"'Crumbs' is the man," thought John the moment he opened his eyes next
morning. During the night he had been awake for hours pondering the
situation, and this was the decision he had arrived at. He decided,
however, to say nothing of his suspicions to Hobin or to anyone else
until "Crumbs" had further committed himself. Possibly, after all, he
was mistaken; only time could tell. The first thing he did, however,
when breakfast was at an end, was to write a note to Dacent Smith,
asking that Private Sims's history might be discreetly inquired into.
"I think Private Sims is not quite what he seems," said John, concluding
his letter. Nevertheless, if "Crumbs" was the suspicious character John
believed him to be, he possessed an extraordinary talent for hiding his
guilt.
John had pursued his investigations with such closeness during the past
days, he now felt that the time had come when he might reasonably seek a
certain amount of relaxation.
Therefore the morning of the tenth day saw him briskly descending the
long steps cut in the face of the cliff to the lower fort. Here,
immediately beyond the fort gates, a hired car awaited him. Manton
stepped into the car after answering the challenge of the sentry, and
drove down the long, winding road. A second sentry challenged him at
the foot of the fort road, and thereafter the car bowled merrily along
until it reached the gates of Colonel Treves's house at Freshwater.
John was wondering what he should say to the old gentleman. During the
past weeks nothing had created a deeper impression on his mind than the
pathetic figure of Bernard Treves's father. The old man, the soul of
honour, cursed with a worthless son, appealed intensely to the
sympathetic side of John's nature. John had learnt something of Bernard
Treves's recent life from Dacent Smith. Following the discovery that
the young man had been associated with Manwitz and Cherriton, he had
been kept in a nursing home in strict confinement. An attempt had been
made to cure him of his drug habit, with the result that he had suffered
an utter physical collapse, and now was lying seriously ill. John, in
discussing the matter with Dacent Smith, had mentioned the old Colonel,
and the deception that had been practised upon him.
"When the time comes," the Chief had answered, "you can either reveal
your real identity to Colonel Treves, or not, as you wish. In any case,
I rather doubt if his amiable son will appear on the scene again; that
is a matter entirely for the military authorities. From what I hear,"
Dacent Smith continued, "the old Colonel hasn't much of this life before
him, and if he learnt the truth about his son I know exactly what would
happen. He would not be able to face it. Either death would mercifully
carry him off, or----" John nodded, "or," he thought, "he would seek the
death he once offered me." John saw now that the deception that had
been practised upon the Colonel at the instigation of his friend,
General Whiston, and Dacent Smith, was possibly the kindest thing that
could have happened.
At the door of the house, Gates, the elderly butler, appeared in answer
to John's ring. For a moment the servant paused wide-eyed, staring at
the erect figure in uniform on the threshold.
"Why, Master Bernard!" he exclaimed, "I didn't recognise you for a
minute. Come in, sir; I'll get your luggage."
"There isn't any luggage. Is--is my father in the library?"
"Yes, sir."
"How is he, Gates?"
"Just the same as usual, sir." Then the old servant forgot himself for
a brief moment. "He'll be beside himself with delight, sir," he said,
"to see you like that, back again in the Army, an' all."
John moved to cross the wide hall, but Gates followed him instantly.
"Perhaps I'd better break the news to him, sir; it's a little sudden
like."
John followed him, and when the elderly butler knocked at the
baize-covered door of the library a minute later, he heard Colonel
Treves's voice from within. Gates went into the room and closed the
door behind him. The old Colonel was seated in his deep chair near the
hearth.
"I beg your pardon, sir," said Gates, crossing and standing before him,
"but Mr. Bernard has returned."
Colonel Treves, who held a book on his knee, laid down his big reading
glass on its open page, and lifted his head slowly. There was a stern
light in his old faded eyes.
"I won't see my son, Gates!"
"Pardon me, sir," protested the old servant, "I think you would like to
see him."
Colonel Treves rose to his feet, felt for his stick, and began to move
feebly across the room.
"He is no son of mine, Gates," he said, as he went. "You can tell him
that. A liar and a humbug," he said. "Always a liar and a humbug. No
soul of truth in him, no honour----"
But Gates, the faithful servant of thirty years, knew his master well.
He made no attempt to argue with the Colonel, but moved quietly to the
door behind which John was waiting, and whispered, "Come in, Mr.
Bernard."
John entered, and crossing the soft carpet laid his hand on the old
Colonel's shoulder. The Colonel turned quickly, flinging up his head in
indignation, then something took place on his face that touched John to
the heart. The old firm lips quivered a moment.
"Is that you, Bernard?" he asked. He came nearer, peering at John,
looking at the upright, uniformed figure. "I can't believe it," he
added.
"It is true, sir," said John. "I received a commission a month ago."
"Take my arm, boy," said the Colonel, suddenly; "lead me back to the
chair."
