|AT the end of ten days the excitement and horror occasioned by the
blowing up of the Reynolds plant had succumbed to the great American
curse: indifference. Amateur secret service men brazenly proclaiming
themselves, went about more actively than ever, showing their badges and
looking up clues at the same time, doing more harm than good, for
while professional intelligence men were compelled to accept them as
liabilities, the grateful aliens quite properly regarded them as assets.
The burning of two grain warehouses in Chicago, the wrecking of a
train loaded with motor trucks, three dock fires in Brooklyn, and the
partially suppressed account of an explosion on board a man-of-war in
home waters, provided the public with its daily supply of pessimism.
Scores of alien suspects were seized, examined and interned. Others
were caught with “the goods,” so to speak, and were flung into prison to
await, in most cases, the minimum penalty for maximum intentions. But
at no time was the finger of accusing Justice levelled at any one of the
men or women who made the wheels go round.
Late in the afternoon of a cold, blustering day a young man presented
himself at the Carstairs home. He was a smart-looking, upstanding chap
in the uniform of a captain of Infantry. The new butler announced that
Miss Hansbury was at home and was expecting Captain Steele.
You would go far before finding a manlier, handsomer fellow than this
young American soldier. Lithe, and tall, and graceful, he was every inch
a man and a thoroughbred. Only a few months before, he had given up a
splendid position down town, with a salary that few young men commanded
and prospects that even fewer entertained, and eagerly offered himself,
heart and soul, to the army that was to lift his country out of the pit
of commercialism and give it a place among the proud.
He had won his sword and his shoulder straps with the ease of one
who earnestly strives, and at the same time he had conquered in an
enterprise sweetly remote from the horrors of war. Louise Hansbury,
beautiful and gifted, was wearing the emblem of surrender on the third
finger of her left hand.
He was to dine with the Carstairs that evening; as a privileged person,
he came long ahead of the other guests of the evening. There was to be a
distinguished company. A Cabinet officer, a prominent Southern Senator,
an Admiral of the Navy, a Foreign Ambassador, to say nothing of more
than one potentate in the realm of finance. And women whose names
were not more widely-known than their deeds in these days of great
endeavour,--women who had put aside frivolity and selfishness and social
gluttony for the cold, hard business of making the country safe.
Mrs. Carstairs, herself, was the chairman of one of the most important
of the Relief Organizations controlled and operated exclusively by
women; far from being a mere figure-head, she was an active, zealous
worker, an inspiration to her associates.
One of the guests of the evening was to be an Italian Countess whose
labours in the war hospitals of her native land had made her one of the
most conspicuous women in all Europe.
Louise Hansbury was the daughter of Davenport Carstairs' only sister,
now deceased. Since the death of her mother,--her father had died when
she was a small child,--the girl had made her home with this adoring
uncle. She possessed a somewhat meagre fortune,--sufficient to
guarantee independence, however, if she chose to care for herself,---a
circumstance that would have excited resistance in Davenport Carstairs
had it ever come up for discussion.
“How are you, dearest?” inquired the young officer, holding her off to
look anxiously, searchingly into her eyes. The colour of health was just
beginning to flow in her cheeks.
“Gorgeous,” she replied, her eyes agleam with love and happiness.
“Go slow,” he said gently. “Don't tax yourself too much. It's a serious
job, this business of getting well.”
“But I _am_ well, you goose. I never felt better in my life.”
“You never were more beautiful,” he said softly.
“I'd much rather hear you say that than something really serious,” she
cried, smiling divinely into his dazzled eyes.
“You've had pneumonia,” he said sternly, after the moment it took to
regain a temporarily lost air of authority. “Mighty sick you've been,
darling,--and--”
“And I'm not to get my feet wet, or sit in a draft, or--Very good,
Captain! Orders is orders, sir.” She stood off and saluted him with mock
solemnity.
