John looked up quickly.
"Is this from Captain Cherriton?" he asked.
Mrs. Beecher Monmouth shook her head.
"From a far greater one than he," she answered slowly.
John pricked up his ears, then flashed a glance at the contents of the
letter. But Mrs. Beecher Monmouth was very quick; he caught only the
words, "secret session," and "ready by the twenty-eighth," when Mrs.
Monmouth dexterously laid her white hand over the writing and drew it
from his fingers. She folded it and placed it carefully in the bosom of
her dress. She wore evening dress beneath her gorgeous Japanese rest
gown, and John noticed the coquetry with which she concealed the letter
from his view. He was young enough to be affected by her beauty, and
was yet old enough to suspect she was playing a part--was, in fact,
seeking to entangle him for the benefit of the cause. He put her down
in that moment as a passionate, unscrupulous, dangerous woman, to whom
adventure was the very breath of life. Moreover, he doubted her
statement that she was German. She was certainly not his idea of a
woman of Teutonic nationality.
Her arm that had been resting upon his shoulder still remained there.
The lady's handsome face was very close to his; he could see deep into
her smiling eyes, and was not comfortable under the closeness of her
scrutiny. His resemblance to Bernard Treves was striking, but it was
not perfect enough, he feared, to deceive the watchfulness of a woman
who had evidently been closely intimate with that young man. He
endeavoured to break the intensity of her gaze by leading her back to
her chair.
"Well," she whispered tenderly, "have you nothing to say to me?"
"There are a thousand things I would like to say," returned John,
promptly. "Let me light you a cigarette." He struck a match and placed
one of her buff-coloured Russian cigarettes in her fingers. As he held
the light, Mrs. Beecher Monmouth spoke on a new note of seriousness.
"Bernard, I have been kindness itself to you."
John assured her that she had.
"When the others doubted you I clung to my belief in you."
"You have been wonderful!" said John.
"You are changed, Bernard."
"That's impossible," answered John, "where you are concerned." He again
experienced the sensation--a common one with him these days--that he
walked upon the edge of a precipice.
"I have shown my confidence in you."
"You mean," proceeded John, "you have spoken up for me to the great
personage who wrote the letter."
"Yes. Are you grateful?" inquired she, looking at him quizzically. She
had disposed herself upon the divan in a graceful, languid poise.
"I am more than grateful," said John. "But, tell me, who is this great
personage?"
The lady's laughter sounded musically in the little pink lighted room.
"Oh, my dear Bernard," she protested; "that comes much later."
"I suppose," John said, feeling that a bold plunge was worth while, "the
personage is the head of the German secret agents in England?"
"What makes you think that?"
"My dear Alice, you would not stand in such awe of anyone less important
than that." For some minutes--since the time he had caught sight of the
letter, in fact--he had resolved to call her "Alice" at the earliest
opportunity. He was playing a part. He had taken up another man's love
affair at an unknown state of development--a dangerous thing to do.
However, the duel between them, he believed, was to his advantage. Mrs.
Beecher Monmouth had made a false step. She had already revealed to him
the existence of a high secret power--a power far above and beyond
Cherriton and Manwitz.
"Alice," he said, suddenly, drawing his chair a little nearer and laying
a hand on her arm, "tell me who is the Great Unknown?"
"Patience, patience, Bernard. You will hear, all in good time." She
lifted his hand from her arm and pushed him gently away. At the same
moment there came a low knock at the door. A discreet pause followed
before Mrs. Beecher Monmouth's foreign maid, in cap and white apron,
entered.
"The master's returned, ma'am."
The girl spoke in a low tone, intended for her mistress's ear alone, and
immediately went out, closing the door behind her.
"Sit over there," commanded Mrs. Beecher Monmouth, waving John towards a
chair at the hearth. "Sit over there, and be very good."
John moved to the hearth. He wondered if Bernard Treves had known the
Ogre, or if an introduction was to take place. The awkwardness of the
situation was solved for him a moment later, when the door behind him
opened. In a slender strip of mirror on the opposite wall John saw the
reflected figure of Beecher Monmouth, M.P. The pink light softened a
little the bilious yellow of his skin. But he was still an
unprepossessing object, with his bald head, his long, pointed nose, and
his thin-lipped mouth.
