Then Colonel Treves rose slowly to his feet, took up his stick, and
moved towards the door of the room. With his hand on the door knob, he
pointed his stick at the weapon on the table. Manton had remained
motionless; utterly at a loss. Now the old soldier's meaning gradually
revealed itself.
"You want me to take this and----?"
"And," broke in Colonel Treves, "use it to recover such shreds of honour
as are left to you."
He drew open the door.
"Thanks," said Manton, taking the pistol from the desk. He slipped the
weapon into his hip pocket. The Colonel halted, looking back at him in
surprise.
"What are you going to do?"
"I am going to use it," answered John, "if occasion arises."
He saw the Colonel hesitate. Some deep emotion seemed to stir within
him. Then with an effort he turned swiftly, and was about to hurry from
the room. Manton strode towards him.
"There was another way out?" he questioned, rapidly.
"There was, and you failed to take it. You whined that you couldn't
face the army again--you, a Treves! In the past, before my time and
yours," went on the Colonel, suddenly violent again, "there have been
Treves who have been fools and spendthrifts; there may have been Treves
who kept their honour none too clean--but never in our long line has
there been a coward until you came, until you grew up to be a curse to
my existence, and made my life a shame to me!" His lip trembled, the
old, proud head was held aloft, but a world of desolation dwelt in the
faded eyes. On a sudden impulse, John gripped him by the hand; he could
feel the old man resisting him, seeking to free himself.
"I want to make you a promise, sir," he said. "I am going to Ryde the
first thing in the morning. I have a friend there who will help me to
get back into the army."
The Colonel narrowed his eyes and tried to read the expression on his
face.
"There is a new ring in your voice, Bernard," he said, after a moment's
pause, "but I cannot trust you."
He turned and walked away. John saw him go, using his stick for
support, and felt a renewed pity for the old, broken father. He spent
that night at an inn in Freshwater, and took the first train next
morning for Ryde. Here at the recruiting office he presented himself
before Captain Gilbert. This plump and comfortable officer was busy at
his work when John stepped into the office. His shadow fell upon Captain
Gilbert's desk, and the elder man looked up quickly.
"Great Scott!" he exclaimed. He stared wide-eyed at Manton for a
moment, and John broke into a smile.
"I see you mistook me for Treves."
"I did," said Gilbert, leaning forward and looking into his face. "The
resemblance is really closer than I thought at first. Well," he said,
"you've done your part of the bargain splendidly. You earned the money
you needed, and you've lifted a great load off the minds of several
deserving persons, including myself."
"I should like to know how I've done that," said Manton. "It seems to
me the only service I have rendered has been to myself."
"You forget the battery at Scarthoe Head. You made up the deficiency,
and the Colonel's delighted with you, Manton."
"Thanks to you--and young Treves--I was able to put matters straight
there."
"You have probably saved young Treves from going utterly to the devil,"
said Gilbert. "I'll tell you about that later; I'm busy till one
o'clock, but come to my hotel then and we'll have lunch together."
"But I am here on business myself!" protested Manton. He was feeling
cheerful and particularly satisfied with the course of events so far.
"What is your particular business?" inquired Gilbert.
"I want to get back into the army."
Gilbert looked at him for a moment.
"Of course--of course," he said hastily. "I'd forgotten that; we will
discuss the subject at lunch time."
Until lunch time Manton was free to stroll upon the pier and consider
his situation. He felt a deep curiosity to know what had happened to
the man whose clothes he was wearing; to Treves, whose money he was
jingling in his pocket, whose excellent cigarettes he had smoked.
At a quarter to one he threw his cigarette end over the rail into the
water, and turning, made his way to the hotel where Gilbert was staying.
He found the Captain already there, busy mixing a salad at a table in
the corner of a small dining-room. There were half a dozen tables in
the room, none of which were as yet occupied.
"Sit down, Manton," invited Captain Gilbert, as John entered. "I always
mix my own salads. What will you have? There's the menu."
John chose a dish and accepted his host's invitation to divide with him
a bottle of Chablis. During the meal Captain Gilbert talked on general
matters. But at length the conversation appeared to drift round to the
subject of Treves.
"Old Treves took you for granted, eh?" asked the Captain.
"His eyesight isn't good," answered John, "but he suspected nothing."
"And Gates, the butler?"
"He called me 'Mr. Bernard' the moment he saw me. Also, he gave me
Treves's letters and a telegram. I didn't read the letters, but the
telegram----" Manton put his hand in his inner pocket. "Perhaps I'd
better hand them all over to you now."
