MR. AND MRS.
Guild hung up the receiver, stood a moment in thought then turned around
and looked gravely at the girl behind him. She gazed back at him as
though still a trifle breathless after some sudden shock.
"What did that man say to you over the wire?" he asked in pleasant, even
tones.
"He told me to trust you, and do what you told me to do. He said Anna,
my maid, had been arrested."
"Who is he?" asked Guild grimly.
"Do you mean Mr. Grätz?"
"Yes; who is Mr. Grätz?"
"Don't _you_ know him?" she said, astonished.
"I have never laid eyes on him. Your father recommended to me the
Edmeston Agency and mentioned the name of a Louis Grätz who might be of
use to me. That is all I know."
"My--_father_--you say?"
"Certainly, General Baron von Reiter."
"Oh!... Then it must be quite all right. Only--I don't understand about
my maid----"
"Did Mr. Grätz tell you she had been arrested?"
"Yes."
"On a serious charge?"
"Yes."
"Have you any idea what that charge may be?" he asked, studying her
face.
"I haven't any idea," she said; "have you?"
"I don't know; perhaps I have. Is your maid German?"
"Yes."
"You brought her with you from Germany?"
"Yes."
"Where did you get her?"
"General von Reiter's housekeeper found her for me."
He hesitated, still looking steadily into those violet blue eyes of hers
which seemed to question him so candidly. No, there could be no
dishonesty there.
"Miss Girard," he said, "I find that I am going to be very much more
frank with you than there once seemed any occasion for being. I am also
going to say something to you that may possibly offend you. But I can't
help it. It is this: Have you, through your letters to or from your
father, imparted or received any military intelligence which might be
detrimental to Great Britain or to her allies?"
"Do you mean am I a sort of spy?" she asked, flushing to the roots of
her hair.
"In substance it amounts to that. And I shall have to ask you to answer
me. And I'll tell you why I ask. I didn't intend to tell you; my
personal and private affairs did not concern you. But they do now. And
these happen to be the facts in my case: I was taken prisoner in Belgium
by the cavalry forming the advance of your father's command. It happened
four days ago; I was sentenced to military execution, led out for that
purpose, reprieved by your father himself on condition that I undertake
to find you and conduct you safely to Trois Fontaines near the Grand
Duchy of Luxembourg.
"If I am unsuccessful in the undertaking, I am pledged to go back
voluntarily and face a firing squad. If I am successful I am permitted
to go free, and so are my fellow-hostages. And the little town where I
was arrested is to be spared."
He passed one hand over his eyes, thoughtfully, then, looking at her
very seriously:
"There seemed to be no reason why an honorable man might not accept such
terms. I accepted them. But--things have happened here which I neither
understand nor like. And I've got to say this to you; if my taking you
back to your father means any detriment to England or to the cause
England represents--in other words, if your returning to him means the
imparting to him of any military information gathered here by you,
then--I won't take you back; that's all!"
After a moment, half to herself, she said: "He really thinks me a spy. I
knew it!"
"I _don't_ think so. I am merely asking you!" he retorted impatiently.
"There is something dead wrong here. I was intending to go to the War
Office to tell them there very frankly about my predicament, and to ask
permission to take you back in order to save my fellow-hostages, the
village, and my own life; and now a man named Grätz of whom I know
nothing calls me on the telephone and warns me not to go to the War
Office but to get you out of England as soon as I can do it.
"What am I to think of this? What does this man Grätz mean when he tells
me that your maid has been arrested on a serious charge and that the
Edmeston Agency of a German automobile is in danger?"
The girl stood very still with one slender hand resting on her satchel,
her face pale and quietly serious, her brows bent slightly inward as
though she were trying to remember something or to solve some unpleasant
problem not yet plain to her.
"One thing is clear," she said after a moment, lifting her candid eyes
to his; "and that is, if you don't take me back certain friends of yours
will be executed and a village in which you seem interested will be
destroyed."
"If taking you back means any harm to England," he said, "I won't take
you."
"And--your friends? What becomes of them?"
"My friends and the village must take the same chances that I do."
"What chances? Do you mean to go back without _me_?"
"I said I would," he replied drily.
"You said that if you went back without me they'd execute you."
"That's what I said. But there's no use in speculating on what is likely
to happen to me if I go back without you. If you don't mind I think we
had better start at once. We have had our warning from this man Grätz."
He gave her a searching glance, hesitated, then apparently came to an
abrupt conclusion.
