CREDENTIALS
The sight of Nur-el-Din filled Desmond with alarm. For a moment his
mind was overshadowed by the dread of detection. He had forgotten all
about Mr. Crook’s handiwork in the train, and his immediate fear was
that the dancer would awake and recognize him. But then he caught sight
of his face in the mirror over the mantelpiece. The grave bearded man
staring oddly at him out of the glass gave him a shock until he
realized the metamorphosis that had taken place in his personality. The
realization served instantly to still his apprehension.
Nur-el-Din lay on her side, one hand under her face which was turned
away from the fire. She was wearing a big black musquash coat, and over
her feet she had flung a tweed overcoat, apparently one of Mr.
Bellward’s from the hatstand in the hall. Her hat, a very dainty little
affair of plain black velvet, was skewered with a couple of jewelled
hatpins to the upholstery of the settee.
Desmond watched her for a moment. Her face looked drawn and tired now
that her eyelids, with their long sweeping black lashes, were closed,
shutting off the extraordinary luminosity of her eyes. As he stood
silently contemplating her, she stirred and moaned in her sleep and
muttered some word three or four times to herself. Desmond was
conscious of a great feeling of compassion for this strangely beautiful
creature. Knowing as he did of the hundred-eyed monster of the British
Secret Service that was watching her, he found himself thinking how
frail, how helpless, how unprotected she looked, lying there in the
flickering light of the fire.
A step resounded behind him and old Martha shuffled into the room,
carefully shading the lamp she still carried so that its rays should
not fall on the face of the sleeper.
“I don’t know as I’ve done right, sir,” she mumbled, “letting the pore
lady wait here for you like this, but I couldn’t hardly help it, sir!
She says as how she must see you, and seeing as how your first
tellygram said you was coming at half-past nine, I lets her stop on!”
“When did she arrive” asked Desmond softly.
“About six o’clock,” answered the old, woman. “Walked all the way up
from Wentfield Station, too, sir, and that cold she was when she
arrived here, fair blue with the cold she was, pore dear. D’reckly she
open her lips, I sees she’s a furrin’ lady, sir. She asks after you and
I tells her as how you are away and won’t be back till this evening.
‘Oh!’ she says, I then I wait!’ And in she comes without so much as
with your leave or by your leave. She told me as how you knew her, sir,
and were expecting to see her, most important, she said it was, so I
hots her up a bit o’ dinner. I hopes as how I didn’t do wrong, Mr.
Bellward, sir!”
“Oh, no, Martha, not at all!” Desmond replied—at random. He was sorely
perplexed as to his next move. Obviously the girl could not stay in the
house. What on earth did she want with him? And could he, at any rate,
get at the desk and read the papers of which the note spoke and which,
he did not doubt, were the _dossier_ of the Bellward case, before she
awoke? They might, at least, throw some light on his relations with the
dancer.
“She had her dinner here by the fire,” old Martha resumed her
narrative, “and about a quarter past nine comes your second tellygram,
sir, saying as how you could not arrive till five o’clock in the
morning.”
Desmond glanced at the clock on the mantelpiece. The hands pointed to a
quarter past five! He had lost all count of the time in his
peregrinations of the night.
“I comes in here and tells the young lady as how you wouldn’t be back
last night, sir,” the old woman continued, “and she says, ‘Oh,’ she
says, ‘then, where shall I go?’ she says. ‘Why don’t you go home, my
dear?’ says I, ‘and pop round and see the master in the morning,’ I
says, thinking the pore young lady lives about here. And then she tells
me as how she come all the way from Lunnon and walked up from the
station. As well you know, sir, the last train up leaves Wentfield
Station at five minutes to nine, and so the pore young lady couldn’t
get back that night. So here she had to stop. I got the spare room
ready for her and lit a nice fire and all, but she wouldn’t go to bed
not until she had seen you. I do hope as how I’ve not done wrong, sir.
I says to Mr. Hill, I says...”
Desmond held up his hand to restrain her toothless babble. Nur-el-Din
had stirred and was sitting up, rubbing her eyes. Then she caught sight
of Desmond and scrambled rather unsteadily to her feet.
“Monsieur Bellward?” she said in French, “oh, how glad I am to see
you!”
“All right, Martha,” said Desmond, “see that the spare room is ready
for this lady, and don’t go to bed just yet. I shall want you to take
this lady to her room.”
The old woman hobbled away, leaving the two alone. As soon as the door
had closed behind her, Nur-el-Din exclaimed:
“You know me; _hein?_”
Desmond bowed in the most correct Continental manner.
“Who does not know the charming Nur-el-Din?” he replied.
“No!” Nur-el-Din commanded with flashing eyes, “no, not that name! I am
Madame Le Bon, you, understand, a Belgian refugee, from Termonde!”
Rather taken aback by her imperious manner, Desmond bowed again but
said nothing.
“I received your letter,” the dancer resumed, “but I did not answer it
as I did not require your assistance. But now I wish your help. It is
unfortunate that you were absent from home at the very time I counted
upon your aid.”
She flashed a glance at him as though awaiting an apology.
“I am extremely sorry,” said Desmond, “if I had but known...”
Nur-el-Din nodded carelessly.
“I wish to pass the night here,” she went on, “in fact, I may be here
for several days. They are becoming inconvenient in London, you
understand.”
“But the theatre, your professional engagements?”
“Bah, I have left the theatre. I have had enough of these stupid
English people... they know nothing of art!”
