Produced by Juliet Sutherland, Mary Meehan and PG
Distributed Proofreaders
I SPY
BY NATALIE SUMNER LINCOLN
1916
_To MRS. SARAH VAIL GOULD my grandmother to whose affection belongs many
joyous days of childhood at "Oaklands" this book is offered as a loving
tribute to her memory._
CONTENTS
I. AT VICTORIA STATION
II. OUT OF THE VOID
III. POWERS THAT PREY
IV. "SHOULD AULD ACQUAINTANCE BE FORGOT?"
V. AN EVENTFUL EVENING
VI. AT THE CAPITOL
VII. PHANTOM WIRES
VIII. KAISER BLUMEN
IX. THE SPIDER AND THE FLY
X. SISTERS IN UNITY
XI. A MAN IN A HURRY
XII. A SINISTER DISCOVERY
XIII. HIDE AND SEEK
XIV. A QUESTION OF LOYALTY
XV. THE GAME, "I SPY"
XVI. AT THE MORGUE
XVII. CIRCUMSTANTIAL EVIDENCE
XVIII. A PROPOSAL
XIX. THE YELLOW STREAK
XX. THE AWAKENING
XXI. THE FINGER PRINT
XXII. "TRENTON HURRY"
XXIII. IN FULL CRY
XXIV. RETRIBUTIVE JUSTICE
XXV. LOVE PARAMOUNT
LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS
"He saw Kathleen quickly palm his place card"
"As Henry pushed back the door, she collapsed into her father's arms"
"'A flash, the rifle's recoil--and Mr. Whitney still standing just
where he was'"
"Whitney paused to snatch up a magnifying glass and by its aid examined
the finger prints"
CHAPTER I
AT VICTORIA STATION
The allied forces, English and French, had been bent backward day by day,
until it seemed as if Paris was fairly within the Germans' grasp. Bent
indeed, but never broken, and with the turning of the tide the Allied
line had rushed forward, and France breathed again.
Two men, seated in a room of the United Service Club in London one gloomy
afternoon in November, 1914, talked over the situation in tones too low
to reach other ears. The older man, Sir Percival Hargraves, had been
bemoaning the fact that England seemed honeycombed by the German Secret
Service, and his nephew, John Hargraves, an officer in uniform, was
attempting to reassure him. It was a farewell meeting, for the young
officer was returning to the front.
"Much good will all this espionage do the Germans," said the young man.
"We are easily holding our own, and with the spring will probably come
our opportunity." He clicked his teeth together. "What price then all
these suspected plots and futile intrigues?"
"Don't be so damned cocksure," rapped out his uncle, his exasperation
showing in heightened color and snapping eyes. "It's that same
cocksureness which has almost brought the British Empire to the very
brink of dissolution."
His nephew smiled tolerantly, and shifted his thickset figure to a more
comfortable position.
"Now, now," he cautioned. "Remember what old Sawbones told you yesterday
about not exciting yourself. Said you weren't to read or talk about this
bally old war. Leave the worrying to Kitchener; he'll see we chaps do
our part."
"If everything were left to Kitchener!" Sir Percival thumped the arm of
his chair. "Some of us would sleep easier in our beds. And I know you
chaps at the front will do your part. Would to God I could be with you!"
glancing at his shrunken and useless left leg. "If I could only take a
pot at the beggars!"
"According to your belief the firing line will shortly be on English
soil," chaffed his nephew, avoiding looking at his companion. He knew the
tragic circumstances surrounding his uncle's maimed condition, and wished
to avoid anything touching upon sentiment.
"If the plans to undermine England's home government are perfected and
carried out, every man, woman and child will have to band together to
repel invasion." Sir Percival lowered his voice. "If there are any
able-bodied men left here."
"Don't be so pessimistic. Kitchener has built up a great army, and is
only waiting the proper moment to launch it in the field."
"The best of England has volunteered," agreed Sir Percival, "but what
about the slackers? What about the coal strikes--the trouble in our
munition factories? All are chargeable to the Kaiser's war machine which
overlooks nothing in its complete preparedness. Preparedness--England
doesn't yet know the meaning of the word."
"It's time for me to leave," said the young officer, consulting his
watch. "Take my word for it, Uncle, we're not going to the demnition
bowwows--count on England's bulldog grit. God help Germany when the
Allies get into that country!"
