CHAPTER I

The Man who could have Ended the War

CHAPTER II

The Lost Formula

CHAPTER III

A Deal with Niko

CHAPTER IV

General Matravers Repays

CHAPTER V

Susceptible Mr. Kessner

CHAPTER VI

The Machinations of Mr. Courlander

CHAPTER VII

The Indiscreet Travellers

CHAPTER VIII

The Undeniable Force

CHAPTER IX

An Interrupted Review

CHAPTER X

The Sentence of the Court

CHAPTER I

THE MAN WHO COULD HAVE ENDED THE WAR

It was a few minutes after one o'clock--the busiest hour of the day at

the most popular bar in London. The usual little throng of Americans,

journalists, men of business and loiterers, were occupying their

accustomed chairs in one corner of the long, green-carpeted room.

Around the bar, would-be customers were crowded three or four

deep--many of them stalwart Canadians in khaki, making the most of

their three days' leave, and a thin sprinkling of men about town on

their way to lunch in the grill-room adjoining. On the outskirts of

the group was a somewhat incongruous figure, a rather under-sized,

ill-dressed, bespectacled little man, neither young nor old,

colourless, with a stoop which was almost a deformity. His fingers

were stained to the tip of his nails as though by chemicals or tobacco

juice. He held the glass of vermouth which he had just succeeded in

obtaining from the bar, half-way suspended to his lips. He was

listening to the conversation around him.

'The most blackguardly trick that has ever been known in civilized

warfare!' a Canadian officer declared indignantly.

'It's put the lid on all pretence of conducting this war decently,'

another assented. 'What about the Hague Convention?'

'The Hague Convention!' a young journalist from the other side repeated

sarcastically. 'I should like to know when Germany has ever shown the

slightest regard for the Hague Convention or any other agreement which

didn't happen to suit her!'

The little man on the outskirts of the group, who had been listening

eagerly to the conversation, ventured upon a question. His accent at

once betrayed his transatlantic origin.

'Say, is there anything fresh this morning?' he inquired. 'I haven't

seen the papers yet.'

The Canadian glanced down at the speaker.

'We were talking,' he said, 'about the use of poisonous gases by the

Germans. They started pumping them at us yesterday and pretty nearly

cleared us out of Ypres.'

The effect of this statement upon the little man was, in its way,

extraordinary. For a moment he stood with his mouth open, the glass

shaking between his fingers, a queer, set expression in his pale face.

Then his lips parted and he began to laugh. It was a mirth so

obviously ill-timed, so absolutely unaccountable, that they all turned

and stared at him. There was no doubt whatever that for some reason or

other the news which he had just heard had excited this strange little

person almost hysterically. His lips grew further apart, the whole of

his face was puckered up in little creases. Then, just as suddenly as

his extraordinary impulse towards mirth had come, it seemed to pass

away. He drained his glass, set it down on the edge of the counter,

and, turning around, walked slowly out of the place. The remarks that

followed him were not altogether inaudible and they were distinctly

uncomplimentary.

'All I could do to keep my toe off the little devil!' the Canadian

exclaimed angrily. 'I'd like to take him back with me out into the

trenches for a few days!'

A young man who had been talking to an English officer on the outskirts

of the group, turned around. He was a tall, well-set-up young man,

with a face rather grave for his years and a mouth a little over-firm.

He, too, had watched the exit of the stranger half in indignation, half

in contempt.

'Who was that extraordinary little man?' he inquired.

No one seemed to know. The waiter paused with a tray full of glasses.

'He's staying in the hotel--arrived yesterday from America, sir,' he

announced. 'I don't know his name, but I think he's a little queer in

his head.'

The young man set down his glass upon the counter.

'A person,' he remarked, 'who can laugh at such a ghastly thing, must

be either very queer in his head indeed, or----'

'Or what, Ambrose?' his companion asked.

'I don't know,' the other replied thoughtfully. 'Well, _au revoir_,

you fellows! I'm going in to lunch. Sure you won't come with me,

Reggie?'

'Sorry, I have to be back in ten minutes,' the other replied. 'See you

to-morrow.'

Ambrose Lavendale strolled out of the room, crossed the smoke-room and

descended into the restaurant. At a table in a remote corner, seated

by himself, the little man who had been guilty of such a breach of

good-feeling was studying the menu with a waiter by his side.