"Miss Girard," he said coolly, "your father once took a good look at me
and then made up his mind about me. And he was not mistaken; I am what
he believes me to be. Now, I also have seen you, and I've made up my
mind concerning you. And I don't expect to be mistaken. So I say to you
frankly I am an enemy to Germany--to your country--and I will not
knowingly aid her--not to save my own skin or the skins of anybody else.
Tell me then have you any military knowledge which you intend to impart
to your father?"
"No," she said.
"Have you any suspicion that your maid has been involved in any such
risky business?"
"I have no knowledge of anything military at all. I don't believe my
maid has, either."
"You can recall no incident which might lead you to believe that your
maid is engaged in that sort of affair?"
The girl was silent. He repeated the question. She said: "Anna has
complained of being followed. I have already told you that she and I
have been annoyed by impertinent telephone calls and by strange men
coming here. Do you suppose they were from Scotland Yard?"
"Possibly. Have you any suspicion why your maid has been arrested?" he
persisted. She hesitated; her straight brows knitted slightly again as
though in a perplexed effort to remember and to understand. Then she
looked up at Guild out of troubled eyes and shook her head:
"I don't know--I don't _know_--whatever my suspicions may be----"
"Suspicions!"
"My personal suspicions could scarcely concern you, Mr. Guild."
The snub was direct; he reddened.
"Very well," he said. "What you say gives me a decent chance for life."
He drew a quick breath of relief. "I'm mighty glad," he said; "I
have--have seen men die. It isn't--an--agreeable sight. I think we'd
better go."
"In a moment."
She took her satchel and went into another room with it, closing the
intervening door. She was gone only a few seconds. When she returned she
had locked the satchel; he closed and strapped her suit-case and took it
in his hand. Together they descended the stairway and started through
the lower hall.
And what occurred there happened like lightning.
For, as he passed the door of the darkened living room, a man jumped out
behind him and threw one arm around his throat, and another man stepped
in front of him and snapped a pair of handcuffs on his wrists.
It was not even a struggle; Guild was being held too tightly. The girl
shrank back against the wall, flattening herself against it, staring
dumbly at the proceeding as though stunned. She did not even cry out
when the man who had handcuffed Guild turned on her and caught her by
the elbow.
"Come along quietly, miss," he began, when suddenly his voice died out
in a groan and he crumpled up on the floor as Bush, the chauffeur,
sprang from the passage-way behind him and struck him with something
short and heavy.
The man who had thrown his arm around Guild's throat from behind, flung
his handcuffed victim aside and whipped out a revolver, but the
chauffeur knocked it out of his fist and hit him in the face two heavy,
merciless blows, hurling him senseless across the stairs. And all the
while the blond young chauffeur was smiling his fixed and murderous
smile. And he was like a tiger now in every movement as he knelt,
rummaged in the fallen men's pockets, found the key to the handcuffs,
leaned over and unlocked them as Guild held out his manacled hands.
[Illustration: "The chauffeur hit him ... two heavy, merciless blows,
hurling him senseless across the stairs"]
"Please watch them, sir," he said cheerfully. "I must find a curtain or
something----"
He ran into the living-room, ripped off a long blue curtain, tore it
into strips with his powerful blond hands, grinning cheerfully all the
while.
"Best to tie them up, sir--this way--allow me, sir--this is the better
way--the surer----"
Guild, working hard, he scarcely knew why, felt a touch on his arm.
"Are they dead?" whispered Karen Girard unsteadily.
"No--stunned."
"Are they robbers?"
The blond chauffeur looked up, laughed, then rolled a strip of cloth
into a ball for a gag.
"I'm not entirely sure what they are," said Guild. "I'll tell you what I
think when we're in the car."
The chauffeur completed his business, looked over the results of his
efforts critically, rose to his feet, still smiling.
"Now, sir, if you please--and madam--" And he possessed himself of the
luggage.
"Take the door-key, if you please, sir. Lock it on the outside. Thank
you. This way, if you please, sir. I took it upon myself to bring the
car up to the kitchen entrance."
The car stood there; the bags were flung in; Karen Girard stepped into
the tonneau; Guild followed. At the same moment a woman appeared, coming
along the brick walk.
"My maid of all work," exclaimed Karen. "What shall I say to her?"
"Anything, madam, but send her home," whispered Bush.
The girl leaned from the car and called out: "I have locked the house
and am going away for the day, Mrs. Bulger. Please come tomorrow, as
usual."
The woman thanked her, turned and went away again down the brick walk.
They watched her out of sight.
"Now!" said Guild to the chauffeur, "drive to the Holland steamship
wharf at----"
"I know, sir," smiled the blond chauffeur.
