gone.
The general and his guest were alone. Jane Gerson was bidding him good night when he interrupted, somewhat gruffly:
Well, young woman, have you made up your mind? Do you sail in the morning—or not?
I made up my mind to that long ago, she answered briskly. "Of course I sail."
Then you're going to tell me what I want to know. Sensible girl! He rubbed his hands in satisfaction.
What is it you want to know, General Crandall? This almost carelessly from her.
When did you meet Woodhouse before—and where?
How do you know I met him before? She attempted to parry, but Crandall cut her short with a gesture of impatience:
Please don't try that tack again. Answer those two questions, and you sail in the morning.
Jane Gerson's eyes grew hard, and she lifted her chin in defiance.
And if I refuse——
Why should you? Crandall affected surprise not altogether unfelt.
No matter—I do! The challenge came crisp and sharp-cut as a new blade. Gibraltar's governor lost his temper instanter; his face purpled.
And I know why! he rasped. "He's got round you—made love to you—tricked you! I'd swear he was kissing you just the minute I came in here. The German cad! Good lord, girl; can't you see how he's using you?"
I'm afraid I can't.
Crandall advanced toward her, shaking a menacing finger at her.
Let me tell you something, young woman: he's at the end of his rope. Done for! No use for you to stand up for him longer. He's under guard to-night, and a woman named Josepha, his accomplice—or maybe his dupe—is already under arrest, and to-morrow, when we examine her, she'll reveal his whole rotten schemes or have to stand against a wall with him. Come, now! Throw him over. Don't risk your job, as you call it, for a German spy who's tricked you—made a fool of you. Why——
General Crandall! Her face was white, and her eyes glowed with anger.
I—I beg your pardon, Miss Gerson, he mumbled. "I am exasperated. A fine girl like you—to throw away all your hopes and ambitions for a spy—and a bounder! Can't you see you're wrong?"
General Crandall, some time—I hope it will be soon—you will apologize to me—and to Captain Woodhouse—for what you are saying to-night. Her hands clenched into fists, whereon the knuckles showed white; the poise of her head, held a little forward, was all combative.
Then you won't tell me what I want to know? He could not but read the defiance in the girl's pose.
I will tell you nothing but good-by.
No, by gad—you won't! I can be stubborn, too. You shan't sail on the Saxonia in the morning. Understand?
Oh, shan't I? Who will dare stop me?
I will, Miss Gerson. I have plenty of right—and the power, too.
I'll ask you to tell that to my consul—on the dock at five to-morrow morning. Until then, General Crandall, au revoir.
The door of the guest room shut with a spiteful slam upon the master of Gibraltar, leaving him to nurse a grievance on the knees of wrath.
Joseph Almer and Captain Woodhouse sat in the darkened and heavily blinded office-reception room of the Hotel Splendide. All the hotel had long since been put to bed, and the silence in the rambling house was audible. The hands of the Dutch clock on the wall were pointing to the hour of three-thirty.
Strain was on both the men. They spoke in monosyllables, and only occasionally. Almer's hand went out from time to time to lift a squat bottle of brandy from the table between them and pour a tiny glass brimful; he quaffed with a sucking noise. Woodhouse did not drink.
It is three-thirty, the latter fretted, with an eye on the mottled clock dial.
He will come, Almer assured. A long pause.
This man Jaimihr—he is thoroughly dependable? The man in uniform put the question with petulant bruskness.
It is his passion—what we are to do to-night—something he has lived for—his religion. Nothing except judgment day could—— Hah!
The sharp chirp of a telephone bell, a dagger of sound in the silence, broke Almer's speech. He bounded to his feet; but not so quickly as Woodhouse, who was across the room in a single stride and had the receiver to his ear.
Well, well! Yes, this is the one you name. Woodhouse turned to Almer, and his lips framed the word Jaimihr. "Yes, yes; all is well—and waiting. Bishop? He is beyond interference—coming down the Rock—I did the work silently. What's that?" Woodhouse's face was tensed in strain; his right hand went to a breast pocket and brought out a pencil. With it he began making memoranda on the face of a calendar by his side.