"When--ah, when?" echoed Sir Percival. "I hope that I live to see the
day. Tell me, boy," his voice softening, "how is it with you and Molly?"
His nephew reddened under his tan. "Molly doesn't care for a chap like
me," he muttered.
"Did she tell you so?"
"Well, no. You see, Uncle, it--eh--doesn't seem the thing to suggest
that a charming girl like Molly tie herself to a fellow who may get his
at any time."
"Piffle!" Sir Percival's shaggy eyebrows met in a frown. "Sentimental
nonsense! You and Molly were great chums a year ago. You told me yourself
that you hoped to marry her; I even spoke to her mother about the
suitability of the match."
"You had no right to," blazed his nephew. "It was damned impertinent
interference."
"You have not always thought so," retorted Sir Percival bitterly. "What
had that most impertinent American girl you met in Germany to do with
your change of front toward Molly?"
"I must insist that you speak more respectfully of Kathleen." John
Hargraves' expression altered. "If you must know, I asked Kathleen to
marry me and--she refused."
"I said she was impertinent. All Americans are; they don't know any
better," fumed his uncle. "Forget her, John; think of Molly. I tell you
the child loves you. Don't wreck her happiness for the sake of a
fleeting fancy."
"Fleeting fancy?" John Hargraves shook his head sorrowfully. "When
Kathleen refused me I was hard hit; so hit I can't marry any other girl.
Don't let's talk of it." He smiled wistfully as he held out his hand.
"Time's up, Uncle; the train leaves in an hour, and I must get my kit.
Good-by, sir. Wish me luck." And before the older man could stop him he
was retreating down the hall.
Sir Percival stared vacantly about the room. "The last of his race," he
muttered. "God help England! The toll is heavy."
In spite of his haste John Hargraves was late in reaching Victoria
Station, and had barely time to take his place before the train pulled
slowly out. As he looked down the long trainshed, he encountered the
fixed stare of a tall, well-groomed man standing near one of the pillars.
Hargraves looked, and looked again; then his hand flew up, and leaning
far out of his compartment he shouted to a porter. But his message was
lost in the roar of the more rapidly moving train, and the porter,
shaking a bewildered head, turned back.
The crowd of women and children and a few men, which had gathered to
witness the troop train's departure, was silently dispersing when an
obsequious porter approached the tall stranger whose appearance had so
excited John Hargraves.
"Ye keb's out 'ere, sir," he said. "This way, sir," and as the stranger
made no move to follow him, he leaned forward and lifted the latter's top
coat from his arm. "Let me carry this 'ere for you, gov'ner," then in a
whisper that none could overhear, he said in German: "For your life,
follow me."
"Go on," directed the stranger in English, pausing to adjust his cravat,
and made his leisurely way after the hurrying porter. The latter stopped
finally by the side of a somewhat battered-looking limousine.
"'Ere ye are, sir," announced the porter, not waiting for the
chauffeur to pull open the door. "I most amissed ye," he rattled on.
"Kotched the keb, sir, an' tucked yer boxes inside, then I looked for
ye at the bookin' office, 'cording to directions. Let me tuck this
'ere laprobe over ye."
As the stranger stepped into the limousine and seated himself the porter
clambered in after him.
"They're on," he whispered, his freckles showing plainly against his
white face. "The chauffeur is one of us, he'll take you straight to our
landing. This packet's for you. Good luck!" And pocketing the sovereign
offered, the porter, voicing loud thanks, backed from the limousine and
slammed the door shut.
The outskirts of London were reached before the man in the limousine
opened the slip of paper thrust into his hand by the porter. It was
wrapped about a small electric torch and a book of cigarette papers.
Slowly he read the German script in the note.
Be at the rendezvous by Thursday. Hans, the chauffeur, has full
directions. Do not miss the seventeenth.
After rereading the contents of the note the man tore it into tiny bits
and, not content with that, stuffed them among the tobacco in his pipe.
Striking a match he lighted his pipe and planting his feet on the bag he
gazed long and earnestly at his initials stamped on the much labeled
buckskin. The slowing up of the limousine aroused him from his
meditations, and he glanced out of the window to see which way they were
headed. London, the metropolis of the civilized world, lay behind him.
Catching his chauffeur's backward glance, he signaled him to continue
onward as, removing his pipe, he muttered:
"_Gott strafe England_!"