PRESTO! CHANGE!
THE vision of that dark hair rippling down as she drew out pin after
pin held Stewart entranced. And the curve of her uplifted arms was also
a thing to be remembered! But what was it she proposed to do? Surely----
“If you are going to wash, you would better do it, Tommy,” she said,
calmly. “I shall be wanting to in a minute.”
Mechanically, Stewart slipped out of his coat, undid his tie, took off
his collar, pulled up his sleeves, and fell to. He was obsessed by a
feeling of unreality which even the cold water did not dissipate. It
couldn’t be true--all this----
“I wish you would hurry, Tommy,” said a voice behind him. “I am waiting
for you to unhook my bodice.”
Stewart started round as though stung by an adder. His companion’s hair
fell in beautiful dark waves about her shoulders, and he could see that
her bodice was loosened.
“There are two hooks I cannot reach,” she explained, in the most
matter-of-fact tone. “I should think you would know that by this time!”
“Oh, so it’s _that_ bodice!” said Stewart, and dried his hands
vigorously, resolved to play the game to the end, whatever it might be.
“All right,” and as she turned her back toward him, he began gingerly
searching for the hooks.
“Come a little this way,” she said; “you can see better,” and, glancing
up, Stewart suddenly understood.
They were standing so that their shadows fell upon the curtain. The
comedy was being played for the benefit of the guard in the street
outside.
The discovery that it _was_ a comedy gave him back all his aplomb, and
he found the hooks and disengaged them with a dexterity which no real
husband could have improved upon.
“There,” he said; “though why any woman should wear a gown so fashioned
that she can neither dress nor undress herself passes my comprehension.
Why not put the hooks in front?”
“And spoil the effect? Impossible! The hooks must be in the back,” and
still standing before the window, she slowly drew her bodice off.
Stewart had seen the arms of many women, but never a pair so rounded
and graceful and beautiful as those at this moment disclosed to him.
Admirable too was the way in which the head was set upon the lovely
neck, and the way the neck itself merged into the shoulders--the
masterpiece of a great artist, so he told himself.
“I wonder if there is a shutter to that window?” she asked, suddenly,
starting round toward it. “If there is, you would better close
it. Somebody might pass--besides, I do not care to sleep on the
ground-floor of a strange house in a strange town, with an open window
overlooking the street!”
“I’ll see,” said Stewart, and pulling back the curtains, stuck out his
head. “Yes--there’s a shutter--a heavy wooden one.” He pulled it shut
and pushed its bolt into place. “There; now you’re safe!”
She motioned him quickly to lower the window, and this he did as
noiselessly as possible.
“Was there anyone outside?” she asked, in a low tone.
He shook his head. The narrow street upon which the window opened had
seemed quite deserted--but the shadows were very deep.
“I wish you would open the bags,” she said, in her natural voice. “I
shall have to improvise a nightdress of some sort.”
Although he knew quite well that the words had been uttered for foreign
consumption, as it were, Stewart found that his fingers were trembling
as he undid the straps and threw back the lids, for he was quite unable
to guess what would be the end of this strange adventure or to what
desperate straits they might be driven by the pressure of circumstance.
“There you are,” he said, and sat down and watched her.
She knelt on the floor beside the bags and turned over their contents
thoughtfully, laying to one side a soft outing shirt, a traveling cap,
a lounging coat, a pipe and pouch of tobacco, a handful of cigars, a
pair of trousers, a belt, three handkerchiefs, a pair of scissors. She
paused for a long time over a pair of Stewart’s shoes, but finally put
them back with a shake of the head.
“No,” said Stewart, “I agree with you. Shoes are not necessary to a
sleeping costume. But then neither is a pipe.”
She laughed.
“You will find that the pipe is very necessary,” she said, and rising
briskly, stepped to the wash-stand and gave face and hands and arms
a scrubbing so vigorous that she emerged, as it seemed to Stewart,
more radiant than ever. Then she glanced into the pitcher with an
exclamation of dismay. “There! I have used all the water! I wonder if
our landlady has gone to bed?”