Seven turns—ah, yes—four to the left—correct. His writing hand was moving swiftly. "Press, one to the right. Good! I have it, and am off at once. Good-by!"
Woodhouse finished a line of script on the calendar face, hung up the receiver. He carefully tore the written notes from the calendar and put them into his pocket.
Jaimihr says he has work to do at Government House and can not come down. Woodhouse turned to Almer and explained in rapid sentences. "But he's given me the combination—to Room D—over the wire, and now I'm off!"
Almer was all excitement now. He hovered lovingly about Woodhouse, patting him on the shoulder, giving him his helmet, mothering him with little cooing noises.
Speed quickly, Nineteen Thirty-two! Up the Rock to the signal tower, Nineteen Thirty-two, to do the deed that will boom around the world. The switches—one pull, my brother, and the fatherland is saved to triumph over her enemies, victorious!
Right, Almer! Woodhouse was moving toward the door. "In eight minutes history will be made. The minute you hear the blast, start for Spain. I will try to escape, but I doubt——"
A knock came at the barred front door—one knock, followed by three. Both men were transfixed. Almer, first to recover his calmness, motioned Woodhouse through the door to the dining-room. When his companion had disappeared, he stepped to the door and cautiously asked: "Who knocks?"
An answer came that caused him to shoot back the bolts and thrust out his head. A message was hurriedly whispered into his ear. The Splendide's proprietor withdrew his head and slipped the bolt home again. His face was a thundercloud as he summoned Woodhouse; his breath came in wheezy gasps.
My Arab boy comes to the door just now to tell me of Louisa's fate; she has been arrested, he said.
Come, Almer! I am going to the signal tower—there is still time for us to strike.
Out on to Waterport Street leaped Woodhouse, and the door closed behind him.
Jane Gerson, tossing on her pillows, heard the mellow bell of a clock somewhere in the dark and silent house strike three. This was the fifth time she had counted the measured strokes of that bell as she lay, wide-eyed, in the guest chamber's canopied bed. An eternity had passed since the dinner guests' departure. Her mind was racing like some engine gone wild, and sleep was impossible. Over and over again she had conned the events of the evening, always to come at the end against the impasse of General Crandall's blunt denial: "You shan't sail in the morning." In her extremity she had even considered flight by stealth—the scaling of walls perhaps, and a groping through dark streets to the wharf, there to smuggle herself somehow on a tender and so gain the Saxonia. But her precious gowns! They still reposed in their bulky hampers here in Government House; to escape and leave them behind would be worse than futile. The governor's fiat seemed absolute.
Urged by the impulse of sheer necessity to be doing something—the bed had become a rack—the girl rose, lit a taper, and began to dress herself, moving noiselessly. She even packed her traveling bag to the last inch and locked it. Then she sat on the edge of the bed, hands helplessly folded in her lap. What to do next? Was she any better off dressed than thrashing in the bed? Her yearning called up a picture of the Saxonia, which must ere this be at her anchorage, since the consul said she was due at two. In three short hours tenders would puff alongside; a happy procession of refugees climb the gangway—among them the Shermans and Willy Kimball, bound for their Kewanee; the captain on the bridge would give an order; winches would puff, the anchor heave from the mud, the big boat's prow slowly turn westward—oceanward—toward New York! And she, a prisoner caught by the mischance of war's great mystery, would have to watch that diminishing column of smoke fade against the morning's blue—disappear.
Inspiration seized her. It would be something just to see the Saxonia, now lying amid the grim monsters of the war fleet. From the balcony of the library, just outside the door of her room, she could search the darkness of the harbor for the prickly rows of lights marking the merchant ship from her darker neighbors. The general's marine glasses lay on his desk, she remembered. To steal out to the balcony, sweep the harbor with the glasses, and at last hit on the ship of deliverance—for all but her; to do this would be better than counting the hours alone. She softly opened the door of her room. Beyond lay the dim distances of the library, suddenly become vast as an amphitheater; in the thin light filtering through the curtains screening the balcony appeared the lumpy masses of furniture and vague outlines of walls and doors. She closed the door behind her, and stood trembling; this was somehow like burglary, she felt—at least it had the thrill of burglary.