[Illustration: 0010]
“I'm so glad you came early, Derrol,” she cried, abruptly abandoning her
frivolous air. “I've--I've wanted you so much. This has been a long--oh,
an age, dear. You knew that poor Hodges was killed by an automobile,
didn't you? I never know what I put in my letters. And there is all this
talk about Belgium being a nest of spies at the outset, and--oh, _that_
would be too much. Sit here with me, Derrol, and--you might hold
me close to you,--just for a little while. It--yes, it does give me
strength to feel your arms about me.” After a few moments, the troubled
look that had been lurking in his eyes for a long time, reappeared. A
light frown clouded his brow. He glanced over his shoulder, and, when he
spoke, his voice was even lower than it had been before.
“Louise dear, something very strange and mysterious has happened. Don't
be alarmed, dear. It has turned out all right. But,--'gad, it might have
resulted very seriously. Do you remember that I told you about ten days
ago,--in this very room,--that I suspected a certain officer in our camp
of being--well, crooked?”
“Yes,--I remember quite well, Derrol. Is--is he?”
He smiled grimly. “That remains to be seen. I had observed one or two
things about him that excited my suspicions, but I mentioned the matter
to no one. The next day after I spoke to you about it, I decided to
go to headquarters with my fears. As a matter of fact, by that time I
really had something tangible to report. I was received by the general
himself. He was dumbfounded. Instantly an investigation was started. The
officer I mentioned was missing from camp. It was found that he had gone
to New York the night before, but was expected back in the morning--just
as I was. That was ten days ago. He has never returned. It has been
proved beyond all question that he was a spy. There is no doubt in my
mind that he got a tip while in New York, and beat it for parts unknown.
Now the infernal part of the business is that I never mentioned my
suspicions to a soul except to you,--never even breathed them outside of
this room until the next day.”
She was staring at him in perplexity. “But--but, Derrol dear, what does
it all mean? You--you certainly cannot think that I repeated--”
“Of course not, dear,--certainly not. I--”
“In the first place, I had not been outside the apartment,” she went on
in suppressed excitement. “And I give you my word of honour that I did
not mention the matter to a soul in this house. Not one word, Derrol. If
you--”
“Calm yourself, Louise,” he urged, pressing her hands. “The chances are
that he found out he was suspected before he left camp, and even as I
was telling you he may have been on his way to safety. I have not told
any one that I spoke of the matter here,--you may be quite sure of that.
That would bring trouble and annoyance to you and--well, I couldn't
allow that, you know. Just the same, he has disappeared, completely,
utterly. He got the scent somehow, and didn't lose a minute. Saved
himself from facing a firing squad, you may be sure. So far as we have
been able to discover, I am the only man who knew that he was up to
something wrong. That's the maddening part of it. I--you see, I actually
had the goods on him.”
“You looked over your shoulder just now, Derrol,” she said, the colour
ebbing from her cheek. “Do you--do you suspect any one here? Any one of
the servants? They have all been with us for years,--except poor
Hodges, and he is dead,--and I know that Uncle Davenport trusts them
implicitly.”
He held her a little closer. His lips were close to her ear, and the
half-whispered words were fraught with the deepest meaning.
“See here, Louise, it's a desperately serious thing to say,--and I know
I'm a fresh, half-baked upstart, and all that sort of thing,--but I
just can't help feeling that if I hadn't spoken of that matter here last
week, we would have nabbed Mr. Spy practically red-handed.”
“Oh, Derrol!” she whispered, aghast. “You don't know what you are
saying.”
“It's the way I feel, just the same,” said he stubbornly.
“Then you _do_ think the warning came from this house?” She attempted to
withdraw herself from his arms.
“God bless you, darling,--I don't think it came from you, or in any way
through you,” he cried miserably.
“Then, whom do you suspect?” she demanded.
“It might have been Hodges,” he said, his eyes narrowing as he looked
away from her.
“But Hodges was an Englishman, and violently anti-German. It couldn't
have been Hodges.”
“In any event, he's dead and can't defend himself,” said he. “I trust
you, dearest, not to repeat a word of what I've just been saying,--_not
a word to any one._”
“You are very foolish, Derrol,--but I promise. Not even to Uncle
Davenport or Aunt Frieda. They would be shocked beyond words if they
knew you--”
“That's right, dear,--not even to Mr. or Mrs. Carstairs,--or that
bustling young son of theirs.”