"Not so fast," Gilbert said, pushing the letters and the telegram back
across the table towards Manton. "As a matter of fact, I can't hand
them to Treves just now, as I have persuaded him to go to a nursing home
for a time. A very good friend of his father's, General Whiston,
recommended that something of the sort should be done with him months
ago."
"Treves did not give me the impression of being actually ill," Manton
observed.
"He wasn't, but his nerves were all to rags. He was in such a state of
acute neurasthenia that I expected him to lay hands on himself any
minute. Anyway, where he is he will be safe for a while; he will be out
of his father's way and the discipline of this particular nursing home
may pull him together."
John lit a cigarette and smoked thoughtfully. There was evidently
something on Gilbert's mind, something of which he wished to unburden
himself. John waited, and at last the elder man broke the silence
again:
"Manton," he said earnestly, "I want you to do me a particular favour."
John inquired the nature of the favour.
"I want you," went on the Captain, "to sustain Treves's personality for
a little longer. He is in good hands in the nursing home, and for the
time being has vanished from the public gaze." Gilbert paused, and
again appeared to hesitate. What he had to say was very difficult to
frame in words. He wished to hint at something that was the merest
suspicion in his own mind. Two or three times he was on the verge of
putting his thoughts into words, and each time the effort appeared too
much for his gift of expression. Finally he leaned back in his chair.
"Manton," he said, "I cannot tell you all I think and suspect, but I
will give you such confidences as I can."
He paused for a moment, then went on: "Since Treves came back from
France, he appears to have got into the hands of undesirable company.
One of his rooted ideas, possibly the result of his drug habit, is that
some one is watching him, and that, for some reason or other, his life
is in danger."
John listened quietly; then, when the other had finished, he observed
seriously: "So far as I see it, you want me to continue my impersonation
of Treves until he is cured and comes out of the nursing home."
"That is it, exactly," said Gilbert.
"You are putting a good deal of trust in me," answered John.
At that Gilbert stretched out his hand and gripped John's fingers
heartily.
"Manton," he said, "you and I are in this together for the good of the
Cause. Not only for Treves and the old Colonel, but perhaps for bigger
issues."
"I don't get your meaning," said John.
"Don't ask it, trust me as I trust you. And now to get back to the
matter in hand," he said, resuming his ordinary tone. "Perhaps it would
be worth your while to open those two letters."
As John obediently tore open the envelopes and read the contents of the
letters, Gilbert called the waiter and paid for the two lunches. One of
the letters was a typewritten screed from a quack doctor in which he
claimed to cure any victim of the drug habit within the space of three
months. John experienced a real feeling of pity for Treves as he read
the quack's fraudulent promises. The second letter contained two lines
only on a single sheet of paper with the printed heading: "208, St.
George's Square, S.W." The letter ran:
"_Dear Treves,--I must see you at once. You understand; it is essential
that you should come to me without delay. To-morrow night at nine
o'clock I shall expect you.--Yours,_ G. MANNERS."
Manton handed both letters to Gilbert, who studied them carefully.
"I haven't a notion who G. Manners is," mused the Captain when he had
read the letter through a second time, "but he may be one of the friends
Treves ought to get rid of, and for that reason I should advise you to
call on him to-morrow."
Manton was thoughtful for a moment.
"What if he discusses matters I know nothing about? Treves's past life
is a blank to me:"
"Come," said Gilbert, touching him lightly on the arm, "you are playing
a part; you are not such a fool as not to play it well. I admit there
are certain little precautions you may find it wise to take. In the
first place, you might have a go at copying Treves's degenerate
handwriting. You might also keep in mind that Treves is over-strung,
lacking in will-power, and so much a victim of the cocaine habit that he
would do anything, short of murder, to get the drug when the craving is
upon him. As to Treves's past life, it seems to me that a victim of the
drug habit can be afflicted with convenient lapses of memory when
occasion arises."
Manton glanced at the Captain's pleasant, fat face, and the thought
crossed his mind that there was a good deal more cleverness behind
Gilbert's amiable exterior than he had at first realised. He forthwith
decided to go to town that night. London always held a vivid attraction
for him, and he had not had the pleasure of visiting it since his
journey through its streets in an ambulance on his return from France.
Some weeks in hospital had followed that visit, then had come his
transference to the R.G.A. at Scarthoe Head. And now, with returned
health and in new, strange and portentous circumstances, he was to visit
London again.