Desmond reflected a moment. Nur-el-Din’s manner was most perplexing.
What on earth could induce her to adopt this tone of condescension
towards him? It nettled him. He resolved to try and find out on what it
was based.
“I am only too happy to be of assistance to you,” he said, “especially
in view of the letter of introduction you sent me, but I must tell you
plainly that what you ask is impossible.”
“Impossible?” repeated Nur-el-Din, stamping her feet. “Impossible? Do
you know what you are saying?”
“Perfectly,” replied Desmond negligently. “Obviously, you must stay
here for the rest of the night since you cannot return to London until
the trains start running, but to stay here indefinitely as you propose
to do is out of the question. People would talk!”
“Then it is your business to see that they don’t!”
“Your letter of introduction came from one whom I am always anxious to
oblige,” Desmond went on. “But the service he is authorized to claim
from me does not entitle him to jeopardize my other activities.”
He drew a breath. It was a long shot. Would it draw her?
It did. Nur-el-Din fumbled in her bag, produced a leather pocket-book
and from it produced a slip of paper folded in two.
“Read that!” she cried, “and then you shall apologize!”
Desmond took the paper. It was a sheet torn from a book of German
military field messages. “_Meldedienst_” (Message Service) was printed
in German at the top and there were blanks to be filled in for the
date, hour and place, and at the bottom a printed form of
acknowledgment for the recipient to sign.
In a large ostentatious, upright German handwriting was written what
follows:
“To All Whom it May Concern.
“The lady who is the bearer of this, whose description is set out
overleaf, is entitled to the full respect and assistance of the German
forces on land and sea and in the air, wherever it may be. Her person
and property are inviolate.
“Given At Our Headquarters at Metz
“Friedrich Wilhelm
“Kronprinz des
“Deutschen Reiches.”
Across the signature was the impress of a green stamp, lozenge-shaped,
inscribed “Headquarters of the Fifth Army, General Staff, 21st
September, 1914.”
On the back of the slip was a detailed description of Nur-el-Din.
Desmond bowed and handed the paper back to its owner.
“Madame must accept my humble excuses,” he murmured, hardly knowing
what he was saying, so great was his surprise, “my house and services
are at Madame’s disposal!”
“The other letter was from Count Plettenbach, the Prince’s A.D.C., whom
I think you know!” added the dancer in a mollified voice as she
replaced the slip of paper in its pocketbook and stowed it away in her
hand-bag. Then, looking up archly at Desmond, she said:
“Am I so distasteful, then, to have in your house?”
She made a charming picture. Her heavy fur coat had fallen open,
disclosing her full round throat, very brown against the V-shaped
opening of her white silk blouse. Her mouth was a perfect cupid’s bow,
the upper lip slightly drawn up over her dazzlingly white teeth. Before
Desmond could answer her question, if answer were needed, her mood had
swiftly changed again. She put her hand out, a little brown hand, and
laying it on his shoulder, looked up appealingly into his eyes.
“You will protect me,” she said in a low voice, “I cannot bear this
hunted life. From this side, from that, they, are closing in on me, and
I am frightened, so very frightened. Promise you will keep me from
harm!”
Desmond gazed down into her warm, expressive eyes helplessly. What she
asked was impossible, he knew, but he was a soldier, not a policeman,
he told himself, and under his breath he cursed the Chief for landing
him in such a predicament. To Nur-el-Din he said gently:
“Tell me what has happened to frighten you. Who is hunting you? Is it
the police?”
She withdrew her hand with a gesture of contempt.
“Bah!” she said bitterly. “I am not afraid of the police.”
Then she sank into a reverie, her gaze fixed on the dying embers of the
fire.
“All my life has been a struggle,” she went on, after a moment, “first
with hunger, then with men, then the police. I am used to a hard life.
No, it is not the police!”
“Who is it, then” asked Desmond, completely nonplused.
Nur-el-Din let her eyes rest on his face for a moment.
“You have honest eyes,” she said, “your eyes are not German... pardon
me, I would not insult your race... I mean they are different from the
rest of you. One day, perhaps, those eyes of yours may persuade me to
answer your question. But I don’t know you well enough yet!”
She broke off abruptly, shaking her head.
“I am tired,” she sighed and all her haughty manner returned, “let the
old woman show me to my room. I will take _déjeuner_ with you at one
o’clock.”
Desmond bowed and stepping out into the hall, called the housekeeper.
Old Martha shuffled off with the girl, leaving Desmond staring with
vacant eyes into the fire. He was conscious of a feeling of exultation,
despite his utter weariness and craving for sleep. This girl, with her
queenly ways, her swiftly changing moods, her broad gusts of passion,
interested him enormously. If she were the quarry, why, then, the chase
were worth while! But the end? For a brief moment, he had a vision of
that frail, clinging figure swaying up against some blank wall before a
file of levelled rifles.
Then again he seemed to see old Mackwayte lying dead on the landing of
the house at Seven Kings. Had this frail girl done this unspeakable
deed? To send her to the gallows or before a firing-squad—was this to
be the end of his mission? And the still, small voice of conscience
answered: “Yes! that is what you have come here to do!”
Old Martha came shuffling down the staircase. Desmond called to her,
remembering that he did not yet know where his bedroom was.
“Will you light me up to my room, Martha?” he said, “I want to be sure
that the sheets are not damp!”
So saying he extinguished the lamp on the table and followed the old
woman upstairs.