Lavendale watched him for a moment curiously. Then he turned to speak

to one of the _maîtres d'hôtel_, a short, dark man with a

closely-cropped black moustache.

'I shan't want my usual table this morning, Jules,' he announced. 'I

am going to sit in that corner.'

He indicated a vacant table close to the little man whom he had been

watching. The _maîtres d'hôtel_ bowed and ushered him towards it.

'Just as you like, Mr. Lavendale,' he said. 'It isn't often you care

about this side of the room, though.'

Lavendale seated himself at the table he had selected, gave a brief

order, and, leaning back, glanced around him. The little man had sent

for a newspaper and was reading it eagerly, but for a moment

Lavendale's interest was attracted elsewhere. At the very next table,

also alone, also reading a newspaper, was the most striking-looking

young woman he had ever seen in his life. Lavendale was neither

susceptible nor imaginative. He considered himself a practical,

hard-headed person, notwithstanding the fact that he had embraced what

was for his country practically a new profession. Nevertheless, he was

conscious of what almost amounted to a new interest in life as he

studied, a little too eagerly, perhaps, the girl's features. She was

dark, with hair brushed plainly back from a somewhat high and

beautifully shaped forehead. Her complexion was pale, her eyes a deep

shade of soft brown. Her eyebrows were almost Japanese, fine and silky

yet intensely dark. Her mouth, even in repose, seemed full of curves.

She appeared to be of medium height and she was undoubtedly graceful,

and what made her more interesting still to Lavendale was the fact

that, although her manner of doing so was stealthy, she, too, was

watching the little man who was now commencing his luncheon.

Lavendale, after a few moments' reflection, adopted the obvious course.

He summoned Jules and inquired the young lady's name. The man was able

at once to give him the desired information.

'Miss de Freyne, sir,' he whispered discreetly. 'She is a writer, I

believe. I am not quite sure,' the man added, 'whether she is not the

agent over here of some French dramatists. I have seen her sometimes

with theatrical parties.'

Lavendale nodded and settled down rather ineffectively to his lunch.

Before he had finished he had arrived at two conclusions. The first

was that Miss de Freyne, although obviously not for the same reason,

was as much interested in the stranger as he was; and the second that

his first impressions concerning her personality were, if anything, too

weak. He ransacked his memory for the names of all the theatrical

people whom he knew, and made mental notes of them. It was his firm

intention to make her acquaintance before the day was over. Once their

eyes met, and, notwithstanding a reasonable amount of _savoir faire_,

for the moment he was almost embarrassed. He found it impossible to

glance away, and she returned a regard which he felt in a way was

semi-committal, with a queer sort of nonchalant interest in a sense

provocative, although it contained nothing of invitation. At the end

of the meal Lavendale had come to a decision. He signed his bill, rose

from his place and approached the table at which the little man was

seated.

'Sir,' he said, 'I am a stranger to you, but I should like, if I may,

to ask you a question.'

Even in that moment's pause, when the little man laid down his

newspaper and was staring up at his questioner in manifest surprise,

Lavendale felt that his proceeding had attracted the strongest interest

from the young woman seated only a few feet away. She had leaned ever

so slightly forward. A coffee cup with which she had been toying had

been noiselessly returned to its saucer. It was genuine interest,

this, not curiosity.

'Say, how's that?' the little man exclaimed. 'Ask me a question? Why,

I don't know as there'd be any harm in that. I'm not promising that

I'll answer it.'

'I was in the bar a moment ago,' Lavendale continued, 'when they were

talking of these poisonous gases which the Germans are using. I heard

you ask a question and I heard the answer. You were apparently for the

first time informed of this new practice of theirs. Will you tell me

why, when you heard of it, you laughed?'

The little man nodded his head slowly as though in response to some

thought.

'Sit down, young fellow,' he invited. 'Are you an American?'

'I am,' Lavendale admitted. 'My name is Ambrose Lavendale and I was

attached to the Embassy here until last August.'

'That so?' the other replied with some interest. 'Well, mine's Hurn.

I don't know a soul in London and you may be useful to me, so if you

like I'll answer your question. You thought my laugh abominable, I

guess?'

'I did,' Lavendale assented,--'we all did. I dare say you heard some

of the comments that followed you out!'