Mrs. Monmouth rose as her husband entered, and went towards him with
hands outstretched.
"William, darling," she exclaimed, "how nice of you to come home so
early. I must introduce you to Mr. Treves."
John rose and bowed. Beecher Monmouth put a large bony hand in his. He
had just returned from the House of Commons, and looked weary and old;
he looked every one of his sixty-four years. John wondered whether he
ought to stay or not, but Mrs. Beecher Monmouth solved the situation by
holding out her hand.
"You must come and see me again, Mr. Treves." Her tone was almost
motherly. He shook hands with her, and saw her move towards her husband
and slip her arm through his.
Husband and wife were standing together as the maid conducted John
downstairs.
"What a monument of treachery and deceit she is," thought John, as he
stepped out into the starlit night.
In the meantime Mrs. Beecher Monmouth had pressed her ungainly husband
into a deep arm-chair, had commanded that whisky and soda should be
brought, and was already holding the match that lit his cigar. Beecher
Monmouth watched her with admiration in his tired eyes. He was prepared
to sell his soul for her, and was never weary of telling her that he was
the luckiest man in the world to have won her love.
"And what did my William do to-night?" she inquired, softly, when the
whisky and soda had been placed at his side, and he had helped himself
to a somewhat liberal dose.
"A most boring evening," said Beecher Monmouth. "Irish question!"
"And you saw no one interesting?" asked she.
"I saw Brackston Neeve in the lobby," answered her husband. "There is
some talk of a military expedition to ----. I don't know whether it
will come off or not. The Cabinet, I believe, discussed it yesterday."
"What did Brackston Neeve say?"
Beecher Monmouth took a sip of whisky.
"Why should I bore you with stupid politics?"
"They aren't stupid to me," she said. "You know every tiny bit of your
political life interests me intensely." She settled herself in a low
chair beside him. "Now you must tell me everything Brackston Neeve
said. He is in the confidence of the Cabinet, is he not?"
Her husband nodded.
"He has the confidence of several members of the Cabinet."
"Tell me everything, William...."
Half an hour later, when Monmouth had finished his cigar and whisky, he
rose wearily, kissed her, and went to his room. Mrs. Beecher Monmouth
waited until he was safely out of the way, then, going to the telephone
on the buhl writing-desk, rang up a number.
"Is that Doctor Voules?" she inquired.
At the other end of the telephone a deep voice answered in the
affirmative.
"May I call upon you at eleven o'clock to-morrow?" inquired Mrs.
Monmouth.
"Is it important?" asked the voice.
Mrs. Beecher Monmouth, in the solitude of her room, smiled slightly.
"I shall leave you to judge of that," she replied.
"Very good," answered the voice. "I shall expect you at eleven
precisely."
On the following morning Mrs. Beecher Monmouth, quietly, but
expensively, dressed, presented herself at the hotel bureau.
Three minutes later the lift door closed upon her and she was wafted
swiftly upward to the third floor. A page boy conducted her along a
corridor, opened a door, and departed.
The apartment into which she had been shown overlooked the Haymarket.
Decorations of white and gold caught Mrs. Monmouth's vision. Seated at
a desk from whence he could look down upon the busy life of the street
below was a broad-shouldered, elderly man, who laid down his pen as his
visitor entered.
Mrs. Beecher Monmouth hurried towards him.
"It is so good of you to see me, doctor," she exclaimed, effusively.
"Oh, not at all. I am charmed to see you," he answered. He moved a
little farther into the room, so that prying eyes from the building
opposite could not observe him; then, with an air of great gallantry, he
bent over Mrs. Beecher Monmouth's hand and laid his lips upon it.
"You will sit down and tell me your news," said the doctor.
Mrs. Monmouth accepted the offered chair.
Doctor "Voules" was of middle height, sturdily, but not heavily, built.
He carried himself well, holding his head high and looking squarely and
masterfully before him. His head was round, his strong, heavy-jawed
face was clean shaven, and his wide mouth drooped at the corners. Both
physically and intellectually the doctor was a formidable figure, but
the harshness of his countenance was belied by a surface air of
politeness--a politeness which appeared to be assumed, and which sat ill
upon him. His air, despite his efforts of concealment, was one of lofty
authority.