Catching up the pitcher, she crossed rapidly to the door and opened it.
There was no one there, and Stewart, following with the candle, saw
that the hall was empty. They stood for a moment listening, but not a
sound disturbed the stillness of the house.
The girl motioned him back into the room and closed the door softly.
Then, replacing the pitcher gently, she caught up a pile of Stewart’s
socks and stuffed them tightly under the door. Finally she set a chair
snugly against it--for there was no lock--and turned to Stewart with a
little sigh of relief.
“There,” she said in a low tone; “no one can see our light nor overhear
us, if we are careful. Perhaps they really do not suspect us--but we
must take no chances. What hour have you?”
Stewart glanced at his watch.
“It is almost midnight.”
“There is no time to lose. We must make our plans. Sit here beside me,”
and she sat down in one corner against the wall. “We must not waste our
candle,” she added. “Bring it with you, and we will blow it out until
we need it again.”
Stewart sat down beside her, placed the candle on the floor and leaned
forward and blew it out.
For a moment they sat so, quite still, then Stewart felt a hand touch
his. He seized it and held it close.
“I am very unhappy, my friend,” she said, softly, “to have involved you
in all this.”
“Why, I am having the time of my life!” Stewart protested.
“If I had foreseen what was to happen,” she went on, “I should never
have asked you to assist me. I would have found some other way.”
“The deuce you would! Then I’m glad you didn’t foresee it.”
“It is good of you to say so; but you must not involve yourself
further.”
“What do you mean by that?”
“I am in great danger. It is absolutely necessary that I escape. I
cannot remain till morning. I cannot face that inspection. I should be
denounced.”
“Yes,” agreed Stewart; “that’s clear enough.”
“Well, I will escape alone. When the police come for us, they will find
only you.”
“And will probably back me against a wall and shoot me out of hand.”
“Oh, no; they will be rough and angry, but they will not dare to harm
you. They know that you are an American--they cannot possibly suspect
you of being a spy. You can prove the truth of all your statements.”
“Not quite all,” Stewart corrected.
“Of your statements, at least, so far as they concern yourself.”
“Yes--but I will have considerable difficulty explaining my connection
with you.”
“Oh, no,” said the girl, in a low voice; “that can be easily explained.”
“How?”
“You will say,” she answered, her voice lower still, “that you met me
at the Kölner Hof, that I made advances, that you found me attractive,
and that I readily agreed to accompany you to Paris. You can say that
it was I who suggested altering your passport--that you saw no harm in
it--and that you knew absolutely nothing about me except that I was
a--a loose woman.”
Stewart’s lips were trembling so that it was a moment before he could
control his voice.
“And do you really think I would say that, little comrade?” he asked,
hoarsely. “Do you really think anything on earth could compel me to
say that!”
He heard the quick intake of her breath; then she raised his hand to
her cheek and he felt the hot tears upon it.
“Don’t you understand,” he went on earnestly, “that we are in this
together to the end--the very end? I know I’m not of much use, but I am
not such a coward as you seem to think me, and----”
She stopped him with a quick pressure of the fingers.
“Don’t!” she breathed. “You are cruel!”
“Not half so cruel as you were a moment ago,” he retorted.
“Forgive me, my friend,” she pleaded, and moved a little nearer. “I did
not know--I am but a girl--I thought perhaps you would wish to be rid
of me.”
“I don’t want ever to be rid of you,” began Stewart, brokenly, drawing
her closer. “I don’t want ever----”
She yielded for an instant to his arm; for the fraction of an instant
her head was upon his breast; then she drew herself away, and silenced
him with a tap upon the lips.
“Not now!” she said, and her voice, too, was hoarse. “All we must
think of now is to escape. Afterwards, perhaps----”
“I shall hold you to that!” said Stewart, and released her.
But again for an instant she bent close.
“You are a good man!” she whispered.