'It was a selfish laugh, perhaps,' the little man continued

thoughtfully, 'but it was not an inhuman one. Now, sir, I will answer

your question. I will tell you what that piece of information which I

heard at the bar, and which I find in the paper here, means to me and

means to the world. Hold tight, young man. I am going to make a

statement which, if you are sensible enough to believe it, will take

your breath away. If you don't, you'll think I'm a lunatic. Are you

ready?'

'Go ahead,' Lavendale invited. 'I guess my nerves are in pretty good

order.'

Mr. Hurn laid the flat of his hand upon the table and looked upwards at

his companion. He spoke very slowly and very distinctly.

'I can stop the war,' he declared.

Lavendale smiled at him incredulously--the man was mad!

'Really?' he exclaimed. 'Well, you'll be the greatest benefactor the

world has ever known, if you can.'

The little man, who had arrived at the final stage of his luncheon,

helped himself to another pat of butter.

'You don't believe me, of course,' he said, 'yet it happens that I am

speaking the truth. You are thinking, I guess, that I am a pitifully

insignificant little unit in this great city, in this raging world.

Yet I have spoken the solid truth. I can stop the war, and, if you

like, you can help me.'

Lavendale withdrew his eyes from his new acquaintance's face for a

moment and glanced towards the girl. Something that was almost a smile

of mutual understanding flashed between them. Doubtless she had

overheard some part of their conversation. Lavendale raised his voice

a little in order that she might hear more. He felt a thrill of

pleasure at the thought that they were establishing a mutual confidence.

'I'll help, of course,' he promised. 'In what direction are your

efforts to be made?'

The little man paused in the act of drinking a glass of water, squinted

at his questioner, and set the tumbler down empty.

'Wondering what sort of a crank you've got hold of, eh?'

Lavendale began to be impressed. The little man did not look in the

least like a lunatic.

'Well, it's rather a sweeping proposition, yours,' Lavendale remarked.

'Everything in the world,' the other reminded him didactically, 'was

impossible before it was done. Your help needn't be very strenuous. I

guess there's some sort of headquarters in London from which this war

is run, eh?'

'There's the War Office,' Lavendale explained.

'Know any one there?'

'Yes, I know a good many soldiers who have jobs there just now.'

'Then I guess you can help by saving me time. Do you happen to be

acquainted with any one in the Ordnance Department?'

Lavendale reflected for a moment.

'Yes, I know a man there,' he admitted. 'It's just as well to warn

you, though, that they're absolutely fed up with trying new shells and

powder.'

The little man smiled--a queer, reflective smile, filled with some

quality of self-appreciation which seemed at once to lift him above the

whole world of crazy inventors.

'Your friend there now,' he asked, 'or will he be taking his British

two hours for lunch?'

'He never leaves the building after he gets there in the morning,'

Lavendale replied.

Mr. Daniel H. Hurn signed his bill and laid down an insignificant tip.

'You through with your luncheon?' he inquired. 'Right! Then what

about taking me along and letting me have a word with your friend?'

'I don't mind,' Lavendale agreed, a little doubtfully, 'but he hasn't

very much influence.'

Again the other smiled, and again Lavendale was impressed by that

mysterious contortion. He glanced towards the adjoining table. The

girl was still watching them closely. Jules, whom she had apparently

just summoned, was standing by her side, and Lavendale was convinced

that the questions which she was obviously asking, referred to him. He

left the room with reluctance and followed his companion through the

hall and into a taxi.

'Not sure whether I told you,' the latter remarked, as he seated

himself, 'that my name is Hurn--Daniel H. Hurn--and I come from way out

west.'

'Glad to meet you, Mr. Hurn,' Lavendale murmured mechanically. 'You

are not taking anything with you to show the people at the War Office,

then?'

Mr. Hurn shook his head.

'Not necessary,' he answered. 'Bring me face to face with a live

man--that's all I need, that's all you need to end the war.'

'I am an American,' Lavendale reminded him.

Mr. Hurn glanced at his companion curiously. Lavendale, dressed by an

English tailor and at home in most of the capitals of Europe, was an

unfamiliar type.

'Shouldn't have thought it,' he admitted. 'This the place?'

Lavendale nodded and paid for the taxi without any protest from his

companion, whom he piloted down many corridors until they reached a

room in the rear of the building. A boy scout guarded the door. He

stood on one side to let Lavendale pass, but glanced at his companion

questioningly.

