A WORD OF WARNING
Wherefore it happened that Dan Webster, searching promenade and saloon
and library, that afternoon, mounting to the boat-deck, descending to
the lower deck, peeping into every nook and corner where passengers of
the second-class were permitted to penetrate, looked in vain for Kasia
Vard. Nor was her father anywhere to be seen. At last, perceiving the
curious glances shot in his direction, and having stumbled for the third
time over the same outstretched pair of feet, he mounted gloomily to the
boat-deck and sat down to think it out.
The weather continued fine and the sea smooth, so that it was absurd to
suppose that either of them was ill; and that they should keep to their
stateroom on such an afternoon for any other reason, or even for that
one, was more absurd still. Perhaps, if they were working....
The thought brought him sudden relief. That explained it! They had some
work they were doing together. Perhaps Kasia acted as her father's
secretary, and even now was writing to his dictation. She had said that
he was engaged in some gigantic project, the nature of which Dan
understood but dimly--a plan for the disarmament of the world, or
something like that. As he remembered them here in the cold light of
day, her words of the night before seemed more than a little fantastic;
but perhaps he had not understood, or perhaps she had spoken
figuratively. "The nations of the world in the hollow of his
hand"--that, of course, was figurative. And, equally of course, Vard's
plan would come to nothing. But it would be interesting to know more of
it.
He must have a talk with Vard before the voyage ended. A story like that
would make good copy, and a little newspaper propaganda would help the
thing along. Meanwhile, there was nothing to do but wait until Miss Vard
should choose to reappear. He cast his mind back over the story she had
told him--ye gods! what a feature _that_ would make, told just as she
had told it, simply and earnestly and without embellishment. Perhaps he
could persuade her to write it for the _Record_. He could picture the
shining face of Craftsman, the Sunday editor, as he read it!
Some one, crossing the deck unperceived by him, sat down beside him. He
turned quickly; but it was only Chevrial.
"Ah, M. Webster," said the Frenchman, smiling, "you were among the day
dreams; and they were not of me. That is apparent from the look with
which you regard me!"
Dan flushed a little, and then he laughed. There was no resisting
Chevrial's genial humour.
"No," he admitted; "they were of some one quite different."
"Nevertheless, until that 'some one' appears, I trust that I am
welcome?"
"Indeed you are. I'm glad you came!"
Dan spoke warmly, and his companion, with a little satisfied nod,
settled back into the seat. They had seen very little of each other
since the moment of meeting. Dan had gone to bed the previous night
before his roommate appeared, and had not even heard him come in. This
morning, when he arose, Chevrial was sleeping calmly, and Dan had
gathered his clothes together as noiselessly as he could and stolen away
to the bathroom. They had passed each other once or twice on the
promenade, and had nodded but had not spoken--and then Dan remembered
suddenly the flare of light from the near-by bench the night before, as
he and Kasia rose to go below. Chevrial smiled again as he met his
glance.
"You are thinking of last night?" he said. "Yes? It is concerning that I
wish first to speak to you. When I sat down yonder I was not conscious
that this bench was occupied. You and the young lady were speaking in
very low tones, and the bench itself was in shadow. It was only when she
raised her voice that I realised I was hearing what was not intended for
me. I was just about to go, when she stopped abruptly, and a moment
later you went down together. It was then that you noticed me. I struck
the match in order that you might see that it was I, and so have no
uneasiness."
Dan stared at his companion in astonishment.
"Uneasiness?" he repeated. "But why should I have any uneasiness?"
"Not on your own account, of course, but on the young lady's account."
"But I don't see why, even for her, I should be uneasy," said Dan
perplexedly.
"My dear sir," and Chevrial dropped his voice and spoke very earnestly,
"there are always spies on these big boats--this is a most productive
field for them--German spies, French spies, English spies, listening to
each word, watching each gesture. Suppose one of them had chanced to
hear what I did...."
Dan stared a moment longer, then he burst into a laugh.
"Oh, come, M. Chevrial," he protested. "You don't really believe that!"
"Believe what?"
"About the spies."
Chevrial's face grew a little grim.