“It would be far more sensible to suspect me than either of them,” she
said.
A latch-key turned in the front door, and a moment later young Alfred
Carstairs came whistling into the hall.
“Hullo!” he called out, peering in upon them from the dimly lighted
hallway. He was shedding his overcoat. “How's the camp, Derrol? Getting
into shape?”
“Getting shapelier every minute,” said Derrol Steele, crossing over to
shake hands with the youth.
“Where's mother?” inquired Alfred, looking over the officer's shoulder
at his cousin, who had not risen.
“Lying down, Alfie. She has been on the go all day. Much beauty is
required for this evening. She's giving it a chance to catch her
napping.”
“By golly, it's the only thing that ever does catch her napping,” said
Alfred warmly. “She's a wonder, Derrol. She'd be a field-marshal if she
ever got into the army.”
“I haven't the least doubt of it,” said Captain Steele, smiling. Even
as he uttered the jesting words, a strange, uncanny sense of their
importance took root in his mind.
Very serious topics were discussed by the guests at Mrs. Carstairs'
dinner that evening. No one felt the least restraint, nor the slightest
hesitancy in speaking freely of matters that never were mentioned in
the open. Questions that could not have been answered outside the most
secret recesses of the State department were frankly asked here,--and
answered by some one who spoke with authority. No man feared his
neighbour, nor his neighbour's wife, for here were assembled only those
to whom the Government itself could look with confidence. These were the
people on the inside of everything, the spokes of the inner wheel,--the
people who knew what was going on in Washington, in London, and in
Paris. No alien ears were here to listen, no alien eyes to watch;
sanctuary for the true and loyal.
One man there held his tongue, and spoke not of the things that were
vital: Captain Derrol Steele. It was not modesty alone that kept
him silent in this imposing group, nor the recognition of his own
insignificance. He had had his lesson. He was young enough to profit by
it.
True, the wine may have had something to do with it. It usually does. A
beguiling lubricant is this thing that gets into the rustiest of brains
and produces a smooth combination of thought and thoughtlessness. In
any case, tongues wagged loosely and wits were never keener than in this
atmosphere of ripe security. A good many secrets were out for an airing.
They were supposed, in good time, to get back into their closets and lie
there as snugly as if they had never been disturbed.
Mrs. Carstairs was never more brilliant than on this particular evening.
Always clever,--but never witty,--she was at her best when surrounded by
personalities such as these; when confronted by problems which permitted
her profound mentality to rise to its highest level and her singularly
clear-headed vision to project itself across spaces that defy even the
most far-seeing of men. She went below the surface of everything; she
saw nothing from a superficial point of view. What men liked in her,
and what other women envied and sometimes hated, was the rare faculty of
saying little unless she was prepared to say a great deal more.
More than one great statesman had said, on occasion, that it was too bad
she wasn't a man! With a mind like that, well, there's no telling! No
wonder Davenport Carstairs was proud of her!
And yet, with all this unstinted praise, with all this respectful
admiration, there was not a man among them who would have exchanged
places with Davenport Carstairs. Despite her beauty, her no uncertain
charm of manner, her strangely old-fashioned femininity, no man
coveted her. As a matter of fact, they were a little bit awed by Frieda
Carstairs.
The foreign ambassador was leaving early. He explained to his hostess
that a very important conference was to be held that night in his rooms
at the hotel. He was profoundly apologetic, but if she knew how much
depended on the outcome of this very, _very_ important meeting,--and so
on, and so on. She said she understood perfectly; affairs of state,
she went on to say, always lead up to a state of affairs, and that, of
course, was hopeless unless taken in time.
He was a little bewildered. Fearing that she had not fully grasped his
meaning, he proceeded to elaborate a little. It wasn't really a state
of affairs, nor, for that matter, an affair of state. Time, of
course,--yes, time was the essence of everything in these bitter days.