"You will tell me your important news," he said quietly.
"I don't know that it is important," admitted Mrs. Monmouth, "but my
husband heard accidentally in the House of Commons last night that there
is talk of an expedition to ----."
Voules's eyebrows moved very slightly.
"I shall be grateful to know everything your husband heard."
Then Mrs. Beecher Monmouth told him exactly, word for word, all she had
managed to worm from her husband.
"He considers, then," inquired Voules, "that the expedition is to become
an accomplished fact?"
Mrs. Beecher Monmouth nodded.
"Did your husband learn anything else in regard to this most interesting
little adventure?"
Mrs. Monmouth shook her head.
"Ah," exclaimed Voules, "it would be most useful to us if you could
learn the name of the officer who is in command of the expedition. You
will keep that in mind?"
Mrs. Beecher Monmouth assured him upon that point.
"Now, in regard to your protege, Mr. Treves," observed the doctor.
"This young man, I understand, is very well connected, and is the son of
Colonel Treves?"
Mrs. Monmouth nodded.
"My information is that his disappearance from the British Army was
somewhat rapid, and that fact, together with his propensity for drugs,
gradually brought him into our service. I should like to see him," went
on the doctor, "to judge for myself; but in the meantime I can make much
use of him. I shall take you at your word and give him important duties
to perform."
"Thank you," observed Mrs. Monmouth. "That is extremely kind of you,
doctor."
Voules, who had seated himself, rose now and held out his hand.
"My compliments to you upon your excellent work."
Two minutes later, with much politeness, he accompanied her out of the
room, along the corridor, and saw her into the lift.
When he returned to his own room, he opened the door of an inner
apartment and summoned a thin young man, wearing tortoise-shell-rimmed
spectacles. The young man was clean shaven and was possessed of a
somewhat small and receding chin, which gave him a foolish aspect. He
was not foolish in the least, however; he was, on the contrary,
extremely fox-like and alert. The doctor's politeness vanished as he
confronted the young man.
"Baumer," he commanded, "come into the other room, please." He crossed
to his desk near the window overlooking the street, and seated himself.
The young man entered and stood at his side, awaiting instructions. "You
will make a note," said the doctor, "that a Mr. Bernard Treves is to
come to my house to-day week."
"Very good, Excellenz," answered the young man deferentially. He began
to write a note in pencil on a small writing block he had produced.
"You will also," went on the doctor, "inform Hauptman Rathenau that I
wish to see Mr. Treves's dossier again."
"Yes, Excellenz; but if I might be permitted to suggest so much,
Lieutenant Treves, whose family is well known, would be a safer person
to use for purposes of association with the officers at Fort
Heatherpoint."
"But our excellent Cherriton was educated at Oxford," said the elder
man. "He is to all outward seeming an Englishman."
"Nevertheless, Excellenz," Baumer insisted, "I feel we should be safer
to employ an Englishman. There is much freemasonry among the English,
and there is always danger, Excellenz, that some one who knew the real
Captain Cherriton may meet Herr Rathenau."
"But Heatherpoint," said Voules, "is one of our key positions. You
forget that, Baumer."
"No, Excellenz, I remember it perfectly."
His superior was silent for a moment, then said, quietly, "I have
decided that Cherriton shall do this work; he has greater experience.
This time our movements must be all perfect. Our staff work here,
Baumer, must be even superior to the staff work in France. We must in
no degree underrate our enemies." He was silent a moment, pondering the
great scheme that had grown in his brain months earlier--the scheme that
was to strike a blow at the very heart of England. His orders were to
restore new confidence throughout Germany in the failing U-boat
campaign. Minutely, piece by piece, he had worked out his daring and
masterful plan. The success of his country in discovering the sailing
of British ships; the strength and equipment of our distant expeditions;
the amount of munitions and arms being manufactured--these things were
in the daily routine of espionage. But General von Kuhne was no
believer in defensive operations. He, like his friend Bernhardi, was a
disciple of Clausewitz--a believer in offensive warfare. To strike, to
strike hard and unerringly, after minute preparation, was his ideal of
strategy. Already, for many weeks, he had been placing his pawns ready
for the great coup. Cunningly and with infinite patience he had
prepared for the great blow that was intended to send a shudder through
the British Isles.