"I am not one to offer advice where it is not desired," he said; "but I
assure you, M. Webster, that what I have told you is true, and
furthermore had any one of three or four persons who are on this boat
heard what I heard, that girl and her father would have been under
espionage for the remainder of their lives."
It was easy to see that Chevrial spoke in deadly earnest, and, in spite
of himself, Dan was impressed and sobered.
"I beg your pardon," he said; "perhaps you are right; but to an American
the very idea of such a system is laughable--it savours too much of
cheap melodrama. But why should the story Miss Vard told me interest any
one?"
"My dear sir," answered Chevrial, drily, "when a girl goes about
boasting that her father is more powerful than the Czar or Kaiser!
Suppose she had stopped there, any hearer would have concluded that he
was an anarchist, and therefore to be watched. But she went further: she
asserted that he can blow up forts and destroy armies! That he can wreck
battleships! Why, M. Webster, it is only four days since _La Liberte_,
the greatest of French battleships, was destroyed in the harbour of
Toulon by an agency not yet determined!"
Dan had turned a little pale.
"But you don't imagine," he stammered; "surely you don't think...."
Chevrial flipped away his cigarette-ash negligently.
"That _La Liberte_ was destroyed by this man? Absurd! But, nevertheless,
it is a bad time to make such boasts."
"I can see that," agreed Dan. "I will speak to Miss Vard."
"I would do so, by all means. She seems a most interesting girl, and I
should regret to see her involved in an unpleasant situation. Or her
father," Chevrial added. "A most interesting enthusiast!"
"You have talked with him?"
"Oh, yes; last night for some time. He has great ideas--too great, I
fear, to be practicable."
"Then you don't believe...."
"That he can destroy armies and all that?" and Chevrial laughed lightly.
"My dear M. Webster, do you?"
"No," said Dan, slowly, "I don't suppose I do. It's too much to
believe--without proof!"
"Assuredly," agreed his companion; "no one would believe it without
proof--absolute proof." Then he leaned closer. "To me he made no such
absurd claim, but from the way he talked--from his grandiose ideas, his
strange philosophy, his fabulous hopes for humanity--I formed the
opinion that the man is mad--not wholly mad, you understand, but
touched, in one corner of the brain, by a wild hallucination. His
daughter, naturally, believes in him. She is a most attractive girl.
Polish women are always attractive, at least when they are young. There
is, in their faces, in their eyes, an appearance of tragedy, of mystery,
which piques the imagination. And they are all great patriots--it is
born in the blood--oh, far greater patriots than the men. I have
travelled in Poland," he added, seeing Dan's glance; "my business
sometimes calls me there."
"And is there really such oppression as Miss Vard described?"
"I do not know what she told you--it was only at the end she raised her
voice; but she could not exaggerate the sufferings of her people. They
are little better than slaves. All careers are closed to them, and over
them constantly is the shadow of Siberia."
"You mean they are banished sometimes?"
"They are banished often--for one year, two years, three years. And they
are compelled to walk to and from the place of banishment. It takes a
year sometimes. I knew a man who returned home one day to find a Cossack
attacking his daughter. There was a struggle, and the Cossack shot the
man in the leg. The wound festered and the leg was amputated; then the
man was sentenced to the mines at Yakutsk. It was I know not how many
thousand miles--it took him two years to walk there on his wooden
leg--walking, walking every day."
Dan felt a strange weakness running through his veins.
"But is there no way to put an end to such things?" he asked.
Chevrial rolled himself another cigarette.
"Poland has no friends," he answered. "She has been forgotten. The Poles
themselves have come to be regarded as fools, as charlatans, as
irresponsible children. France was supposed to be the friend of Poland;
Napoleon promised to reconstitute her, and the Poles fought by thousands
in his armies and won many victories for him. Then came the campaign of
Russia and ended all that. To-day, Poland is remembered in France only
by a proverb, '_Saoul comme un Polonais_,' 'Drunk as a Pole.' It is so
we think of them, when we think of them at all, which is not often. This
disdain, this forgetfulness, has been carefully fostered by Germany and
Russia. No one thinks it worth while to interfere. Besides, Poland's lot
is that of every conquered country. In Alsace-Lorraine it is just the
same."
