THE AWAKENING
The prospect was uninviting at any time and to Julie, who had stared at
the rows of slatternly kept backyards until she grew familiar with each
battered garbage can, the sight was hateful. The rain had driven even the
starved alley cats to cover, and with a sigh forlorn in its wretchedness,
she turned from the window and contemplated her nicely furnished bedroom.
The two days she had been there had passed on leaden feet. Captain
Miller's money had secured her a haven of refuge--food and a roof over
her head--but had deprived her of liberty and the daily newspaper. The
first had been the only restriction he had placed upon her acceptance of
his bounty. His plea--protect Kathleen--had found a ready echo in her
loyal heart, and blindly she had obeyed him.
The first day had passed in numb resignation, then had followed the
reaction. As she recovered from bodily fatigue there came a quickening of
the blood, and in spite of the cold driving rain, a longing for the
out-of-doors possessed her.
Since the breaking out of the great world war, with its invasion of
Belgium and her beloved France, she had become an inveterate newspaper
reader, and during the days of "extras" she had formed the habit of
depending upon them. From day to day, month to month, she had followed
the ever shifting, always fighting forces on the firing line, and her
knowledge of the situation in Europe would have shamed some of the
students of the times. Her own personal loss and agonizing sorrow had
been engulfed in her acceptance of the world's tragedy, but it had made
adamantine her desire to serve France.
Forty-eight hours had passed and she had not seen a daily paper. She had
asked her landlady, Mrs. Robinson, for the loan of her _Star_, only to be
told that Mrs. Robinson never took it. She had thereupon presented her
with three cents and asked her to secure the morning papers. But Mrs.
Robinson, on her return from market earlier in the day, had forgotten to
comply with her request. The one servant, when appealed to in the hall,
had promised to get her an evening _Times_, but on inquiry, Mrs. Robinson
had informed her that the woman had finished her work and gone home.
What was happening in Europe? Had the Allies attempted the drive hinted
at during the winter months? Had Italy cast her lot with the Allies?
Julie's restlessness increased as each question remained unanswered. From
whom could she get a newspaper? Mrs. Robinson had assured her that she
was the only boarder in the house, and on the one occasion on which she
had left her room, she had seen no one but the servant. The latter had
gone out, and Mrs. Robinson had not responded to her call ten minutes
before. Julie sighed again and gazed wearily out over the backyards; then
a thought came to her. Why not go to a front window and hail a newsboy;
there might be one in the vicinity?
With brightened eyes Julie left her room and, walking down the hall,
turned the knob of the door opposite her own. It would not open.
Bethinking herself, Julie rapped timidly on the door panel; then
receiving no reply, she rapped again. No voice nor footstep responded to
the summons; apparently the room was empty. Considerably perplexed, Julie
turned and made her way to the second bedroom floor. Quickly she rapped
at each closed door and tried its knob. Each door was locked and her
repeated raps went unanswered. In the fourth floor she met with the same
results, and, returning again to the stairs, she made her way down them
almost at a run.
The silent and apparently empty house frightened her, and it was with a
fast beating heart that she made her way to the ground floor and into
the drawing-room. Its sumptuous furnishings astounded her. Mrs. Robinson
had neither the air nor the well-dressed appearance of a woman of
wealth. From her swarthy skin and black eyes and hair Julie had taken
her for a Creole.
The stair door leading to the basement was not locked, and Julie laid a
hesitating hand on it. Should she seek Mrs. Robinson in the kitchen?
Almost without her own volition she released her hold on the knob and
retraced her steps to the front door. She needed air; the silent house
was getting on her nerves. She suddenly remembered the noises she had
heard in the night and which, in the morning, she had attributed to her
feverish condition.
Noiselessly she removed the night latch and slipped into the vestibule.