Mr. Manners, the mysterious, imperative writer of the letter, had
demanded to see Treves at nine o'clock. The hour of John's arrival was
eight, and he was in a hurry. He was impatient to plunge into whatever
adventure awaited him. Without bothering to engage a room for the
night, he deposited his bag in the cloak-room at Waterloo Station, and
set out to find St. George's Square. He arrived at the corner of the
square, the Embankment corner, at precisely eight-thirty. The square's
decorous, solemn-looking houses with heavy pillared porticoes struck him
as gloomy in the extreme. The only individual upon the long strip of
pavement which ran the length of the west side of the square was
himself. His footfalls appeared to echo with inordinate resonance in
the areas as he made his way towards Number 208.
It was not his intention to ring the bell immediately. In the first
place he wanted to reconnoitre the house, to see if it were possible to
judge of the house's occupants by its exterior. This thought occupied
his mind, when a taxi sped into the square and drew to a halt within
half a dozen yards of him. The taxi had stopped behind him, and its
occupant had alighted.
"That's all right; half an hour," said a curt voice in a cultured
accent.
The chauffeur nodded, and slammed the taxi door. The young man who had
alighted hurried forward, passed John, and continued down the square.
Without paying over especial attention, John noticed that he was tall,
that he wore a morning coat of distinguished cut, that his light grey
felt hat was of expensive quality, and that the pearl in his tie-pin was
also, if genuine, of exceptional value. He was of John's height and
age, fair-haired, blue-eyed, and with a slight tooth-brush moustache.
His features were large and heavy-boned, without being harsh. Two
things John noticed as he hurried past; one was that he carried a
silk-lined light overcoat over his arm, and the other that he wore a
"service rendered" badge on the lapel of his coat.
"Invalided from the army," thought John. "All the same, he doesn't look
as if there was much the matter with him."
John continued to walk until he reached the corner of the square, then
he turned, and as he did so he saw the tall young man flit up the steps
of a house a considerable distance away. John fixed his eyes on the
portico of this particular house and walked towards it. And as he
neared the door he realised that the young man had entered the very
house at which he also had an appointment--Number 208. For a moment
Manton paused, hesitated, then passed on. Before making the plunge into
whatever adventure awaited him, he wanted still further to consider the
situation.
In the meantime the stranger, who had alighted from the taxi, was now
within the hall of Mr. Manners's residence. He had opened the door with
a Yale key and had admitted himself. The hall was narrow and somewhat
dark, and the young man laid his gold-headed cane noisily on a little
table, and began to draw off his grey gloves. A door at the back of the
house opened noiselessly, and a sombre-faced, sallow-complexioned butler
advanced.
"Mr. Manners is in, of course?" demanded the young man in a voice that
rasped a little.
"Yes, Herr Baron, in the library."
The visitor nodded curtly, ran swiftly up the stairs, turned to the
left, and opened a door on the first landing. He entered a room where
the curtains had already been drawn. Two electric chandeliers, one on
either side of the hearth, illuminated the apartment. A large bookcase
occupied one wall of the room, and in the middle of the floor was a
business-like table, scattered with papers. On the table was a
green-shaded reading lamp, and by its illumination a man sat at work
busily writing. He looked up as the stranger entered, then sprang
quickly to his feet. He was a tall man of fifty, uncomfortably stout,
with a fleshy neck that protruded over his collar at the back. The big
man's iron-grey hair was short, his nose broad and short, and his lips
thick and pouting. Despite his inelegance of figure, he was dressed,
with an attempt at smartness, in a well-cut frock coat and newly-creased
trousers. His heavy eyebrows shielded his eyes, hiding his expression
from any but the closest scrutiny. For a man of his excessive bulk he
showed extreme activity on his feet.
"I didn't expect you to-night," he said. He placed a chair near the
desk for the younger man to seat himself.
His visitor, however, stood still and fixed him with a direct, cold
stare.
"Well, Manners," he demanded, "what have you to say for yourself?"
Manners shrugged his heavy shoulders, and displayed the palms of his
hands.
"Nothing, Herr Baron," he said, "except that I have done my best. Won't
you sit down?"
The young man took a cigarette from his case, and lit it.
"Your best is damned bad!" he said.
"I exercised such judgment as I have," returned the other, in a tone of
abasement.
"Judgment alone is of no avail," retorted the other. "What we want is
aggressive action. We don't get that from you--you talk, and think, and
scheme----"
The other ventured a faint note of protest.
"I was chosen, Herr Baron----"
"I don't want to hear your history," returned the younger man, coldly.
"I want to know about this expedition that is being prepared by the
Eastern Command, that has been under preparation for the past six
weeks."
"I gave you such figures, Herr Baron, as I was able to collect."
The young man crossed to the hearth and stood leaning with his back
against the mantelshelf.
"Doesn't it occur to you," he demanded, after a moment's silence, "that
figures are only a detail? Figures are something any fool could gather.