Which reply troubled the young man exceedingly, for it was evident to
him now that, if not herself a spy, this young girl in his charge was
watched, surrounded and protected by German agents of a sinister
sort--agents known to her father, in evident communication with him, and
thoroughly informed of the fact that he wanted his daughter to leave
England at once and under the particular escort of Guild.
Nor had Guild the slightest doubt that the two men who had followed and
handcuffed him were British Government agents, and that if this young
girl's maid had really been arrested for espionage, and if the Edmeston
people, too, were suspected, then suspicion had been also directed
toward Miss Girard and naturally also to him, who was her visitor.
Guild's troubled gaze rested once more upon the young girl beside him.
At the same moment, as though he had spoken to her she turned and looked
at him out of eyes so honest, so fearless that he had responded aloud
before he realized it: "It's all right. I know _you_ are not deceiving
me."
"No," she said, "I am not. But could you tell me what all this
means--all this that has happened so swiftly, so terribly----"
"I have a pretty clear idea what it means.... It's just as well that
those detectives did not arrest me.... Tell me, did you ever before see
this chauffeur, Bush?"
"Never, Mr. Guild."
He nodded; he was slowly coming to a definite conclusion concerning the
episode but he kept his own counsel. She said in a low, embarrassed
voice: "You think me cowardly. I know it. But I really didn't know what
to do."
She was very much in earnest, very intent on his expression, and he did
not dare smile.
"What _could_ you have done, Miss Girard?" he asked, pleasantly.
"I don't know. I--I felt as though we--you and I--were allies--and that
I ought to help you. But it all passed too quickly----"
"There was nothing you could have done for me," he smiled.
She said reflectively: "I myself don't quite see how I could have helped
matters. But I didn't wish you to believe me afraid to help you."
He looked into her wistful eyes smilingly: "Somehow," he said, "I don't
believe you are really very much afraid of anything."
A slight shudder passed over her. "Violence is new to me. I am not very
experienced--not very old you know. And I never saw men fight. And
when"--she lowered her voice--"when that chauffeur struck them so
heavily--so dreadfully--I--I have never seen men fight like that--strike
each other in the face as though they--they meant murder----"
"Don't think of it now, Miss Girard. You must keep your nerve." He
forced a laugh; "you'll need all your composure, too, because I've got
something to tell you which you won't like. Shall I tell you now?"
"Yes, please."
"Then--the man, Grätz, says that you must go aboard that steamer as my
wife."
The girl looked at him bewildered. "Somebody," continued Guild, "has
taken passage for us as Mr. and Mrs. Kervyn Guild. Grätz warned me. My
name is Kervyn. Yours is Karen. Our initials are alike. If there is any
suspicion directed toward us there are the initials on your satchel and
suit-case--and presumably on your clothing. Do you understand?"
"Yes."
"Do you mind?"
"I mind a little--yes. But I'll do what is necessary," she said,
confused.
"I think it is necessary. This man Grätz who seems to know more about my
business than I do, tells me so. I believe he is right."
She raised her tragic eyes to his but said nothing.
He leaned nearer to her and spoke in a low voice:
"I've been trying to reason it out," he said, "and I'll tell you what my
conclusion is: A German automobile took me to the British lines under a
white flag. No doubt Government agents had been informed by telegraph
and they followed me as soon as I landed on English soil.
"At the Berkeley Hotel I felt very sure that I was being watched. Now,
it appears, that this maid of yours has been arrested, and, from what I
suspect in regard to the Edmeston Agency--the agency to which your
father directed me--I feel very certain that somehow your maid has been
involved in the espionage maintained here by the German Government.
"That chauffeur in front of us is from the Edmeston garage; you see what
he did to those two detectives! It's very plain to me now that, innocent
as you are, you never will be permitted to leave England, even if they
don't arrest you, unless you can get out today with me.
"And if you don't leave England it means for me something very serious.
It means that I shall have to keep my word and go back alone."
"I know," she nodded, looking up at him very earnestly.
He said without the slightest dramatic emphasis: "It really does mean my
death, Miss Girard. I think, knowing your father, that there could be no
possible hope for me if I go back there without you.... And so, knowing
that, I am naturally most anxious to clear out of England while I can do
so--get away from here with you--if I can take you with a clear
conscience. And"--he looked at her, "I feel that I can do that because
you have told me that you have gathered no information for the enemies
of England. And"--he smiled--"to look into your face, Miss Girard, is to
believe you."
Some of the pretty color faded from her cheeks; she said: "You asked me
if I were a spy. I am not. You asked me if, knowingly, I carry any
military information which might aid the enemies of England. And I
answered you that, knowingly, I do not carry any such information."
"That is sufficient," he concluded, smilingly.