She stood for a moment filling her lungs with the cold refreshing air,
then bethinking herself, stepped behind the closed section of the outer
door. She must not be seen by a chance policeman. As she stepped back her
foot encountered a small bundle, and she looked down. Joy of joys! It
was a folded newspaper. As she opened it she saw in the dim light of dusk
the red letter stamping: "Subscriber's copy." What had Mrs. Robinson
meant by telling her she did not take newspapers?
Not pausing to worry further over that problem, she hastily scanned the
first page of the five-thirty edition of the _Times_; and her eyes
dilated as she read the scare headings:
SPENCER'S WILL OFFERED FOR PROBATE
KATHLEEN WHITNEY, CONVICTED BY CORONER'S JURY, IS RESIDUARY LEGATEE OF
MURDERED CLUBMAN
SOCIETY GIRL OUT ON BAIL FURNISHED BY SENATOR FOSTER
Too stunned to move or cry out, Julie stared dumbly at the newspaper.
Kathleen Whitney, her kind friend rather than employer, was
convicted--then her absence had not benefited her? Captain Miller's
advice had been wrong. Her faith in him was misplaced. To what had he
brought her? She cast a terrified look at the partly closed door behind
her. Better jail than--The thought of jail brought her whirling senses
back to Kathleen. But Kathleen was not in jail; the paper stated that she
was out on bail. If at home, she could be reached.
Utterly regardless of her hatless condition, she dragged the shawl,
previously borrowed from Mrs. Robinson, over her head, and closing the
front door, bolted up the street, the newspaper still clutched in her
hand. Darkness was closing in, and the rain had driven the few
pedestrians usually in that location scurrying to their homes. Julie was
five or more blocks from the Robinson house when she saw a yellow touring
car draw up to the opposite curb and a man spring out. He paused for a
second to examine one of the lamps and its light threw his face in bold
relief against the darkness. It was Henry, the chauffeur. Julie shrank
back behind a tree-box, muffling her face in the friendly shawl. But the
precaution was unnecessary, for Henry did not glance toward her as he
hastened around the touring car and entered a near-by house.
For some seconds Julie stood peering doubtfully in the direction he had
gone. Why was Henry driving a car other than the Whitneys'? Had they, by
chance, discharged him? Or was he up to some particular deviltry? Her
latent distrust of Henry and her suspicions as to his nationality surged
uppermost, and not waiting to count the cost, she darted across the
street and peered into the empty touring car. Opening the door, Julie
climbed into the tonneau and, seating herself on the floor, pulled the
heavy laprobe over her. Thus protected, she sat in the darkened interior
of the car for what seemed an interminable time. The slam of a door and
the sound of approaching footsteps caused her to half rise and peep
through the storm window. At sight of Henry standing by the bonnet
lighting his pipe she sank hastily back and secreted herself under the
laprobe. His pipe drawing to his satisfaction, Henry, with barely a
backward glance into the dark tonneau, stowed himself behind the steering
wheel and started the car up the street.
Baron Frederic von Fincke looked from his bank book to his companion, a
pleasant-featured, gray-haired man. "The balance is low," he said.
"I come with unlimited financial credit," and the short, stockily built
man drew from an inside pocket a leather cardcase and passed it to the
Baron, who read its contents carefully before returning it.
"I am glad you have arrived, Hartzmann," he volunteered. "As a diplomatic
center Washington is dull. I call at the State Department--no news; it is
not in touch with secret history."
"My dear Baron, what can you expect?" Hartzmann shrugged his shoulders
amusedly. "Trained diplomats do not confide state secrets to a premier
who derives his income from a newspaper and the lecture platform."
"True. Diplomat and politician are synonymous in America; oil and water
would sooner mix in the Old World." Von Fincke carefully replaced his
bank book in a dispatch-box. "Your friend, Captain von Mueller, has won
many friends during his sojourn in Washington."
"A brilliant man; he will go far." Hartzmann rubbed his hands with
satisfaction. "His work in England will not be forgotten. He has courage,
and the instinct of the hunter; he never blunders."