John led him across to his deep chair, and Gates softly went out of the
room. When the Colonel was seated, he fumbled for his strong glasses,
and put them on with fingers that shook visibly. Once again he looked
John over from head to foot.
"It's the good blood that tells," he said after a long pause. Suddenly
he broke into a laugh. "Do you know, Bernard, boy," he said, "a minute
ago I was telling Gates you were no son of mine. You see, I thought you
had broken your promise; you broke it so often before."
"That may be, sir," answered John quietly, "but this time I managed to
keep it."
He permitted John to help him into his chair at the hearthside, and
John, at his bidding, rang the bell.
"Gates," said the Colonel, when the old servant entered, "serve tea up
here; I and my boy will have it together."
"Very good, sir."
"Now, Bernard, boy, tell me your news!" demanded the old soldier, when
Gates had left the room.
John gave a sketchy, vague account of his doings during the past weeks.
"And so you are with Colonel Hobin. You must give him my kind
remembrances; we met thirty years ago, when he was a subaltern at
Aldershot. He had the making of a good soldier, I remember." He talked
on, on general matters, and all the while John felt that his mind was
solely occupied with his pride and satisfaction at seeing his son in
uniform once again. In his excitement and pleasure he forgot two
letters that had reposed on his desk for two days, waiting for John.
Finally, he remembered them. "I must give you your letters, Bernard."
"Thank you, sir," answered John, "I'll get them myself, if you tell me
where they are?"
He found the letters on the Colonel's desk, and excused himself for
reading them. The first letter began: "Dear Bernard," and the first
sentence ran: "You bad, bad boy." John knew in a moment that it was
from Mrs. Beecher Monmouth, and skimmed the four closely written pages
casually.
"_Have you seen the Great One yet? ... The Ogre is always in the House
of Commons now ... I am utterly alone ... I wonder if any fine, handsome
young man is thinking of sending me a hundred Russian cigarettes, the
same as the last.... Next time you come, you must not be nearly so
bold...._--Yours, ALICE."
"A very satisfactory letter," thought John, "if I had happened to care
two straws about her." A vision of Mrs. Beecher Monmouth's brilliant
beauty came before his eyes. It seemed strange to think that this
woman, in the heart of London society, was a traitor, using her gifts of
fortune and beauty for the nefarious purpose of ruining her own country,
but such was indeed the case. What had been the original cause of Mrs.
Beecher Monmouth's treachery, John did not know; only afterwards was the
full truth made plain to him.
He opened the second letter, which was in a handwriting unknown to him.
The note was from Captain Cherriton, to whom he had given this address
when he left London.
"DEAR TREVES," ran the letter--"_Will you please call at Rollo Meads one
day next week, Tuesday for preference, at five in the afternoon? I
shall be there, and you will meet a new friend, Doctor Voules, who will
supply you with what you want._" (He was referring to the tabloids
Manwitz had been in the habit of supplying to Treves.) "* Our old
friend,*" went on the letter, "_who formerly supplied you, you will
regret to hear, was taken ill, and has gone away to the coast for a
time_.
"_Yours very truly,_
"JOHN CHERRITON."
John folded this letter carefully and placed it within his pocket-book.
A specimen of Cherriton's handwriting, he inwardly decided, would be
useful to Dacent Smith. Half an hour later John took his departure, and
the old Colonel accompanied him to the door of the house.
"Good-bye, my boy," said the old man, gripping his hand at parting,
"come again soon"; then he lowered his voice so that Gates, who was
waiting at John's hired car, could not hear, "Bernard, boy," said the
Colonel wistfully, "when you are tempted to go a little wrong, just keep
in mind that I am believing in you."
"Very good, sir," John answered, "I won't forget that." He stood at
salute a moment, then ran down the steps and sprang into the car.
"Good-bye, sir," said Gates, the old butler.
"Good-bye," cried John as the car whirled out of the avenue.
When John reached the foot of Heatherpoint Hill, and began to ascend the
long slope towards the fort, it was already seven o'clock. The sun lay
low in the west, and there was no wind.
"Fine visibility if there was any shooting for Ewins," thought John.
The car halted before the first sentry.
"Friend," said John.
"Pass, friend," answered the man.
A minute later, from his seat in the car, John was able to see the south
shore of the island, and obtained a momentary glimpse of a strip of sand
below, which was accessible only to those within the area of the fort
itself. Looking down into the little bay three hundred feet below, John
was caught with admiration by the mirror-like blue of the water, the
languid white roll of the waves. The little beach, as always, was
deserted, or at least, John thought so in the first moment. But a second
glance showed him that a soldier was strolling about with apparent
aimlessness down below. The man was smoking a cigarette, and in the
clear evening air John could plainly see the white smoke. So much he
saw, when the man was lost to view.
In the fort, a minute later, John caught himself wondering what soldier
it was.