She was quite right; the whole trouble with the Allies had been the
wasting of time; now they realized the importance of doing things
promptly. She said she was glad that they were not letting the grass
grow under their feet. He mumbled something about winter and the
nothing much growing outside the tropics, and floundered with further
confidences.
Leaning quite close to her he whispered something in her ear. It left
her perfectly calm.
“This, you understand, my dear madam, is not to be repeated,--strictly
confidential,--absolutely--ah--on the quiet, as you say over here.”
“I sha'n't even repeat it to my husband,” said she.
The ambassador looked relieved. “I fear he would not approve of my
mentioning a matter that he seems to have withheld from you himself.”
She smiled.
“Possess your soul in peace, my dear Ambassador. I am as good as he at
keeping a secret.”
“It is--ah--most imperative that this shouldn't--ah--get out, so to
speak,” said he, wishing in his soul that he had not let it out himself.
“You have spoken to the Sphinx,” said she gravely.
She happened to glance down the table at this juncture. Something
hypnotic drew her gaze directly to Captain Steele. He was regarding her
steadily. There was a queer, intent look in his eyes. For an instant
their gaze held, and then he looked away. She turned to speak to the man
on her left. If he had been an observing person, he would have noticed
the tired look that suddenly clouded her eyes,--briefly, fittingly, it
is true, but remaining long enough to have been detected by one less
absorbed in himself than he. No doubt his pride would have been hurt had
he observed it.
The little Italian Countess spoke very frankly of conditions in her
country, of specific needs that called for immediate action on the part
of the American government, of plots and counterplots in the very heart
of the army, of political and ecclesiastical intrigue that sapped the
courage of the people, and of the serious situation on the Isonzo where
victorious Italian armies were in constant danger of collapse because
of an utter lack of support from behind the lines. She went so far as
to say that in the event of a supreme assault by the Austro-Germans, the
Italian armies would have to relinquish their hard-earned gains and fall
back,--perhaps in actual defeat.
“But the Austrians are down and out themselves.” declared the cabinet
member. He spoke loudly, for he was at the far end of the table. “They
haven't a good solid kick left in them, much less anything like a
supreme assault, Countess.”
“Let us hope you are right,” returned the Italian woman, the line
deepening between her eyes. “I only know that the Italians are in no
condition to withstand a great offensive if it should come. Oh, if only
England, and France,--and you, gentlemen,--could but be made to realize
the importance of a real victory over the Austrians,--if you could only
be made to see how desperately we are in need of all the support you can
give us in men, and guns, and food, and--aye, in confidence, too. If the
German Emperor knew the truth about our position on the Isonzo and in
Trentino, he--ah, _he_ would not wait, he would not hesitate. He would
move like lightning. He would send a million men to the aid of the
Austrians. He would strike with all his might,--and then, when it was
all over, you,--all of you,--would grate your teeth while he laughed
over another of your blunders.”
The men all smiled tolerantly. She was a woman. That was just the way a
high-strung, emotional woman would talk.
“It would be quite simple, Countess,” said Davenport Carstairs, “if the
Kaiser had even half a million men to spare. He is being kept pretty
busy in France and Flanders just now.”
“Ah, but in Russia,” she cried vehemently. “What of the damned
Russians?” In her excitement she spoke the language of the army. Of her
hearers, the men seemed a little more shocked than the women. “Are they
keeping him pretty busy? No! Are they holding his vast armies in check?
No! They are doing more than that. They are shoving him back, driving
him and all of his men and guns out of Russia. Driving them down into
Italy and over to Flanders, that is what they are doing. And you,--you
and France and England,--will not wake up until it is too late. When
the beastly Russians have driven the Germans into Paris, and across the
English Channel, and down to Rome, then you will understand.”
“But the Italians will hold the ground they have gained,” protested one
of the men. “I talked with members of the commission before they sailed
the other day, and there wasn't one of them who expressed the slightest
uneasiness about the Italian front. On the other hand, they were of the
opinion that the Italians would continue to advance. The Austrians are
shot to pieces.”