"High praise," said von Fincke. "I am the more glad to hear it because I
have intrusted a most delicate mission to him--the securing of Whitney's
_latest_ invention"--with peculiar meaning. "My other efforts in that
line having proved failures." Quickly he forestalled the question he saw
coming, "And your plan of campaign, Hartzmann, what of it?"
"First, let me give you this," taking several papers from his vest
pocket. "It is a list of factories throughout the United States supplying
munitions of war to the Allies. You may find it useful."
"Thanks." Von Fincke read the paper with minute care before placing it
inside his dispatch-box. "A concerted movement has been commenced by us
to secure a majority control of many of these plants."
"In several instances it is planned to buy the great gun and munition
factories outright," explained Hartzmann. "Our agents are already trying
to engage the output of munitions until 1916, so that even if the United
States requires powder and high explosives, it will be impossible to
supply the Government."
"Anything, anything to stop the supply going to the Allies." Von Fincke
emphasized his words with a characteristic gesture.
"Our work is already telling." Hartzmann carefully replaced several
papers in an inside pocket. "In Russia, the men of the first Russian
reserve have to wait before engaging the enemy until the Russian soldiers
in the outer trenches are _dead_ so as to get their guns and ammunition
to fight with."
"Excellent!" and von Fincke beamed with pleasure.
"I shall instigate strikes in the munitions factories," continued
Hartzmann. "Tell me, how have you succeeded with the passports?"
Von Fincke's expression changed. "Not so well as I hoped. The Secret
Service are active in investigating all that are issued. It is difficult
to circulate them under such espionage."
"It is risky," agreed Hartzmann. "Our agents have opened headquarters in
New York. We hope to destroy by means of fire bombs British ships
clearing from American ports."
"If that is accomplished, it will lend material aid to our war zone
policy," exulted von Fincke.
"And later on we hope to establish the American seaports as bases for a
fleet of naval auxiliaries, loaded with supplies for our swift submarines
and cruisers. I am making arrangements for taking care of the necessary
clearance papers."
"Excellent!" ejaculated von Fincke for the second time, and opened a
notebook which he took from his dispatch-box. "Our reservists in this
country report regularly. Under the guise of rifle clubs they keep
themselves in excellent practice. Bodies of them are unobtrusively
seeking employment along the Canadian border."
"Well done; it is a wise move." Hartzmann helped himself to a cigar.
"What about this Spencer mystery, Baron? As our agent in Mexican affairs
he received a small fortune. Does not his death come at a most
unfortunate moment?"
Von Fincke pursed up his lips. "No. Spencer was a good tool, but
sometimes too inquisitive; however, I shall not be sorry if Miss Whitney
receives the full penalty for her crime." The two men regarded each other
in silence for a brief second, then von Fincke added: "From reports which
have reached me, I judge the mine is well laid, and Mexico will yet prove
troublesome to her northern neighbor."
"And useful to us," mused Hartzmann. "The United States when angry with
Germany will make war--on Mexico."
"Perhaps," skeptically, "but to me it appears intervention in Mexico will
hang fire until ..."
"Engineered," Hartzmann smiled meaningly. "Huerta will leave shortly for
the Panama-Pacific Exposition, and then ..." Not completing his sentence,
he pointed to a paragraph near the bottom of the first page of the
_Times_ which lay spread on the table by him. "The Sisters in Unity, I
see, is a strictly neutral organization for peace at any price."
"The dear ladies!" Mockingly von Fincke's hand rose in salute. "They are
the best propagandists in the country, and Senator Foster proves an able
advocate of peace--when urged by a woman."
"He is a clever speaker," agreed Hartzmann.
"Most men in public life have their uses. Have you nothing to report of
the pernicious activities of the United States Government?"
Without replying von Fincke pressed the button of his electric bell. "Is
Heinrich here?" he asked a moment later as his servant entered.
"Yes, Baron."
