DEAR M. VARDIN,--Stringer has told me that he has kept you
sufficiently informed as to Chelmsford and Colchester, so I have not
troubled to write. They have moved the Midland Territorial Brigade
and the heavy guns towards the coast near Cromer, but only for a time.
It is for training, not embarkation.
And now for my great news, which I have straight from the War Office
itself. Within a week there is to be a very severe attack from
Verdun, which is to be supported by a holding attack at Ypres. It is
all on a very large scale, and you must send off a special Dutch
messenger to Von Starmer by the first boat. I hope to get the exact
date and some further particulars from my informant to-night, but
meanwhile you must act with energy.
I dare not post this here--you know what village postmasters are, so I
am taking it into Colchester, where Stringer will include it with his
own report which goes by hand.--Yours faithfully, SOPHIA HEFFNER.
I was stunned at first as I read this letter, and then a kind of cold,
concentrated rage came over me. So this woman was a German and a spy! I
thought of her hypocrisy and her treachery towards me, but, above all, I
thought of the danger to the Army and the State. A great defeat, the
death of thousands of men, might spring from my misplaced confidence.
There was still time, by judgment and energy, to stop this frightful
evil. I heard her step upon the stairs outside, and an instant later she
had come through the doorway. She started, and her face was bloodless as
she saw me seated there with the open letter in my hand.
"How did you get that?" she gasped. "How dared you break my desk and
steal my letter?"
I said nothing. I simply sat and looked at her and pondered what I
should do. She suddenly sprang forward and tried to snatch the letter. I
caught her wrist and pushed her down on to the sofa, where she lay,
collapsed. Then I rang the bell, and told the maid that I must see Mr.
Murreyfield at once.
He was a genial, elderly man, who had treated this woman with as much
kindness as if she were his daughter. He was horrified at what I said. I
could not show him the letter on account of the secret that it contained,
but I made him understand that it was of desperate importance.
"What are we to do?" he asked. "I never could have imagined anything so
dreadful. What would you advise us to do?"
"There is only one thing that we can do," I answered. "This woman must
be arrested, and in the meanwhile we must so arrange matters that she
cannot possibly communicate with any one. For all we know, she has
confederates in this very village. Can you undertake to hold her
securely while I go to Colonel Worral at Pedley and get a warrant and a
guard?"
"We can lock her in her bedroom."
"You need not trouble," said she. "I give you my word that I will stay
where I am. I advise you to be careful, Captain Fowler. You've shown
once before that you are liable to do things before you have thought of
the consequence. If I am arrested all the world will know that you have
given away the secrets that were confided to you. There is an end of
your career, my friend. You can punish me, no doubt. What about
yourself?"
"I think," said I, "you had best take her to her bedroom."
"Very good, if you wish it," said she, and followed us to the door. When
we reached the hall she suddenly broke away, dashed through the entrance,
and made for her motor-bicycle, which was standing there. Before she
could start we had both seized her. She stooped and made her teeth meet
in Murreyfield's hand. With flashing eyes and tearing fingers she was as
fierce as a wild cat at bay. It was with some difficulty that we
mastered her, and dragged her--almost carried her--up the stairs. We
thrust her into her room and turned the key, while she screamed out abuse
and beat upon the door inside.
"It's a forty-foot drop into the garden," said Murreyfield, tying up his
bleeding hand. "I'll wait here till you come back. I think we have the
lady fairly safe."
"I have a revolver here," said I. "You should be armed." I slipped a
couple of cartridges into it and held it out to him. "We can't afford to
take chances. How do you know what friends she may have?"
"Thank you," said he. "I have a stick here, and the gardener is within
call. Do you hurry off for the guard, and I will answer for the
prisoner."
Having taken, as it seemed to me, every possible precaution, I ran to
give the alarm. It was two miles to Pedley, and the colonel was out,
which occasioned some delay. Then there were formalities and a
magistrate's signature to be obtained. A policeman was to serve the
warrant, but a military escort was to be sent in to bring back the
prisoner. I was so filled with anxiety and impatience that I could not
wait, but I hurried back alone with the promise that they would follow.
The Pedley-Woodrow Road opens into the high-road to Colchester at a point
about half a mile from the village of Radchurch. It was evening now and
the light was such that one could not see more than twenty or thirty
yards ahead. I had proceeded only a very short way from the point of
junction when I heard, coming towards me, the roar of a motor-cycle being
ridden at a furious pace. It was without lights, and close upon me. I
sprang aside in order to avoid being ridden down, and in that instant, as
the machine flashed by, I saw clearly the face of the rider. It was
she--the woman whom I had loved. She was hatless, her hair streaming in
the wind, her face glimmering white in the twilight, flying through the
night like one of the Valkyries of her native land. She was past me like
a flash and tore on down the Colchester Road. In that instant I saw all
that it would mean if she could reach the town. If she once was allowed
to see her agent we might arrest him or her, but it would be too late.
The news would have been passed on. The victory of the Allies and the
lives of thousands of our soldiers were at stake. Next instant I had
pulled out the loaded revolver and fired two shots after the vanishing
figure, already only a dark blur in the dusk. I heard a scream, the
crashing of the breaking cycle, and all was still.
I need not tell you more, gentlemen. You know the rest. When I ran
forward I found her lying in the ditch. Both of my bullets had struck
her. One of them had penetrated her brain. I was still standing beside
her body when Murreyfield arrived, running breathlessly down the road.
She had, it seemed, with great courage and activity scrambled down the
ivy of the wall; only when he heard the whirr of the cycle did he realize
what had occurred. He was explaining it to my dazed brain when the
police and soldiers arrived to arrest her. By the irony of fate it was
me whom they arrested instead.
It was urged at the trial in the police-court that jealousy was the cause
of the crime. I did not deny it, nor did I put forward any witnesses to
deny it. It was my desire that they should believe it. The hour of the
French advance had not yet come, and I could not defend myself without
producing the letter which would reveal it. But now it is
over--gloriously over--and so my lips are unsealed at last. I confess my
fault--my very grievous fault. But it is not that for which you are
trying me. It is for murder. I should have thought myself the murderer
of my own countrymen if I had let the woman pass. These are the facts,
gentlemen. I leave my future in your hands. If you should absolve me I
may say that I have hopes of serving my country in a fashion which will
atone for this one great indiscretion, and will also, as I hope, end for
ever those terrible recollections which weigh me down. If you condemn
me, I am ready to face whatever you may think fit to inflict.