The girl tiptoed around a high-backed chair, groped her way to the general's desk, and fumbled there. Her hand fell upon the double tubes of the binoculars. She picked them up, parted the curtains, and stepped through the opened glass doors to the balcony. Not a sound anywhere but the faint cluck and cackle of cargo hoists down in the harbor. Jane put the glasses to her eyes, and began to sweep the light-pointed vista below the cliff. Scores of pin-prick beams of radiance marked the fleet where it choked the roadstead—red and white beetles' eyes in the dark. She swung the glasses nearer shore. Ah, there lay the Saxonia, with her three rows of glowing portholes near the water; the binoculars even picked out the double column of smoke from her stacks. Three brief hours and that mass of shadow would be moving—moving——
A noise, very slight, came from the library behind the opened doors. The marine glasses remained poised in the girl's hands while she listened. Again the noise—a faint metallic click.
She hardly breathed. Turning ever so slowly, she put one hand between the curtains and parted them so that she could look through into the cavernous gloom behind her.
A light moved there—a clear round eye of light. Behind it was the faintest suggestion of a figure at the double doors—just a blur of white, it was; but it moved stealthily, swiftly. She heard a key turn in a lock. Then swiftly the eye of light traveled across the library to the door leading to General Crandall's room. There it paused to cut the handle of the door and keyhole beneath out of darkness. A brown hand slipped into the clear shaft of whiteness, put a key into the keyhole, and softly turned it. The same was done for the locks of Lady Crandall's door, on the opposite side of the library, and for the one Jane had just closed behind her—her own door. Than the circle of light, seeming to have an intelligence all its own, approached the desk, flew swiftly to a drawer and there paused. Once more the brown hand plunged into the bore of light; the drawer was carefully opened, and a steel-blue revolver reflected bright sparks from its barrel as it was withdrawn.
Jane, hardly daring to breathe, and with the heavy curtains gathered close so that only a space for her eyes was left open, watched the orb of light, fascinated. It groped under the desk, found a nest of slender wires. There was a "Snick—snick!" and the severed ends of the wires dropped to the floor. The burnished dial of the wall safe, set near the double doors, was the next object to come under the restless searching eye. While light poured steadily upon the circular bit of steel, delicate fingers played with it, twisting and turning this way and that. Then they were laid upon the handle of the safe door, and it swung noiselessly back. A tapering brown hand, white-sleeved, fumbled in a small drawer, withdrew a packet of papers and selected one.
Jane stepped boldly into the room.
Sahibah! The white club of the electric flash smote her full in the face.
What are you doing at that safe, Jaimihr Khan? Jane spoke as steadily as she could, though excitement had its fingers at her throat, and all her nerves were twittering. She heard some sharply whistled foreign word, which might have been a curse.
Something that concerns you not at all, Sahibah, the Indian answered, his voice smooth as oil. He kept the light fair on her face.
I intend that it shall concern me, the girl answered, taking a step forward.
Veree, veree foolish, Sahibah! Jaimihr whispered, and with catlike stride he advanced to meet her. "Veree foolish to come here at this time."
Jane, frozen with horror at the man's approach, dodged and ran swiftly to the fireplace, where hung the ancient vesper bell. The flash light followed her every move—picked out her hand as it swooped down to seize a heavy poker standing in its rack beside the bell.
Sahibah! Do not strike that bell! The warning came sharp and cold as frost. Her hand was poised over the bell, the heavy stub of the poker a very few inches away from the bell's flare.
To strike that bell might involve in great trouble one who is veree dear to you, Sahibah. Let us talk this over most calmly. Surely you would not desire that a friend—a veree dear friend——
Who do you mean? she asked sharply.
Ah—that I leave to you to guess! Jaimihr Khan's voice was silken. "But certainly you know, Sahibah. A friend the most important——"
Then she suddenly understood. The Indian was referring to Captain Woodhouse thus glibly. Anger blazed in her.
It isn't true!
Sahibah, I am sorry to con-tradict. Jaimihr Khan had begun slowly to creep toward her, his body crouching slightly as a stalking cat's.
I'll prove it isn't true! she cried, and brought the poker down on the bell with a sharp blow. Like a tocsin came its answering alarm.