"No, it is not sufficient," she said. "I wish to say a little more. Let
me go to Trois Fontaines alone. I am accustomed to travel. There is no
need to involve you. As long as I arrive there what difference does it
make whether or not you accompany me?"
"I promised to accompany you."
"You promised that I should arrive safely at Trois Fontaines. It doesn't
matter whether you accompany me. Please--please don't. I had rather you
did not go."
He said, gravely: "I know how you must feel about travelling as my
wife----"
"It isn't that."
"What is it then?" he asked, surprised.
"I don't wish you to take the risk of travelling with me."
"What risk? The worst that could happen to you would be your arrest and
detention. If you are not a spy, you can not be proven one."
Her blue eyes gazed absently out across the sunny landscape through
which they were speeding.
"You are not a spy," he replied; "what risk do you run--or I?"
She said, still gazing into the sunlit distance: "What is done to
spies--if they are caught?"
"It usually means death, Miss Girard."
"I have--" she swallowed, caught her breath, breathed deeply; then--"I
have heard so.... It is possible that I might be suspected and
detained.... I had rather you did not attempt to go with me....
Because--I do not wish you to get into any difficulty--on my--account."
"Nothing serious could happen to either you or me through anything that
you have done."
"I am not sure."
"I am," he said. And added in a lower voice: "It is very generous of
you--very kind."
Her own voice was lower still: "Please don't go with me, Mr. Guild. Let
me go to the wharf alone. Let me take my chances alone. If there is any
difficulty they will arrest you, too. And if I--were convicted----"
"You could not be. That is utterly impossible. Don't think of such
things, Miss Girard."
"I _must_ think of them. Will you tell me something?" She turned and
looked at him curiously, almost wistfully.
"I want to ask you something. You--you said to me that if you thought me
a spy, you would not help me to escape from England. You said so, didn't
you?"
"Yes."
"You mean it, don't you?"
"I am afraid I do."
"Why? You are not English. You are an American. America is neutral. Why
are you an enemy to Germany?"
"I can't tell you why," he said.
"_Are_ you an enemy to Germany?"
"Yes--a bitter one."
"And if I were a spy, trying to escape from England--trying to
escape--death--you would refuse to help me?"
She had turned entirely toward him on the seat beside him; her
child-like hands clasped on the robe over her knees, her child-like
face, pale, sweet, wistful, turned to his.
"Would you abandon me?" she asked.
"The situation is impossible----"
"Yes, but tell me."
"I don't care to think of such a----"
"Please answer me. Is your partisanship so bitter that you would wash
your hands of me--let me go to my death?--go to your own, too, rather
than help me?"
"Miss Girard, you are losing your composure----"
"No; I am perfectly composed. But I should like to know what you would
do under such circumstances with a girl nineteen years old who stood in
danger of death."
"I can't tell you," he said, perplexed and impatient. "I can't tell now
what I might do."
"Would you denounce me?"
"No, of course not."
"Would you feel--sorry?"
"Sorry!" He looked at her; "I should think I would!"
"Sorry enough for me to help me get away?"
"Yes."
"Even if I carried military information to Germany?"
He looked into her eyes searchingly for a moment. "Yes," he said; "I'd
do what I could for you to get you out of England."
"Even if I had lied to you?"
"You couldn't lie to anybody."
"But if I could? If I have lied and you found it out, would you still
try to help me to get away?"
"You are asking something that----"
"Yes, you can answer it. You can think a while first and then answer. I
want you to answer. I want to know what you'd do with me."
"You make it a personal matter?"
"Yes. I don't want to know what you'd do in theory; I wish you to tell
me what you, personally, would do with me, Karen Girard, if you believed
me to be a spy, and if you came to the conclusion that I had lied to
you."
"Why do you ask all this? You are over-wrought, unstrung----"
"I am absolutely mistress of myself. And I wish to know what you would
do with _me_? Would you let me die?"
"No."
"You'd stand by me still?"
"Yes. There's no use mincing matters. Yes, I would."
"You'd help me to leave England?"
"Yes."
"Why?"
There fell a silence between them, and his face slowly reddened.
"I am not sure why," he said slowly.
"I am. Shall I tell you?"
"Yes, tell me," he said, forcing himself to meet her clear gaze.
"Very well, I'll tell you. It is because we are friends. And that is the
real truth. I realize it. From the very beginning it was a friendship,
without effort, instantly and mutually understood. Is it not true?"
"Yes."
"And that--the instant liking--was the basis for our confidence in each
other. Was it not?"
"It must have been. I trusted you without hesitation."
"And I you.... And I did tell you the truth.... But not all of it."