'Would you mind waiting here just for a moment?' Lavendale suggested.

'My friend is in this room, working with several other men. It would

be better for me to have a word with him first.'

'Sure!' the other agreed. 'You run the show. I'll wait.'

Lavendale entered the apartment and approached the desk before which

his friend was sitting.

'Hullo, Reggie!' he exclaimed.

The young man, who was hard at work, looked up from a sheaf of papers

and held out his left hand.

'How are you, Ambrose? Sit down by the side of me, if you want to

talk. We're up to the eyes here.'

Lavendale leaned over the desk.

'Look here, old chap,' he went on, 'I've come on a sort of fool's

errand, perhaps. I've got a little American outside. He's a most

unholy-looking object, but he wants a word with some one in the

Ordnance Department.'

Merrill shook his head reproachfully.

'Is this quite fair?' he protested. 'We've had our morning dose of

cranks already.'

'I'm sorry,' Lavendale said, 'but you've got to deal with one more.'

'Know anything about him?'

'Not a thing,' Lavendale admitted. 'I've talked to him for five

minutes, and I have just an idea that you ought to hear what he has to

say.'

Merrill laid down a paperweight upon his documents.

'Look here, old fellow,' he said, 'I'll take your little pal round to

Bembridge, if you say the word, but I warn you, he is as fed up as I am

and he'll be pretty short with him.'

'I shouldn't think my man was sensitive,' Lavendale observed. 'Anyhow,

my trouble's over if you'll do that.'

Merrill sighed and closed his desk.

'This way, then.'

They passed out of the room to where Mr. Daniel H. Hurn was waiting.

Merrill seemed a little taken aback as Lavendale briefly introduced

them, and his glance towards his friend was significant. However, he

led them both down the corridor and knocked at a door at the further

end.

'Is the General disengaged?' he asked the orderly who opened it.

They were immediately ushered in. Two clerks were seated at a great

round table, apparently copying plans. There were models in the room

of every form of modern warfare. A tall, thin man in the uniform of a

General, was examining some new pattern of hand grenade as they entered.

'Sir,' Merrill began, addressing him apologetically, 'my friend here,

Mr. Ambrose Lavendale, who was in the American Embassy for some time,

has brought Mr. Daniel Hurn of Chicago to have a word with you.'

The General dropped his eyeglass and sighed.

'An invention?' he asked patiently.

'Something of the sort,' Mr. Hurn admitted briskly. 'Do I understand

that you are a General in the British Army?'

'I am, sir,' General Bembridge admitted.

'Very well, then,' Mr. Hurn proceeded, 'I am here to tell you this--I

can end your war. When you're through with smiling at me, you'll

probably say 'Prove it.' I will prove it. There's a row of taxicabs

down below. Take me outside this city of yours to where there's a

garden and a field beyond. Afterwards we'll talk business. You'll

want to, right enough. It'll take about an hour of your time--and I

can end the war!'

There was a moment's silence. The two clerks who had been writing at

the table, had turned around. General Bembridge was looking a little

curiously at his unusual visitor.

'Mr. Hurn,' he said, 'I will be frank with you. The average number of

visitors who present themselves here during the day with devices which

will end the war, is twenty. To-day that average has been exceeded. I

have already spoken to twenty-four. You make, you see, the

twenty-fifth. If we were to go out in taxicabs and watch experiments

with every one of them----'

'Pshaw! I'm not one of those cranks,' Mr. Hurn interrupted. 'Read

this.'

He handed a half sheet of notepaper across to the General, who adjusted

his eyeglass and read. The heading at the top of the notepaper was

'_The Chicago School of Chemical Research_' and its contents were brief:

'_Mr. Daniel H. Hurn is a distinguished member of this society. We

recommend the attention of the British War Office to any suggestion

he may make._'

'Here's another,' Mr. Hurn went on. 'This is from the greatest firm of

steel producers in the world--kind of personal.'

General Bembridge glanced at the historic name which recommended Mr.

Hurn to the consideration of the Government. Then he sighed.

'I am going to-morrow morning at ten o'clock,' he said, 'to inspect a

battery at Hatton Park, three miles from Hatfield, on the road to

Baldock. You can meet me at the lodge gate at a quarter to ten and I

will give you a quarter of an hour.'