A thousand devils! The Indian leaped for the girl, but she evaded him and ran to put the desk between herself and him. He had snapped off the torch at the clang of the bell, and now he was a pale ghost in the gloom—fearsome. Hissing Indian curses, he started to circle the desk to seize her.
Open this door! Open it, I say! It was the general's voice, sounding muffled through the panels of his door; he rattled the knob viciously. Jane tried to run to the door, but the Indian seized her from behind, threw her aside, and made for the double doors. There his hand went to a panel in the wall, turned a light switch, and the library was on the instant drenched with light. Jaimihr Khan threw before the door of the safe the bundle of papers he was clutching when Jane discovered him and which he had gripped during the ensuing tense moments. Then he stepped swiftly to the general's door and unlocked it.
General Crandall, clad only in trousers and shirt, burst into the room. His eyes leaped from the Indian to where Jane was cowering behind his desk.
What the devil is this? he rasped. Jane opened her mouth to answer, but the Indian forestalled her:
The sahibah, General—I found her here before your opened safe——
Good God! General Crandall's eyes blazed. He leaped to the safe, knelt and peered in. "A clever job, young woman!"
Jane, completely stunned by the Indian's swift strategy, could hardly speak. She held up a hand, appealing for a hearing. General Crandall eyed her with chilling scorn, then turned to his servant.
You have done well, Jaimihr.
It—it isn't true! Jane stammered. The governor took a step toward her almost as if under impulse to strike her, but he halted, and his lips curled in scorn.
By gad, working with Woodhouse all the time, eh? And I thought you a simple young woman he had trapped—even warned you against him not six hours ago. What a fool I've been! Jane impulsively stretched forth her arms for the mercy of a hearing, but the man went on implacably:
I said he was making a fool of you—and all the time you were making one of me. Clever young woman. I say, that must have been a great joke for you—making a fool of the governor of Gibraltar. You make me ashamed of myself. And my servant—Jaimihr here; it is left to him to trap you while I am blind. Bah! Jaimihr, my orderly—at once! The Indian smiled sedately and started for the double doors. Jane ran toward the general with a sharp cry:
General—let me explain——
Explain! He laughed shortly. "What can you say? You come into my house as a friend—you betray me—you break into my safe—with Woodhouse, whom I'd warned you against, directing your every move. Clever—clever! Jaimihr, do as I tell you. My orderly at once!"
Jane threw herself between the Indian and the doors.
One moment—before he leaves the room let me tell you he lies? Your Indian lies. It was I who found him here—before that safe!
A poor story, the general sniffed. "I expected better of you—after this."
The truth, General Crandall. I couldn't sleep. I came out here to the balcony to try to make out if the Saxonia was in the bay. He came into the room while I was behind these curtains, locked the doors, and opened the safe.
It won't go, the general cut in curtly.
It's the truth—it's got to go! she cried.
Jaimihr, at a second nod from his master, was approaching the double doors. Jane, leaping in front of them, pushed the Indian back.
General Crandall, for your own sake—don't let this Indian leave the room. You may regret it—all the rest of your life. He still has a paper—a little paper—he took from that safe. I saw him stick it in his sash.
Nonsense!
Search him! The girl's voice cracked in hysteria; her face was dead white, with hectic burning spots in each cheek. "I'm not pleading for myself now—for you. Search him before he leaves this room!"
Jaimihr put strong hands on her arms to force her away from the door. His black eyes were laughing down into hers.
Let me ask him a question first, General Crandall—before he leaves this room.
The governor's face reflected momentary surprise at this change of tack. "Quickly then," he gruffly conceded. Jaimihr Khan stepped back a pace, his eyes meeting the girl's coldly.
How did you come into the room—when you found me here? she challenged. The Indian pointed to the double doors over her shoulder. She reached behind her, grasped the knob, and shook it. "Locked!" she announced.
Why not? Jaimihr asked. "I locked them after me."
And the general's door was locked?
Yes—yes! Crandall broke in impatiently. "What's this got to do with——"
Did you lock the general's door? she questioned the Indian.
No, Sahibah; you did.
And I suppose I locked the door to Lady Crandall's room and my door?
If they, too, are locked—yes, Sahibah.