“Oh, no!” Stewart protested, though he was shaken by the words. “No
better than the average!”
And then he suddenly found himself unable to go on, and there was a
moment’s silence. When he spoke again, he had regained his self-control.
“Have you a plan?” he asked.
“Yes,” she said, and drew a quick breath, as of one shaking away some
weakness. “The first part is that you should sit quite still until I
tell you to light the candle.”
“But what----”
“A good soldier does not ask questions.”
“All right, general,” said Stewart, and settled back against the wall,
completely, ineffably happy. Never before, he told himself, had he
known what happiness was; never before had the mere joy of living
surged through his veins as it was doing now. Little comrade! But what
was she doing?
He could hear her moving softly about the room; he could hear the
rustle of what he took to be the bed-clothes; then the bed creaked as
she sat down upon it. What was she doing? Why should she work in the
dark, alone, without asking him to help? Was it because he could not
help--was of so little use----
“You may light the candle now, my friend,” she said, in a low voice.
Stewart had a match ready--had had it ready for long minutes!--and in a
trice the wick was alight and the flame shot up clear and steady.
After one glance, he sprang in amazement to his feet, for there before
him stood a youth--the handsomest he had ever seen--Peter Pan come to
earth again!--his hand at the visor of his traveling cap in mock salute.
“Well!” said Stewart, after a moment of amazed and delighted silence.
“I believe you are a witch! Let me look at you!” and he caught up the
candle and held it above his head.
The face upturned to his flamed crimson at the wonder and admiration in
his eyes, but the dimple was sparkling at the corner of her mouth as
she turned obediently before him and stepped slowly across the room.
There is at the heart of every woman, however virginal and innocent, a
subtle delight in knowing that men find her beautiful, and there could
be no question of what Stewart thought at this moment.
At last she came to a stop facing him.
“Well?” she asked. “Will I do?”
“Will you do?” Stewart echoed, and Meredith’s phrase recurred to
him--“an imp in porcelain”--how perfectly it described her! “You are
entirely, absolutely, impeccably--oh, I haven’t adjectives enough! Only
I wish I had a hundred candles instead of one!”
“But the clothes,” she said, and looked doubtfully down at them. “Do I
look like a boy?”
“Not in the least!” he answered, promptly.
Her face fell.
“But then----”
“Perhaps it is just because I know you’re not one,” he reassured her.
“Let me see if I can improve matters. The trousers are too large,
especially about the waist. They seem in danger of--hum!” and indeed
she was clutching them desperately with one hand. “We will make another
hole in that belt about three inches back,” and he got out his knife
and suited the action to the word. “There--that’s better--you can let
go of them now! And we’ll turn up the legs about four inches--no,
we’d better cut them off.” He set the candle on the floor, picked
up the scissors, and carefully trimmed each leg. “But those feet are
ridiculous,” he added, severely. “No real boy ever had feet like that!”
She stared down at them ruefully.
“They will seem larger when I get them full of mud,” she pointed out.
“I thought of putting on a pair of your shoes, but gave it up, for I am
afraid I could not travel very far in them. Fortunately these are very
strong!”
He sniffed skeptically, but had to agree with her that his shoes were
impossible.
“There is one thing more,” and she lifted her cap and let her tucked-up
hair fall about her shoulders. “This must be cut off.”
“Oh, no,” protested Stewart, drawing back in horror. “That would be
desecration--why, it’s the most beautiful hair in the world!”
“Nonsense! In any case, it will grow again.”
“Why not just tie it up under your cap?”
But she shook her head.
“No--it must come off. I might lose the cap--you see it is too
large--and my hair would betray us. Cut it off, my friend--be quick.”
She was right, of course, and Stewart, with a heavy heart, snipped
away the long tresses. Then he trimmed the hair as well as he was
able--which was very badly indeed. Finally he parted it rakishly on one
side--and only by a supreme effort restrained himself from taking her
in his arms and kissing her.