“Italy was not represented in that secret mission, my dear sir,” said
the Countess, a trifle curtly. “You do not know what the Italians know,
and what they are actually dreading. They know they cannot resist a
great offensive.”
“Well, as long as the Germans are ignorant of the true state of
affairs, I can't see that there is much to worry about,” said Carstairs
pleasantly.
“But the Germans will not remain in ignorance for ever, Mr. Carstairs,”
exclaimed the Countess. “They find out everything,--everything, in
time.”
“Not everything,” said the Admiral of the navy, blandly. “Their
marvellous spy system failed completely in the case of the
Franco-British special mission. The members of the party came, remained
here for more than a fortnight, sailed for home last week, and Germany
never had so much as an inkling of the visit. By this time the _Campion_
is no doubt safely through the danger zone. I call that beating the
devil with his own stick.”
“The _Campion?_” fell sharply from the lips of Mrs. Carstairs.
“You are mistaken, Admiral. They sailed on the _Elston_,” said her
husband.
The Admiral beamed. “My dear sir, the entire party was transferred to
the _Campion_ ten hours after the _Elston_ sailed out of this port. The
Secretary took no chances. He had that devilish Kitchener betrayal in
mind. There was the possibility, you know, of a leak somewhere. One
never can tell. So everything that could be thought of was done to
frustrate the 'system.' The destruction of the _Elston_ with those men
on board would have been a greater disaster to the Allies than the loss
of Kitchener or half the battle front in France. I happen to know the
transfer was made safely and according to plans. The _Elston_ continued
her voyage in convoy, but she was laden with nothing more precious than
food for the Germans.”
“Food for the Germans?” cried the Italian Countess, aghast.
The Admiral's smile broadened. “The most indigestible food that is
made in America,” said he. After a moment's perplexity, she smiled and
clapped her hands.
Once more Mrs. Carstairs' gaze was drawn irresistibly to the young
captain half way up the table. His eyes were fixed on her again, and
again, as before, after an instant they were averted. Something in his
steady look seared her like a hot iron. He seemed to be searching
the innermost recesses of her brain,--and she quailed. His face grew
suddenly pale and drawn,--paler even than her own.
The Admiral, having come sharply into prominence, continued to play his
high cards. He leaned back in his chair, neglecting a dessert of which
he was especially fond, and with considerable bumptiousness rambled on
sonorously.
“We've been expecting word all day from Admiral Sims. The convoy is
a swift one. Both the _Campion_ and the _Elston_ should reach port
today,--or at the very latest tomorrow. I confess we've all been
anxious. They are wiring me from Washington as soon as--By the way, Mrs.
Carstairs, I took the liberty of instructing my aide to telephone me
here in case the report comes tonight. Hope you don't mind. I thought--”
“Of course I don't mind, Admiral,” she said warmly. “On the contrary, I
am glad you thought of it. We are all terribly interested.” Late in the
evening,--in fact, just as the guests were preparing to depart,--the
Admiral was called to the telephone. When he rejoined the group a few
minutes afterward, his expression was serious.
“Our precautions were well taken, ladies and gentlemen,” he said. “The
_Elston_ was torpedoed this morning. Practically everybody on board was
lost.”
There was a moment's silence. Then Captain Steele spoke.
“So the Germans _did_ know that the Commission sailed out of New York
harbour on the _Elston_. It would seem, Admiral, that the spy sits
pretty close to the head of your board,--I mean, of course, your board
of strategy.”
“By Gad!” growled the distressed sailor-man. “It--it is absolutely
incredible. There _couldn't_ have been a leak down there.”
“Have you an idea how many people actually knew that the party was
sailing on the _Elston?_” inquired the young man. His face was very
white.
The Admiral glanced around the room, rather helplessly. “Of course the
fact was known to quite a number of people,--such as we are here,--but,
what are we to do if we can't trust _ourselves?_ Nothing could have been
more carefully guarded. Not a line in the newspapers, not a word uttered
in public, not a----”
“The information could not have come from any one directly connected
with the Navy department, Admiral,” said Steele slowly.