Then why—Jane's voice quavered almost to a shriek—"why had I failed to lock the double doors—the doors through which you came?"
The Indian caught his breath, and darted a look at the general. The latter, eying him keenly, stepped to his desk and pressed a button.
Very good; remain here, Jaimihr, he said. Then to Jane: "I will have him searched, as you wish. Then both of you go to the cells until I sift this thing to the bottom."
General! You wouldn't dare! She stood aghast.
Wouldn't I, though? We'll see whether— A sharp click sent his head jerking around to the right. Jaimihr Khan, at the door to the general's room, was just slipping the key into his girdle, after having turned the lock. His thin face was crinkled like old sheepskin.
What the devil are you doing? Crandall exploded.
If the general sahib is waiting for that bell to be answered—he need not wait longer—it will not be answered, Jaimihr Khan purred.
What's this—what's this!
The wires are cut.
Cut! Who did that? The general started for the yellow man. Jaimihr Khan whipped a blue-barreled revolver out of his broad sash and leveled it at his master.
Back, General Sahib! I cut them. The sahibah's story is true. It was she who came in and found me at the safe.
My God! You, Jaimihr—you a spy! The general collapsed weakly into a chair by the desk.
Some might call me that, my General. Jaimihr's weapon was slowly swinging to cover both the seated man and the girl by the doors. "No need to search that drawer, General Sahib. Your pistol is pointing at you this minute."
You'll pay for this! Crandall gasped.
That may be. One thing I ask you to remember. If one of you makes a move I will kill you both. You are a gallant man, my General; is it not so? Then remember.
Crandall started from his chair, but the uselessness of his bare hands against the snub-nosed thing of blue metal covering him struck home. He sank back with a groan. Keeping them both carefully covered, Jaimihr moved to the desk telephone at the general's elbow. He took from his sash a small piece of paper—the one he had saved from the packet of papers taken from the safe—laid it on the edge of the desk, and with his left hand he picked up the telephone. An instant of tense silence, broken by the wheezing of the general's breath, then——
Nine-two-six, if you please. Yes—yes, who is this? Ah, yes. It is I, Jaimihr Khan. Is all well with you? Good! And Bishop? Slain coming down the Rock—good also!
Crandall groaned. The Indian continued his conversation unperturbed.
Veree good! Listen closely. I can not come as I have promised. There is—work—for me here. But all will be well. Take down what I shall tell you. He read from the slip of paper on the desk. "Seven turns to the right, four to the left—press! Two more to the left—press! One to the right. You have that? Allah speed you. Go quickly!"
'There is--work--for me here.'
There is—work—for me here.
Room D! Crandall had leaped from his chair.
Correct, my General—Room D. Jaimihr smiled as he stepped away from the telephone, his back against the double doors. The sweat stood white on Crandall's brow; his mouth worked in jerky spasms.
What—what have you done? he gasped.
I see the general knows too well, came the Indian's silken response. "I have given the combination of the inner door of Room D in the signal tower to a—friend. He is on his way to the tower. He will be admitted—one of the few men on the Rock who could be admitted at this hour, my General. One pull of the switches in Room D—and where will England's great fleet be then?"
You yellow devil! Crandall started to rush the white figure by the doors, but his flesh quailed as the round cold muzzle met it. He staggered back.
We are going to wait, my General—and you, American Sahibah, who have pushed your way into this affair. We are going to wait—and listen—listen.
The general writhed in agony. Jane, fallen into a chair by the far edge of the desk, had her head buried in her arms, and was sobbing.
And we are going to think, my General, the Indian's voice purled on. "While we wait we shall think. Who will General Crandall be after to-night—the English sahib who ruled the Rock the night the English fleet was blown to hell from inside the fortress? How many widows will curse when they hear his name? What——"
Jaimihr Khan, what have I ever done to you! The governor's voice sounded hardly human. His face was blotched and purple.
Not what you have done, my General—what the English army has done. An old score, General—thirty years old. My father—he was a prince in India—until this English army took away his throne to give it to a lying brother. The army—the English army—murdered my father when he tried to get it back—called it mutiny. Ah, yes, an old score; but by the breath of Allah, to-night shall see it paid!