“Really,” he said, “you’re so ridiculously lovely that I’m in great
danger of violating our treaty. I warn you it is extremely dangerous to
look at me like that!”
She lowered her eyes instantly, but she could not restrain the dimple.
Luckily, in the shadow, Stewart did not see it.
“We must make my clothing into a bundle,” she said, sedately. “I may
need it again. Besides, these people must not suspect that I have gone
away disguised like this. That will give us a great advantage. Yes,
gather up the hair and we will take it too--it would betray us. Put the
cigars in your pocket. I will take the pipe and tobacco.”
“Do you expect to smoke? I warn you that that pipe is a seasoned one!”
“I may risk a puff or two. I have been told there is no passport like a
pipe of tobacco. No--do not shut the bags. Leave them open as though we
had fled hurriedly. And,” she added, crimsoning a little, “I think it
would be well to disarrange the bed.”
Stewart flung back the covers and rolled upon it, while his companion
cast a last look about the room. Then she picked up her little bag and
took out the purse and the two letters.
“Which pocket of a man’s clothes is safest?” she asked.
“The inside coat pocket. There are two inside pockets in the coat you
have on. One of them has a flap which buttons down. Nothing could get
out of it.”
She took the coins from the purse, dropped them into the pocket, and
replaced the purse in the bag. Then she started to place the letters
in the pocket, but hesitated, looking at him searchingly, her lips
compressed.
“My friend,” she said, coming suddenly close to him and speaking in
the merest breath, “I am going to trust you with a great secret. The
information I carry is in these letters--apparently so innocent. If
anything should happen to me----”
“Nothing is going to happen to you,” broke in Stewart, roughly. “That
is what I am for!”
“I know--and yet something may. If anything should, promise me that you
will take these letters from my pocket, and by every means in your
power, seek to place them in the hands of General Joffre.”
“General Joffre?” repeated Stewart. “Who is he?”
“He is the French commander-in-chief.”
“But what chance would I have of reaching him? I should merely be
laughed at if I asked to see him!”
“Not if you asked in the right way,” and again she hesitated. Then she
pressed still closer. “Listen--I have no right to tell you what I am
about to tell you, and yet I must. Do you remember at Aix, I looked at
you like this?” and she caught her lower lip for an instant between the
thumb and little finger of her left hand.
“Yes, I remember; and you burst into tears immediately afterward.”
“That was because you did not understand. If, in answer, you had
passed your left hand across your eyes, I should have said, in French,
‘Have we not met before?’ and if you had replied, ‘In Berlin, on the
twenty-second,’ I should have known that you were one of ours. Those
passwords will take you to General Joffre himself.”
“Let us repeat them,” Stewart suggested. In a moment he knew them
thoroughly. “And _that’s_ all right!” he said.
“You consent, then?” she asked, eagerly.
“To assist you in every way possible--yes.”
“To leave me, if I am not able to go on; to take the letters and press
on alone,” she insisted, her eyes shining. “Promise me, my friend!”
“I shall have to be governed by circumstances,” said Stewart,
cautiously. “If that seems the best thing to do--why, I’ll do it, of
course. But I warn you that this enterprise would soon go to pieces if
it had no better wits than mine back of it. Why, in the few minutes
they were searching you back there at the station, I walked straight
into a trap--and with my eyes wide open, too--at the very moment when I
was proudly thinking what a clever fellow I was!”
“What was the trap?” she asked, quickly.
“I was talking to that officer, and babbled out the story of how I came
to go to the Kölner Hof, and he seemed surprised that a member of the
police should have recommended it--which seems strange to me, too,” he
added, “now that I think of it. Then he asked me suddenly how you knew
I was there.”
“Yes, yes; and what did you say?”
“I didn’t say anything for a minute--I felt as though I were falling
out of a airship. But after I had fallen about a mile, I managed to
say that I had sent you a telegram and also a postcard.”
“How lucky!” breathed the girl. “How shrewd of you!”