"Then show him in." Von Fincke turned back to his guest. "A clever man,
Heinrich, and useful. Come in," as a discreet tap sounded on the door;
and the chauffeur, carefully closing the door, saluted. "Any news of the
Atlantic fleet, Heinrich?"
"Its departure for the Panama-Pacific Exposition at San Francisco via the
Panama Canal has been indefinitely postponed."
"The Department must have awakened to the fact that if sent there the
fleet would have to return by rail," growled von Fincke. "There is not
enough coal in California at present to supply the fleet--the battleships
and cruisers could not escape from attack, but might even be captured at
the dock."
"Have you learned where the fleet will be sent?" asked Hartzmann,
watching the chauffeur narrowly.
"It is to go to New York for a grand review, Herr Captain."
"Ah, a mobilization?"
"No, Herr Captain; I think not. The reserve fleet will be missing."
"Will the President review the fleet?"
"It is so believed, Herr Captain."
Von Fincke, who had been silently eyeing his companions, stood up.
"Would that not give us an opportunity to bottle up the fleet in the
North River by slipping down one of our biggest ocean steamers and
sinking her in the channel?"
"It might be done," but Hartzmann looked doubtful. "The Harbor Police of
New York are vigilant. I fear the warping of a great steamer from her
berth would attract instant attention."
"Not if properly engineered, Hartzmann." A soft tap at the door
interrupted von Fincke. "Come in," he called.
"Captain von Mueller," announced the valet, and von Fincke advanced
eagerly to meet the newcomer.
"Welcome, Herr Captain. I hoped that you would get my note in time."
"I found it on my return to the hotel. Hartzmann, well met." Von Mueller
returned the older man's firm clasp. "It is some years...."
"Years? What are they when old friends foregather," exclaimed Hartzmann.
"Let us sit and talk."
"Wait, wait," remonstrated von Fincke. "Heinrich," turning to the
chauffeur, who stood respectfully waiting, "did you learn the strength of
the fleet?"
"Of the thirty-five United States battleships, only twenty-one are in
commission and ready for emergency," he said. "Of these twenty-one three
have broken shafts, and the fourth is a turbine engine battleship, which
needs overhauling."
"Is this all the fighting strength of the United States navy?" questioned
Hartzmann, jotting down the figures in a notebook.
"No, Herr Captain; there are seventy fighting craft; but not in
commission and all require overhauling. Half of the submarines will
not--er--'sub,' so to speak." A ghost of a smile crossed Heinrich's lips.
"The complement of torpedo vessels has been reduced from fifteen to
twenty-five per cent, and the Atlantic Fleet needs five thousand men."
"Interesting data," said von Mueller. "I congratulate you, Heinrich. What
of the army?"
"Nothing definite to report today, Herr Captain. If rumor speaks truly,
discontent will shortly reduce the standing army to a man and a mule."
"A mule can fight on occasions," laughed von Mueller.
"But not against trained men, backed up by field guns firing in one hour
two hundred thousand shells carrying high explosives," boasted Hartzmann
triumphantly. "Weapons such as these, von Mueller, alter the face of
nature as well as the fate of nations."
"Any further news tonight, Heinrich?" asked von Fincke.
"No, Baron." The chauffeur saluted. "Any orders?"
"A moment," broke in von Mueller. "I will be at the Whitney residence
tonight, Heinrich; see that I am admitted," he added, observing the
slight change in the chauffeur's expression.
"It can be arranged, Herr Captain," hastily. "I was but thinking of
Julie--the French she-devil. Should she come ..."
"She will not return." Von Mueller spoke with confidence. "I have
convinced her that she will better protect Miss Whitney by remaining in
hiding, thus directing attention to herself as the criminal."
"But will she not read the papers?" touching the _Times_.
"No; the landlady will keep them from her."
"The police are ransacking the town for her," persisted Heinrich.
"They will not find Julie"--von Mueller lowered his voice. "They never
investigate Robinson's."
"So!" Von Fincke elevated his eyebrows, and his smile was not pleasant.