The man's eyes were glittering points of white-hot steel. All of his thin white teeth showed like a hound's.
You dog! The general feebly wagged his head at the Indian.
Your dog, my General. Five years your dog, when I might have been a prince. My friend goes up the Rock—step—step—step. Closer—closer to the tower, my General. And Major Bishop—where is he? Ah, a knife is swift and makes no noise——
What a fool I've been! Crandall rocked in his chair, and passed a trembling hand before his eyes. Sudden rage turned his bloodshot eyes to where the girl was stretched, sobbing, across the desk. "Your man—the man you protected—it is he who goes to the signal tower, girl!"
No—no; it can't be, she whispered between the rackings of her throat.
It is! Only a member of the signal service could gain admittance into the tower to-night. Besides—who was it went with Bishop down the Rock after the dinner to-night? And I—I sent Bishop with him—sent him to his death. He was tricking you all the time. I told you he was. I warned you he was playing with you—using you for his own rotten ends—using you to help kill forty thousand men!
It needed not the sledge-hammer blows of the stricken Crandall to batter Jane Gerson's heart. She had read too clearly the full story Jaimihr Khan's sketchy comments had outlined. She knew now Captain Woodhouse, spy. The Indian was talking again, his words dropping as molten metal upon their raw souls.
Forty thousand men! A pleasant thought, my General. Eight minutes up the Rock to the tower when one moves fast. And my friend—ah, he moves veree—veree fast. Eight minutes, and four have already passed. Watch the windows—the windows looking out to the bay, General and Sahibah. They will flame—like blood. Your hearts will stop at the great noise, and then——
A knock sounded at the double doors behind Jaimihr. He stopped short, startled. All listened. Again came the knock. Without turning his eyes from the two he guarded, Jaimihr asked: "Who is it?"
Woodhouse, came the answer.
Jane's heart stopped. Crandall sat frozen in his seat. Jaimihr turned the key in the lock, and the doors opened. In stepped Captain Woodhouse, helmeted, armed with sword and revolver at waist. He stood facing the trio, his swift eye taking in the situation at once. Crandall half rose from his seat, his face apoplectic.
Spy! Secret killer of men! he gasped.
Woodhouse paid no heed to him, but turned to Jaimihr.
Quick! The combination, he said. "Over the phone—afraid I might not have it right—stopped here on my way to the tower—be there in less than three minutes if you can hold these people."
Everything is all right? Jaimihr asked suspiciously.
You mean Bishop? Yes. Quick, the combination!
Jaimihr picked the slip of paper containing the formula from the edge of the desk with his disengaged left hand and passed it to Woodhouse.
The latter stretched out his hand, grasped the Indian's with a lightning move, and threw it over so that the latter was off his balance. In a twinkling Woodhouse's left hand had wrenched the revolver from Jaimihr's right and pinioned it behind his back. The whole movement was accomplished in half a breath. Jaimihr Khan knelt in agony, and in peril of a broken wrist, at the white man's feet, disarmed, harmless. Woodhouse put a silver whistle to his lips and blew three short blasts.
A tramp of feet in the hallway outside, and four soldiers with guns filled the doorway.
Take this man! Woodhouse commanded.
The Indian, in a frenzy, writhed and shrieked:
Traitor! English spy! Dog of an unbeliever!
The soldiers jerked him to his feet and dragged him out; his ravings died away in the passage.
Woodhouse brought his hand up in a salute as he faced General Crandall.
The other spy, Almer, of the Hotel Splendide, has just been arrested, sir. Major Bishop has taken charge of him and has lodged him in the cells.
A high-pitched scream sounded behind Lady Crandall's door, and a pounding on the panels. Jane Gerson, first to recover from the shock of surprise, ran to unlock the door. Lady Crandall, in a dressing gown, burst into the library and flung herself on her husband.
George—George! What does all this mean—yells—whistling——
General Crandall gave his wife a pat on the shoulder and put her aside with a mechanical gesture. He took a step toward Woodhouse, who still stood stiffly before the opened doors; the dazed governor walked like a somnambulist.
Who—who the devil are you, sir? he managed to splutter.