"What have you left untold?" he asked.
"Enough to--to frighten me--a little. I am beginning to be afraid--just
enough afraid to feel troubled--rather deeply troubled about--you."
"About _me_!"
"Because--we are friends. I don't understand how it has happened so
quickly. But it has happened to us--hasn't it?"
"Yes," he said, "it has. I--I am already--devoted to--our friendship."
"I am, too. It seems odd, doesn't it. I have had no friends among men.
This is new to me. I don't know what to do about it. I want to be so
loyal about it--I wish to be what a man--such a man as you are--desires
of a friend--what he requires of friendship.... _Do_ you understand? I
am really a trifle bewildered--with the surprise and pleasure of
friendship--and with its obligations.... But I am very sure that
unselfishness is one of its obligations and that truth is another."
"Both are part of you."
"They seem to be now. And so--because we are friends--don't go to the
wharf with me. Because I think I may be--arrested. And if I am--it may
go hard with me."
She said it so gently, and her eyes were so clear and sweet that for a
moment he did not grasp the subtler significance of her appeal.
"You _can't_ be involved seriously," he insisted.
"I'm afraid it is possible."
"How?"
"I can only guess how. I may be wrong. But I dare not risk involving
you."
"Can't you tell me a little more?"
"Please don't ask."
"Very well. But I shall not leave you."
"Please."
"No. You ask too little of friendship."
"I do not wish to ask too much. Let me get clear of this affair if I
can. If I can't--let me at least remember that I have not involved you
in my--ruin."
"Your ruin!"
"Yes. It may come to that. I don't know. I don't know exactly what all
this tangle means--what really threatens me, what I have to dread. But I
am afraid--afraid!" Her voice became unsteady for a moment and she
stared straight ahead of her at the yellow haze which loomed nearer and
nearer above the suburbs of London.
He slipped one arm under hers, quietly, and his hand fell over both of
hers, where they rested clasped tightly on her lap.
"This won't do," he said coolly. "You are not to be frightened whatever
happens. We must go through with this affair, you and I. I know you have
plenty of courage."
"Yes--except about you----"
"I stand or fall with you."
"Please, you must not----"
"I must and shall. Within the next few minutes you must regain your
composure and self-command. Will you?"
"Yes."
"Because our safety may depend on your coolness."
"I know it."
"Will you remember that we are married?"
"Yes."
"Will it be difficult for you to carry out that rôle?"
"I--don't know what to do. Could you tell me?"
"Yes. If you speak to me call me by my first name. Do you remember it?"
"Kervyn," she said.
"You won't forget?"
"No."
"I think you had better say 'no, dear.' Try it."
"No--dear."
"Try it again."
"No, dear."
"Letter perfect," he said, trying to speak lightly. "You see you look
about seventeen, and it's plain we couldn't have been married very long.
So it's safer to say 'yes, dear,' and 'no, dear,' every time. You won't
forget, Karen, will you?"
She flushed a trifle when her name fell from his lips. "No, dear," she
said in a low voice.
"And if anybody addresses you as Mrs. Guild--will you try to be
prepared?"
"Yes--dear. Yes, I will--Kervyn."
He laughed a trifle excitedly. "You are perfect--and really adorable in
the part," he said. And his nervous excitement in the imminence of
mutual danger subtly excited her.
"I ought to do it well," she said; "I have studied dramatic art and I
have had some stage experience. It's a part and I _must_ do it well. I
shall, really--Kervyn, dear."
He laughed; the dangerous game was beginning to exhilarate them both,
and a vivid colour began to burn in her delicate cheeks.
Suddenly the blond chauffeur pulled the car up along the curb in a
crowded street and stopped.
"It is better, sir, to take a hansom from here to the wharf."
"Do you think so?"
"Yes, sir.... Pardon, sir, here are passports for madam and yourself."
And he handed the papers very coolly to Guild.
The young man changed colour, realizing instantly that the papers were
forged.
"Had I better take these?" he asked under his breath.
"Yes, sir," said Bush, smiling his eternal smile and opening the car
door for them.
Guild descended. Bush set the luggage on the curb, touched his cap, and
said: "Walk south, sir, until a cabby hails you. Good-bye, sir. A
pleasant trip, madam." And he sprang back into the car, started it, and
rolled away grinning from ear to ear.
Guild took the luggage in both hands; Karen walked beside him. At the
end of the square the driver of a hansom held up one hand inquiringly,
then smiled and drew in to the curb.
"Fresh Wharf, sir?" asked the cabby.
"Yes," said Guild, calmly, red with surprise.
"Thanks, sir. I understand all about it."