“I'm glad to hear you say that, sir,” said the Admiral, stiffening.
“For the simple and obvious reason that it was the _Elston_ and not the
_Campion_ they went after. A spy in such a position would have known of
the transfer.”
“On the other hand, it may have been pure chance that they attacked
the _Elston_,” said Davenport Carstairs, a queer huskiness in his voice.
“Coincidence, and nothing more. Thank heaven, they didn't get the
_Campion_.”
Steele was the last to leave. He said good night to Louise Hansbury in
the little hall outside. He had rung for the elevator. The door, on the
latch, had been closed behind them and they were quite alone for a few
minutes.
“Louise,” he said, and suddenly his voice,--scarcely more than a
whisper,--sounded strange and unnatural to her, “it's a horrible thing
to say, but the--the trouble is right here in this house. You heard what
the Admiral said? I can't explain how it all happened, but suddenly I
had a--well, a revelation. A great, flaring light seemed to flash in my
face. I give you my word, it was actually blinding. I thought my heart
would never beat again. I saw through everything. It is all as plain as
day to me. God help us all, dearest,--it's--it's unspeakable. I've just
got to tell you,--so that you may be on your guard. Tomorrow--or as
soon as possible, at any rate,--you must make an excuse to get away
from here,--for a visit, or anything you can think of. But get away you
must!”
“Do you know what you are saying, Derrolf” she whispered, clutching
his arm. She was trembling like a leaf, and swayed. An expression of the
utmost dread and horror filled her eyes.
“Yes,--yes, I do. It is terrible,--but, by heaven, it's true,--as true
as we live and breathe.”
She covered her face with her hands. “Oh, Derrol,--I felt it
too,--tonight. What are we to do? What can be done?”
“Hush! Here is the elevator. I can't say anything more tonight. I don't
have to go back to Camp till tomorrow night. Tomorrow morning,--I'll
call up. I must see you alone--and not here.”
“I go out every morning for a walk,--about eleven,” she breathed.
The elevator door slid open.
“Good night,” said he. She clasped his hand in silence. Then she went
back into the apartment, and, as one drugged, passed the drawingroom
door and staggered down the hall toward her bedroom.
Mrs. Carstairs, alone in the drawing-room, saw the girl pass, and
stepped quickly to the door.
“Louise, dear,--are you ill!” she called out.
“No,--Aunt Frieda. I--I'm all right. Good night.”
“Good night, dear. Sleep late.”
The door down the long hall closed softly, and Frieda Carstairs turned
back into the drawingroom with a sigh. Her husband was looking over the
night mail that had been piled on his desk in the study. She went in to
him.
“I wonder if poor, dear Alfred is struggling with that abominable
nightmare of his,” she said. “Really, Davenport, the boy is wearing
himself out. I don't see why physics should be so difficult for him.”
“They were difficult for me, my dear,” said he, looking up. Their eyes
met, and she smiled gently, lovingly. He took her firm, steady hand and
pressed it to his cheek..
“I think I'll run in and shoo him off to bed. If only he wouldn't smoke
that dreadful pipe while he studies. He breathes nothing but smoke.”
“Doesn't hurt him a bit,” said he. “They've got sheet-iron lungs, you
see,--these sophomores.”
She left him and went down to her son's room. Carstairs was staring
fixedly, intently into space when she returned,--he knew not how long
afterwards. He came out of his reverie with a start when she spoke to
him from the door.
“Alfie is going out for a breath of fresh air,” she said. “It seemed
to me his room was stuffier and smokier than I've ever known it to be
before. Really, dear, he is dreadfully trying. He--”
“My dear, you've never been a boy,” said he, collecting himself and
smiling. “You don't know what it is to be completely self-satisfied.”
“I'll be back in a few minutes,” said Alfred, coming up behind his
mother. “Are you going to sit up much longer, mother?”
“A little while. Hurry back, dear. Don't go out without your overcoat.
There is quite a chill in the air.”