I am Captain Cavendish, General. Again the hand came to stiff salute on the visor of the pith helmet. "Captain Cavendish, of the signal service, stationed at Khartum, but lately detached for special service under the intelligence office in Downing Street."
The man's eyes jumped for an instant to seek Jane Gerson's face—found a smile breaking through the lines of doubt there.
Your papers to prove your identity! Crandall demanded, still in a fog of bewilderment.
I haven't any, General Crandall, the other replied, with a faint smile, "or your Indian, Jaimihr Khan, would have placed them in your hands after the search of my room yesterday. I've convinced Major Bishop of my genuineness, however—after we left your house and when the moment for action arrived. A cable to Sir Ludlow-Service, in the Downing Street office, will confirm my story. Meanwhile I am willing to go under arrest if you think best."
But—but I don't understand, Captain—er—Cavendish. You posed as a German—as an Englishman.
Briefly, General, a girl secretly in the pay of the Downing Street office—Louisa Schmidt,—Josepha, the cigar girl, whom you ordered locked up a few hours ago—is the English representative in the Wilhelmstrasse at Berlin. She learned of a plan to get a German spy in your signal tower a month before war was declared, reported it to London, and I was summoned from Khartum to London to play the part of the German spy. At Berlin, where she had gone from your own town of Gibraltar to meet me, she arranged to procure me a number in the Wilhelmstrasse through the agency of a dupe named Capper——
Capper! Good Lord! Crandall stammered.
With the number I hurried to Alexandria. Woodhouse—Captain Woodhouse, from Wady Halfa—a victim, poor chap, to the necessities of our plan, fell into the hands of the Wilhelmstrasse men there, and I gained possession of his papers. The Germans started him in a robber caravan of Bedouins for the desert, but I provided against his getting far before being rescued, and the German agents there were all rounded up the day I sailed as Woodhouse.
And you came here to save Gibraltar—and the fleet from German spies? Crandall put the question dazedly.
There were only two, General—Almer and your servant, Jaimihr. We have them now. You may order the release of Louisa Schmidt.
The captain has overlooked one other—the most dangerous one of all, General Crandall. Jane stepped up to where the governor stood and threw back her hands with an air of submission. "Her name is Jane Gerson, of New York, and she knew all along that this gentleman was deceiving you—she had met him, in fact, three weeks before on a railroad train in France."
The startled eyes of Gibraltar's master looked first at the set features of the man, then to the girl's flushed face. Little lines of humor crinkled about the corners of his mouth.
Captain Cavendish—or Woodhouse, make this girl a prisoner—your prisoner, sir!
'Your prisoner, sir.'
Your prisoner, sir.
Five o'clock at the quay, and already the new day was being made raucous by the bustle of departure—shouts of porters, tenders' jangling engine bells, thump of trunks dropped down skidways, lamentations of voyagers vainly hunting baggage mislaid. Out in the stream the Saxonia—a clean white ship, veritable ark of refuge for pious Americans escaping the deluge.
In the midst of a group of his countrymen Henry J. Sherman stood, feet wide apart and straw hat cocked back over his bald spot. He was narrating the breathless incidents of the night's dark hour:
"Yes, sir, a soldier comes to our rooms about three-thirty o'clock and hammers on our door. 'Everybody in this hotel's under arrest,' he says. 'Kindly dress as soon as possible and report to Major Bishop in the office.' And we not five hours before the guests of General and Lady Crandall at Government House. What d'you think of that for a quick change? Well, gentlemen, we piled down-stairs—with me minus a collar button and havin' to hold my collar down behind with my hand. And what do we find? This chap Almer, with a face like a side of cream cheese, standing in the middle of a bunch of soldiers with guns; another bunch of soldiers surroundin' his Arab boy, who's as innocent a little fellah as ever you set eyes on; and this Major Bishop walkin' up and down, all excited, and sayin' something about somebody's got a scheme to blow up the whole fleet out there. Which might have been done, he says, if it wasn't for that fellah Woodhouse we'd had dinner with just that very evening.""
"Who's some sort of a spy. I knew it all the time, you see. Mrs. Sherman was quick to claim her share of her fellow tourists' attention. "Only he's a British spy set to watch the Germans. Major Bishop told me that in confidence after it was all over—said he'd never met a man with the nerve this Captain Woodhouse has."