'This afternoon would have been better,' Mr. Hurn observed, buttoning

up the letters in his coat, 'but to-morrow morning it shall be.'

The General waved them away. Merrill glanced curiously at the American

as the three men walked down the corridor.

'Those letters did the trick,' he remarked. 'Forgive me if I hurry,

Lavendale. Don't let your friend be a minute late to-morrow morning or

he'll lose his chance.'

'I'll see to that,' Mr. Hurn promised. 'Guess I can hire some sort of

an automobile to take me out there. Good morning, Captain Merrill,' he

added, by way of parting salute, holding out his curiously stained

hand. 'I am much obliged to you for your help, and you can sleep

to-night feeling you've done more than any man in this great building

to save your country.'

Merrill winked at Lavendale as he disappeared within his room. The

latter, with the inventor by his side, stepped out into the street.

'About going down there to-morrow morning----' he began.

'Young man,' Mr. Hurn interrupted impressively, 'you've done your best

for me and it's only right you should have your reward. You may

accompany me to this place, wherever it is.'

Lavendale laughed softly, a laugh which his companion absolutely failed

to understand.

'All right,' he agreed, 'I'll take you down in my car. I'll be at the

hotel at nine o'clock.'

'At five minutes to ten, if the General is punctual,' Mr. Hurn

promised, 'you shall see the most wonderful sight you have ever

witnessed in your life.'

II

Punctually at nine o'clock on the following morning, Lavendale brought

his car to a standstill before the front door of the Milan Hotel. Mr.

Hurn, looking, if possible, shabbier and more insignificant than ever,

was waiting under the portico. He clambered at once to the seat by

Lavendale's side.

'Haven't you any apparatus to bring, or anything?' the latter inquired.

Mr. Hurn smiled.

'Not a darned thing!'

Lavendale was puzzled.

'You mean you're ready to start with your experiment, just as you are,

like this?'

'Sure!' the little man answered, 'and you'd better get her going.'

They started off in silence. Once more Lavendale, as he glanced at the

shabby little object by his side, began to lose confidence. As they

swung round into Golder's Green he spoke again.

'What sort of a show are you going to give us?' he asked.

Mr. Hurn glanced at his watch.

'You'll know inside of an hour,' he replied.

Lavendale frowned. His protégé's appearance that morning was certainly

not prepossessing. His collar showed distinct traces of its

vicissitudes upon the previous day. His ugly, discoloured hands were

ungloved; his boots were of some dull, indescribable material which

seemed to have escaped the attentions of the valet; his flannel shirt

was of the style and pattern displayed in Strand establishments which

cater for the unæsthetic. He had discarded his hat for a black cloth

cap and he had developed a habit of muttering to himself. Lavendale

pressed the accelerator of his car and increased its pace.

'I suppose I've made a fool of myself,' he muttered.

They reached the open country and drew up in due time before the lodge

gates of what seemed to be a very large estate. There was no sign as

yet of the General. Mr. Hurn descended briskly and at once embarked

upon a survey of the neighbourhood. Lavendale lit a cigarette and

paused to watch the approach of a great limousine car rushing up the

hill. It passed them in a cloud of dust,--he stood staring after it.

Notwithstanding the closed windows, he had caught a glimpse of a face,

of eyes gazing with strained intentness out on to his side of the

road--the face of a woman convulsed with urgency--the woman who had

played such queer havoc with his thoughts. Almost at the same moment

there was a rasping voice in his ear.

'Say, Mr. Lavendale, there's just one thing I ought to have warned you

people about, you don't want any spectators to this show. There ain't

no one on this earth has seen what you are going to see.'

Lavendale was conscious of a queer flash of premonition. They

three--the girl, the crazy little American and he himself--at this

critical moment seemed to have come once more together. What was the

girl doing out here? Could her appearance really be fortuitous? The

little man's warning became automatically associated with this

unexpected glimpse of her. Then, with a returning impulse of sanity,

Lavendale brushed his suspicions on one side.

'There'll only be farm labourers within sight, anyway,' he remarked.

'You see, no one could have known that we were coming here.'

'That may be so or it mayn't,' Mr. Hurn replied dryly. 'Anyway, I

guess this is the boss coming along.'

An open touring car, driven by a man in khaki, drew up at the lodge

gate. General Bembridge descended briskly and came towards them,

followed by Captain Merrill.