“Shrewd? Was it? But that shock was nothing to the jolt I got the next
minute when he told me that you had brought the postcard along in your
bag! It was a good thing you came in just then, or he would have seen
by the way I sat there gaping at him that the whole story was a lie!”
“I should have told you of the postcard,” she said, with a gesture
of annoyance. “It is often just some such tiny oversight which
wrecks a whole plan. One tries to foresee everything--to provide for
everything--and then some little, little detail goes wrong, and the
whole structure comes tumbling down. It was chance that saved us--but
in affairs of this sort, nothing must be left to chance! If we had
failed, it would have been my fault!”
“But how could there have been a postcard?” demanded Stewart. “I should
like to see it.”
Smiling, yet with a certain look of anxiety, she stepped to her bag,
took out the postcard, and handed it to him. On one side was a picture
of the cathedral at Cologne; on the other, the address and the message:
Cologne, July 31, 1914.
Dear Mary--
Do not forget that it is to-morrow, Saturday, you are to meet me at
Aix-la-Chapelle, from where we will go on to Brussels together, as we
have planned. If I should fail to meet you at the train, you will find
me at a hotel called the Kölner Hof, not far from the station.
With much love,
BRADFORD STEWART.
Stewart read this remarkable message with astonished eyes, then,
holding the card close to the candle, he stared at it in bewilderment.
“But it is my handwriting!” he protested. “At least, a fairly good
imitation of it--and the signature is mine to a dot.”
“Your signature was all the writer had,” she explained. “Your
handwriting had to be inferred from that.”
“Where did you get my signature? Oh, from the blank I filled up at Aix,
I suppose. But no,” and he looked at the card again, “the postmark
shows that it was mailed at Cologne last night.”
“The postmark is a fabrication.”
“Then it was from the blank at Aix?”
“No,” she said, and hesitated, an anxiety in her face he did not
understand.
“Then where _did_ you get it?” he persisted. “Why shouldn’t you tell
me?”
“I will tell you,” she answered, but her voice was almost inaudible.
“It is right that you should know. You gave the signature to the man
who examined your passport on the terrace of the Hotel Continental at
Cologne, and who recommended you to the Kölner Hof. He also was one of
ours.”
Stewart was looking at her steadily.
“Then in that case,” he said, and his face was gray and stern, “it was
I, and no one else, you expected to meet at the Kölner Hof.”
“Yes,” she answered with trembling lips, but meeting his gaze
unwaveringly.
“And all that followed--the tears, the dismay--was make-believe?”
“Yes. I cannot lie to you, my friend.”
Stewart passed an unsteady hand before his eyes. It seemed that
something had suddenly burst within him--some dream, some vision----
“So I was deliberately used,” he began, hoarsely; but she stopped him,
her hand upon his arm.
“Do not speak in that tone,” she pleaded, her face wrung with
anguish. “Do not look at me like that--I did not know--I had never
seen you--it was not my plan. We were face to face with failure--we
were desperate--there seemed no other way.” She stopped, shuddering
slightly, and drew away from him. “At least, you will say good-by,” she
said, softly.
Dazedly Stewart looked at her--at her eyes dark with sadness, at her
face suddenly so white----
She was standing near the window, her hand upon the curtain.
“Good-by, my friend,” she repeated. “You have been very good to me!”
For an instant longer, Stewart stood staring--then he sprang at her,
seized her----
“Do you mean that you are going to leave me?” he demanded, roughly.
“Surely that is what you wish!”
“What I wish? No, no! What do I care--what does it matter!” The words
were pouring incoherently from his trembling lips. “I understand--you
were desperate--you didn’t know me; even if you had, it would make no
difference. Don’t you understand--nothing can make any difference now!”
She shivered a little; then she drew away, looking at him.
“You mean,” she stammered; “you mean that you still--that you still----”
“Little comrade!” he said, and held out his arms.
She lifted her eyes to his--wavered toward him----
“Halt!” cried a voice outside the window, and an instant later there
came a heavy hammering on the street door.