What Berlin wants to know is, what is this expedition's objective, where
is it bound for, also what port it sails from, and when?"
The elder German--Gottfried Manwitz by name, though he figured in the
London directory as Godfrey Manners--turned nervously towards his desk
and began to search among the papers. An expression of relief crossed
his face as he took up a particular sheet of paper.
"That is the date, Herr Baron," he said, "when the expedition will sail,
and also the place of departure."
The young man took the sheet, scrutinised it with frowning brows for a
moment, then lifted his eyes and looked into Manwitz's fat face with
cold, contemptuous gaze.
"Excellent!" he said, cuttingly; "wonderful and utterly useless! You
provide Headquarters with all this detail, and fail to give the one
vital, useful piece of information--the sole item that Headquarters
requires."
"It is very difficult, Herr Baron," apologised Manners.
"You and I, Manwitz," retorted the younger man, "are retained in London
for the sole purpose of overcoming difficulties." He paused a moment,
and looked complacently for the first time in the elder man's face.
"For instance, I myself have overcome quite a number of difficulties."
"Indeed, that is true, Herr Baron," conceded Manners.
"I expect you to do the same. Since you let the _Inflexible_ and the
_Invincible_ vanish to the Falkland Islands without any one of us being
aware of the fact, Berlin doesn't think so highly of your attainments as
before the war. For my part," he went on, "I find you too much of a
dreamer." He paused; some one had knocked lightly on the door of the
room. "Open it, Manwitz!" he commanded.
The big man crossed lightly to the door and drew it open. Upon the
threshold stood the sombre-countenanced butler. The tall young man from
the hearth called aloud to him:
"Well, Conrad, what is it?"
"Mr. Treves, Herr Baron, to see Herr Manners."
"Thank you, Conrad," said Manners. He closed the door and turned to his
superior.
"This is one of my instruments, Herr Baron, arrived to-night from the
Isle of Wight. You approved of him when I gave you his _dossier_ a
month ago."
"He is the British officer who was cashiered," returned the other,
swiftly. "Takes drugs, and generally gone to pieces?"
"The same, Herr Baron."
"Is he quite"--he paused--"er, quite amenable to your orders?"
"I flatter myself that I can do a good deal with him," Manwitz answered,
with pride. "He comes here for cocaine, but he is of good English
stock, and there are moments when he tries to shake himself free of me.
For the last three weeks, as a matter of fact, he has disappeared
entirely. I had great difficulty, Herr Baron, rediscovering his hiding
place."
"I don't like that!" returned the Baron. "How do you know what he has
been up to in the meantime?"
He was silent for a minute; then he looked with his cold, pale eyes into
his elder's face. "Manwitz!" he exclaimed suddenly, "this may be the
man for our business!"
For the first time a flicker of triumph lit in Manners's eyes. He went
to his desk, unlocked a drawer, and produced a single sheet of
notepaper. "This is a letter in his own writing, Herr Baron, signed by
himself. I think it is satisfactory, eh?"
The younger man took the sheet and fixed his keen eyes upon it.
"_My dear Friend,_" ran the note, "_the s.s. 'Polidor' is due to leave
H---- at four o'clock to-morrow, Tuesday afternoon. I had this on
absolute authority; you can rely on it._"
The tall, fair-haired man came to the end of the brief note, and his
hard mouth tightened; then he read the postscript: "_Don't forget the
tabloids!_"
He looked up slowly, and fixed his keen gaze upon Manwitz's apoplectic
countenance. Baron Rathenau, who had taken his degree at Oxford, who
spoke English like an English gentleman, and possessed, on the surface,
the manners of an English gentleman, was quite five years older than he
looked. His brain was subtle and keen, and in the service of the
Fatherland he was hard and ruthless as steel.
"You have done not so badly here, Manwitz," conceded the Baron. "This
letter alone"--he folded Treves's note carefully--"this letter alone
would bring our young friend, Lieutenant Treves, into the presence of a
firing party within forty-eight hours." He paused a moment. "Our
English enemies," he went on, "are unpleasantly hasty in regard to
spies. But when it comes to traitors, the celerity with which they put
a man face to the wall in their Tower of London, it is marvellous!"
He had folded the note carefully, and lifting his light fawn coat, he
slipped Treves's note into the inner pocket, then he flung the coat back
again on the chair.
"I'll see our young neurasthenic friend at once," he said. "You will
leave him to me, Manwitz." He turned and pressed the bell twice. When
the footman presently appeared at the door, Baron Rathenau was standing
with his back to the mantelshelf, toying with a cigarette.
"Bring up Mr. Treves, Conrad," he said, briefly.