'Glad to see you are punctual, Mr. Hurn,' he said. 'Now, if you

please, I am at your disposal for a quarter of an hour. What is it

that you have brought to show me?'

'That's all right, General,' Mr. Hurn replied affably. 'You don't need

to worry. I've been taking my fixings round here. Just step this way.'

He shambled along across the turf. The others followed him, the

General walking by Lavendale's side.

'Hasn't your friend brought any apparatus to show us?' he inquired

irritably. 'What's he going to do?'

'Heaven knows, sir!' Lavendale replied. 'He has told me nothing. If

it weren't for those letters he showed you, I should have thought he

was a lunatic.'

Mr. Hurn assembled the little party about twenty-five yards ahead of a

fringe of trees which bordered the road-side and terminated after a

slight break in a compact little spinney. He turned to Captain Merrill.

'Say, young man,' he suggested, 'you just hop round the other side and

make sure there's no one about.'

Merrill, in obedience to a glance from the General, hurried off. The

latter turned towards Mr. Hurn.

'You are leaving us very much in the dark, sir, he remarked. 'What is

it that you propose to attempt?'

'I propose to accomplish on a small scale,' Mr. Hurn said

grandiloquently, 'a work of destruction which you can repeat upon any

scale you choose. See here.'

With the utmost solemnity he drew from his pocket a schoolboy's

ordinary catapult and a pill-box. From the latter he selected a pellet

a little smaller than a marble. He fitted it carefully into the back

of the catapult. Captain Merrill, who had completed his tour of the

spinney, returned.

'There is no one about, sir,' he announced.

Mr. Hurn had suddenly the air of a man who attempts great deeds. His

attitude, as he stepped forward, was almost theatrical. The General

had become very stern and was obviously annoyed. Lavendale's heart was

sinking fast. He was already trying to think out some form of apology

for his share in what he felt had developed into a ridiculous fiasco.

Nevertheless, their eyes were all riveted upon the strange little

figure a few feet in front of them. Slowly he drew back the elastic of

the catapult and discharged the pellet. It struck a tree inside the

spinney and there was immediately a curious report, which sounded more

like a slow muttering of human pain than an ordinary detonation. Mr.

Hurn pointed towards the spinney. There were great things in his

attitude and in his gesture. A queer, very faint, grey smoke seemed to

be stealing through the place. There was a sound like the splitting of

branches amongst the trees, the shrill death cries of terrified

animals. The General would have moved forward, but Mr. Hurn caught him

by the belt.

'Stay where you are, all of you,' he ordered. 'The place ain't safe

yet.'

The wonder began to grow upon them. The various shades of green in the

spinney seemed suddenly, before their eyes, to change into a universal

smoke-coloured ashen-grey. Without any cause that they could see, the

bark began to fall away from many of the trees, as though unseen hands

were engaged in some gruesome task of devastation. The little party

stood there, spellbound, watching this mysterious cataclysm. Mr. Hurn

glanced at his watch.

'You can follow me now,' he directed. 'With this strong westerly wind

you won't need respirators, but breathe as quietly as you can.'

They followed him to the edge of the spinney. There was not one of

them who was not absolutely dumbfounded. Every shred of colour had

passed from the foliage, the undergrowth and the hedges. Flowers and

weeds, every living thing, were the same ashen colour. The ground on

which their footsteps fell broke away as though the life had been

sapped from it. There were two rabbits, a dead cock pheasant, the

glory of his plumage turned into a sickly grey, and a dozen smaller

birds, all of the same ashen shade. Lavendale kicked one of them. It

crumbled into pieces as though it were the fossil of some creature a

thousand years old.

'The pellet which I discharged from the catapult,' Mr. Hurn announced,

in his queer, squeaky voice, 'contained two grains of my preparation.

Shells can be made to contain a thousand grains. I reckon that this

spinney is eighty yards in area. I will guarantee to you that within

that eighty yards there is not alive, at the present moment, any bird

or insect or animal of any kind or description. Just as they have

died, so would have any human being who had been within this area, have

passed away. The rest is a matter of the multiplication table.'

'But will your invention bear the shock of being fired from a gun?' the

General asked eagerly.