"Oh, surely not!" Dan protested. "Germany, at least, has no Siberia!"
"No, she has no Siberia," Chevrial agreed, "but neither has she a sense
of humour, and that is worse! The very worst trait in a conqueror, M.
Webster, believe me, is an absence of the sense of humour! And Germany
has the strongest prisons in the world. Her system of espial is even
more minute and irritating than that of Russia. As in Poland, the people
of Alsace and Lorraine may not speak their native tongue nor study the
history of their fatherland. Nothing escapes suspicion. It is reported
that at a certain cafe the accounts are kept in French; the cafe is
thereupon visited, the books confiscated, and a fine imposed. A certain
gentleman goes to Nancy on the fourteenth of July, which happens to be
the date of the French national fete; he is reported as suspect and his
premises are visited and searched. The police, passing the house of a
notary one evening, hear some one singing the Marseillaise; they demand
admittance and arrest the notary, although it was a phonograph which had
been singing the song. This is adjudged a very serious case."
"Do you mean to tell me," Dan demanded, "that such things actually
occur?"
The ghost of a smile flitted across Chevrial's lips.
"Not those precise cases, perhaps," he said; "but cases very like
them--cases not a whit less ridiculous. And can you wonder that Germany
finds Alsace and Lorraine restless? Do you wonder that our hearts ache
for our compatriots? Do you wonder that we dream of the day when we may
remove those mourning wreaths from the statue of Strasbourg in the Place
de la Concord?"
He fell silent a moment, then shrugged his shoulders resignedly.
"But I grow too serious," he continued. "Perhaps, some day, Poland will
be freed, Alsace-Lorraine returned to France; yes," and here he glanced
at Dan with a dry smile, "and the people of the Philippines given their
independence. Indeed, this M. Vard believes that day to be close at
hand. Let us hope so. Which reminds me that I have to-day seen neither
him nor his daughter."
"Nor have I," Dan admitted. "I thought perhaps they had some work to do,
and so had not come on deck."
"They may be there now," said Chevrial, and led the way to the forward
end of the boat-deck, where, leaning against the rail, they could look
down upon the promenade below.
Every one was on deck, walking up and down, revelling in the fresh air,
with its tang of salt, and in the soft sunshine; but, though Dan and
Chevrial stood for some time looking down, neither Miss Vard nor her
father passed. Then Chevrial, whose attention had wandered, uttered a
little exclamation, and caught Dan by the arm.
"See there!" he said.
He was pointing forward to the first-class promenade, which was also
crowded, and Dan, following the direction of his gesture, saw, amid the
crowd, a white-haired man and dark-haired girl walking side by side,
deep in talk. He looked again, scarcely able to believe his eyes; but
there was no mistaking them--they were Miss Vard and her father.
He drew a deep breath of wonder and perplexity. How came they among the
first-class passengers? But perhaps they had merely been to see the
purser, and were now on their way back. No; they had passed the gangway.
In another moment, they turned back along the other side of the
promenade and were lost to sight.
Only then did Dan look up. He found Chevrial smiling sardonically.
"But what does it mean?" he asked.
Chevrial pursed his lips.
"I do not know," he answered, with a little shrug, "unless some one
beside myself heard Miss Vard's story, last night, and has caused her to
be placed where she may be more easily kept under surveillance. Oh,
there was some story trumped up, depend upon it, so that she would not
suspect. No doubt she will also be given the opportunity to make certain
friends among her new shipmates, in whom she may also confide. It will
be delicately done; oh, so delicately!"
It might have occurred to Dan that M. Chevrial seemed, for a
wine-merchant, surprisingly familiar with affairs of state and the
methods of the secret service; but, for the moment, his whole mind was
concentrated on Miss Vard's danger.
"I must warn her," he breathed.
"I believe it would be wise," said Chevrial, in the same tone. "She
should make friends with no one--confide in no one. Her position is very
serious." And then, as Dan started from the rail, he caught his arm.
"Not now," he said. "Wait until to-night. It would be too apparent if
you were to rush up there in open day. And before you do speak, make
sure that there is no one within twenty feet of you--and then speak in a
whisper!"
"Thank you," said Dan; "you are right, of course." And he went slowly
back to the bench.