Better whisper that word 'spy' soft, Henry J. admonished sotto voce. "We're not out of this plagued Europe yet, and we've had about all the excitement we can stand; don't want anybody to arrest us again just the minute we're sailin'. But, as I was sayin', there we all stood, foolish as goats, until in comes General Crandall, followed by this Woodhouse chap. 'Excuse me, people, for causing you this little inconvenience,' the general says. 'Major Bishop has taken his orders too literal. If you'll go back to your rooms and finish dressin' I'll have the army bus down here to take you to the quay. The Hotel Splendide's accommodations have been slightly disarranged by the arrest of its worthy proprietor.' So back we go, and—by cricky, mother, here comes the general and Mrs. Crandall now!"
Henry J. broke through the ring of passengers, and with a waving of his hat, rushed to the curb. A limousine bearing the governor, his lady and Jane Gerson, and with two bulky hampers strapped to the baggage rack behind, was just drawing up.
Why, of course we're down here to see you off—and bid you Godspeed to little old Kewanee! Lady Crandall was quick to anticipate the Shermans' greetings. General Crandall, beaming indulgently on the group of homegoers, had a hand for each.
Yes—yes, he exclaimed. "After arresting you at three o'clock we're here to give you a clean ticket at five. Couldn't do more than that—what? Regrettable occurrence and all that, but give you something to tell the stay-at-homes about when you get back to—ah——"
Kewanee, Illynoy, General, Sherman was quick to supply. "No town like it this side the pearly gates."
No doubt of it, Sherman, Crandall heartily agreed. "A quiet place, I'll wager. Think I'd relish a touch of your Kewanee after—ah—life on Gibraltar."
Jane Gerson, who had been standing in the car, anxiously scanning the milling crowd about the landing stage, caught sight of a white helmet and khaki-clad shoulders pushing through the nearer fringes of travelers. She slipped out of the limousine unseen, and waited for the white helmet to be doffed before her.
I was afraid maybe—— the girl began, her cheeks suddenly flaming.
Afraid that, after all, it wasn't true? the man she had found in war's vortex finished, his gray eyes compelling hers to tell him their whole message. "Afraid that Captain Cavendish might be as vile a deceiver as Woodhouse? Does Cavendish have to prove himself all over again, little girl?"
No—no! Her hands fluttered into his, and her lips were parted in a smile. "It's Captain Woodhouse I want to know—always; the man whose pledged word I held to."
It must have been—hard, he murmured. "But you were splendid—splendid!"
No, I was not. Tears came to dim her eyes, and the hands he held trembled. "Once—in one terrible moment this morning—when Jaimihr told us you were going to the signal tower—when we waited—waited to hear that awful noise, my faith failed me. I thought you——"
Forget that moment, Jane, dearest. A saint would have denied faith then.
They were silent for a minute, their hearts quailing before the imminent separation. He spoke:
Go back to the States now; go back and show this Hildebrand person you're a wonder—a prize. Show him what I've known more and more surely every moment since that meeting in Calais. But give him fair warning; he's going to lose you.
Lose me? she echoed.
Inevitably. Listen, girl! In a year my term of service is up, and if the war's over I shall leave the army, come to the States to you, and—and—do you think I could become a good American?
If—if you have the proper teacher, the girl answered, with a flash of mischief.
All aboard for the Saxonia! It was Consul Reynolds, fussed, perspiring, overwhelmed with the sense of his duty, who bustled up to where the Shermans were chatting with Lady Crandall and the general. Reynolds' sharp eye caught an intimate tableau on the other side of the auto. "And that means you, Miss Step-lively New York," he shouted, "much as I hate to—ah—interrupt."
Jane Gerson saw her two precious hampers stemming a way through the crowd on the backs of porters, bound for the tender's deck. She could not let them out of her sight.
Wait, Jane! His hands were on her arms, and he would not let her go. "Will you be my teacher? I want no other."
My terms are high. She tried to smile, though trembling lips belied her.
I'd pay with my life, he whispered in a quick gust of passion. "Here's my promise——"
He took her in his arms, and between them passed the world-old pledge of man and girl.
The End