'That is all arranged for,' Mr. Hurn replied. 'I have some trial

shells here. The powder, which is my invention, is of two sorts,

separated in the shell by a partition. They are absolutely harmless

until concussion breaks down that division. This little matter,' he

added, waving his hand upon that scene of hideous desolation, 'is like

the bite of a flea. A dozen boys with catapults could destroy a

division. With two batteries of guns, General, you could destroy ten

miles of trenches and a hundred thousand men.'

They walked around the spinney, still a little dazed with the wonder of

it. Suddenly Lavendale gave a little cry. Out in the field on the

other side lay the motionless body of a woman. They all hurried

towards it.

'I thought you came round here, Merrill!' the General exclaimed.

'I did, sir,' the young officer replied. 'There wasn't a soul in

sight.'

Lavendale was the first to reach the prostrate figure. Almost before

he stooped to gaze into her face, he recognized her. There were little

flecks of grey upon her dress and she was ghastly pale. Her eyes,

however, were open, and she was struggling helplessly to move.

'I am all right,' she assured them feebly. 'Has any one--any brandy?'

She tried to sit up, but she was obviously on the point of collapse.

Mr. Hurn pushed his way to her side. From another pill-box which he

had withdrawn from his pocket, he took out a small pellet and forced it

unceremoniously through her teeth.

'I invented an antidote whilst I was about it,' he explained. 'Had to

keep on taking it myself when I was experimenting. She's only got a

touch of it. She'll be all right in five minutes. What I should like

to know is,' he concluded suspiciously, 'what the devil she was doing

here, any way.'

The recovery of the young lady was almost magical. She first sat up.

Then, with the help of Lavendale's hand, she rose easily to her feet.

She pointed to the spinney.

'What on earth is this awful thing?' she faltered.

No one spoke for a minute.

'What were you doing round here, young lady?' Mr. Hurn asked bluntly.

She looked at him with her big, innocent eyes as though surprised.

'I was motoring along the road,' she explained, 'when I saw you stop,'

she went on, turning towards the General. 'I remembered that I had

heard there was to be a review here. I thought I might see something

of it.'

There was a silence.

'Perhaps,' Merrill suggested, 'the young lady will give us her name and

address?'

She raised her eyebrows slightly.

'But willingly,' she answered. 'I am Miss Suzanne de Freyne, and my

address is at the Milan Court. I haven't done anything wrong, have I?'

'Nothing at all,' Lavendale assured her hastily. 'It's we who feel

guilty.'

'But what does it all mean?' she demanded, a little pathetically. 'I

was just walking across the field when suddenly that happened. I felt

as though all the strength were going out of my body. I didn't exactly

suffocate, but it was just as though I was swallowing something which

stopped in my throat.'

'Capital!' Mr. Hurn exclaimed, his face beaming. 'Most interesting!

Perhaps, after all,' he went on complacently, 'if we may take it for

granted that the young lady's presence is entirely accidental, her

experience is not without some interest to us.'

'But will no one tell me what it means?' she persisted.

There was a silence. Lavendale was suddenly oppressed by a queer

foreboding. The General took Miss de Freyne courteously by the arm and

led her on one side. He pointed with his riding whip to the gate where

the limousine was standing.

'Young lady,' he said, 'Captain Merrill here will take you back to your

car. You will confer a great obligation upon every one here, and upon

your country, if you allow this little incident to pass from your mind.'

She laughed softly. Her eyes seemed to be seeking for something in

Lavendale's face which she failed to find. Then she turned away with a

shrug of the shoulders and glanced up at Captain Merrill.

'I am not a prisoner, am I?' she asked. 'Let me assure you all,' she

declared, with a little wave of farewell, 'that I never want to think

of this hateful spot again.'

They watched her pass through the gate and enter the car which was

standing in the road.

'Does any one know her?' the General inquired.

'She was at the next table to Mr. Hurn here when I spoke to him at the

Milan,' Lavendale observed thoughtfully. 'She was listening to our

conversation. It may be a coincidence, but it seems strange that she

should have been on our heels just at this particular moment.'

The General passed his arm through Mr. Hurn's.

'The Intelligence Department shall make a few inquiries,' he promised.

'As for you, my dear sir, our positions are now reversed. My time is

yours. I will find another opportunity to inspect these troops. Will

you return with me to the War Office at once?'

'Right away,' Mr. Hurn assented. 'And, General,' he went on,

swaggering a little as he shambled along by the side of the tall,

alert, military figure--queerest contrast in the world--'give me a

factory--one of your ordinary factories will do, all your ordinary

appliances will do, but give me control of it for one month and you can

invite me to Berlin to the peace signing.'

* * * * *

At about half-past eight that evening, after having waited about for

some time in the hall of the Milan Grill-room, Lavendale handed his

coat and hat to the vestiaire and passed into the crowded restaurant.

A young man of excellent poise and balance, he was almost bewildered at

his own sensations as he elbowed his way through the throng of waiters

and passers-by. At the corner of the glass screen he paused. The girl

was there, seated at the same table, with a newspaper propped up in

front of her. Her black hair seemed glossier than ever; her face,

unshadowed by any hat, a little more pallid and forceful. A fur coat

had fallen back from her white shoulders. She seemed to be wholly

absorbed in the paper in front of her.

'A table, monsieur?' a soft voice murmured at his elbow.

Lavendale shook off his abstraction and glanced reluctantly away.

'I am dining with Mr. Hurn, Jules,' he replied. 'He said eight

o'clock, but I can't see anything of him.'

Jules pointed to a table close at hand, evidently reserved for two

people. There were _hors d'oeuvres_ waiting and a bottle of wine upon

the ice.

'Mr. Hurn ordered dinner for eight o'clock punctually, sir,' he

announced. 'I have been expecting him in for some time.'

The girl, as though attracted by their voices, had raised her eyes.

She looked towards the unoccupied table by the side of which Jules was

standing. The three of them for a moment seemed to have concentrated

their regard upon the same spot, and Lavendale was conscious of a queer

little emotion, an unanalyzable foreboding.

'The gentleman ordered a very excellent dinner,' Jules observed. 'I

have already sent back the cocktails twice.'

Lavendale glanced at the clock. Almost at the same time his eyes met

the girl's. There was a quiver of recognition in her face. He took

instant advantage of it and moved towards her.

'You are quite recovered, I trust, Miss de Freyne?'

She raised her eyes to his. Again he felt that sense of baffling

impenetrability. It was impossible even to know whether she

appreciated or resented his question.

'I am quite recovered, thank you,' she said. 'You have seen nothing

more of our queer little friend?'

'Nothing at all,' she told him.

'He invited me to dine with him,' Lavendale explained, 'at eight

o'clock punctually. I have been waiting outside for nearly half an

hour.'

She glanced at the clock and Lavendale, with a little bow, passed on.

'Perhaps he meant me to go up to his room,' he remarked, addressing

Jules. 'Do you know his number?'

'Eighty-nine in the Court, sir,' the man replied. 'Shall I send up?'

'I'll go myself,' Lavendale decided.

Jules bowed and, although Lavendale did not glance around, he felt that

the girl's eyes as well as the man's followed him to the door. He rang

for the lift and ascended to the fourth floor, made his way down the

corridor and paused before number eighty-nine. He knocked at the

door--there was no reply. Then he tried the handle, which yielded at

once to his touch. Inside all was darkness. He turned on the electric

light and pushed open the door of the sitting-room just in front.

'Mr. Hurn!' he exclaimed, raising his voice.

There was still no reply,--a strange, brooding silence which seemed to

possess subtle qualities of mystery and apprehension. Lavendale had

all the courage and unshaken nerves of youth and yet at that moment he

was afraid. His groped along the wall for the switch and found it with

an impulse of relief. The room was flooded with soft

light--Lavendale's hand seemed glued to the little brass knob. He

stood there with his back to the wall, his face set, speechless. Mr.

Daniel H. Hurn was seated in an easy-chair in what appeared at first to

be a natural attitude. His head, however, had fallen back, and from

his neck drooped the long end of a silken cord. Lavendale took one

step forward and then paused again. The man's face was visible

now--white, ghastly, with wide-open, sightless eyes....

The valet, who was passing down the corridor, paused and looked in at

the door.

'Is there anything wrong, sir?' he asked.

Lavendale seemed to come back with a rush into the world of real

things. He withdrew the key from the door, stepped outside and locked

it.

'You had better take that to the manager,' he said. 'I will wait

outside here. Tell him to come at once.'

'Anything wrong, sir?' the valet repeated.

Lavendale nodded.

'The man there in the chair is dead!' he whispered.