"Evidently somebody who is fond of his own company," thought John. He
went up to Commander Grieves's look-out. The old naval officer was at
the long telescope. "May I have a squint through that, sir?" John
requested.
"By all means, youngster, by all means," returned the old man; "here you
are." He swung the telescope, and John found that, to his chagrin, he
could see nothing of the man on the strip of beach below.
"What do you want to see?" asked Commander Grieves.
"I want to look sharp down from here to the south," John said. "Some
one from the fort is walking down there, and I'm wondering who it is."
"You can't see with this; I'll lend you my Zeiss," returned the
Commander. He took out a pair of binoculars, and handed them to John.
"We do not cover that bit of shore," said Grieves, "either with the guns
or with the searchlights. It's of no importance, and isn't navigable
for anything drawing more than three feet of water."
John took the binoculars, and thanked him, then went to the cliff edge.
Here, moving with particular caution, he began to focus his glasses.
When definition seemed to be right, he leaned carefully forward, and
surveyed the beach below. The soldier was still there. After pacing
with apparent aimlessness back and forward, he had seated himself on the
smooth strip of sand. At the present moment the khaki figure was
occupied in placing a pebble on the sand at arm's length. He placed a
second small stone next to this, then made a span with his fingers, and
put a third pebble in a line with the first and second. He made another
span, and placed down a fourth stone and a fifth beside it. His
operations were steady and systematic. He was absolutely absorbed with
his work. John, from that cliff top, watched him for a full five
minutes; never once did the soldier raise his head. In khaki uniform,
at that distance, he might have been any soldier at the fort. Finally,
however, when he had finished his operations, which had grown more and
more interesting to John, he rose and looked at his handiwork upon the
smooth sand. Evidently he had completed his task, whatever it was, for
he turned and continued his aimless strolling. This time he was pacing
towards the fort, and as he turned he lifted his eyes, and swept the
cliff in a swift, embracing glance. In an instant John had recognised
the sallow, upturned face of "Crumbs."
For a full ten minutes he waited, holding himself back. At the end of
that time, however, he again cautiously approached and looked down.
Below him spread the bright golden sands, a few chalk boulders were
scattered here and there, and the waves continued to roll and break
languidly as before.
The figure of "Crumbs" had now vanished from the sands. A steep,
winding path ascended the cliff to the fort, and it was upon that path
that John again saw Sims. It was a good twenty minutes' walk from where
"Crumbs" was to the fort itself, and John, after watching him for a
minute, lowered his glasses, rose and made his way back to the
mess-room.
"Collins," he said to an orderly, "bring me the leave book."
When the leave book was in his hand he ran his finger quickly down the
list of names.
"Pte. Sims, eight o'clock," he read.
Sims was on leave until eight.
"I'll wait and investigate," thought John, "when he is safely in his
quarters."
He went to his room after that, took the cartridges out of his Colt
automatic revolver and examined the weapon closely. Having reloaded the
pistol, he slipped it into his hip pocket.
At eight o'clock, when John passed across the asphalt pavement between
the officers' quarters and the kitchen, he was able to observe Sims, who
was fond of his bake-house, sitting in the open doorway of the bakehouse
itself, innocently reading the morning's paper. He appeared not to be
aware of John's departure, and continued to read.
Manton, in the meantime, made his way towards the sentinel-guarded wire
entanglements. A tall, double ladder, spanning the entanglement, here
permitted exit on to the cliff edge behind the fort. The ladder was a
temporary affair, drawn in always at night, thus making the fort, with
the aid of the sentries, impregnable from the rear.
The sun was low in the west when John reached the expanse of sand
whereon "Crumbs" had occupied himself. Once upon the shore, it was the
simplest matter in the world to trace "Crumbs's" path. He walked
briskly, following the man's footsteps, full of a keen desire to know
what "Crumbs" had been doing. No ordinary purpose, thought John, had
been at the back of "Crumbs's" operations. Nevertheless, an ordinary
observer watching, as John had watched, would have entertained no
suspicion at all.
"Perhaps," mused John, as he followed "Crumbs's" irregular footprints,
"I am a fool for my pains! He may be the mere aimless nonentity he
seems to be." He remembered that "Crumbs" was known to be a collector
of shells, that he spent a good deal of time searching for specimens
upon the foreshore. A baker and a conchologist are incongruous mixtures
at any time. Especially were they incongruous on that coast where shells
are almost non-existent. Keenly interested he drew nearer to the spot
whereon "Crumbs" had occupied himself, but the smooth sand was
undisturbed save for the man's heavy-footed indentations.
John's spirits instantly fell. There was nothing upon that spot which
in the slightest degree could arouse his suspicions. The sand was
smooth and firm, with round, sea-eroded pebbles plentifully scattered
here and there--the usual pebbles that lay in thousands upon the beach.
"After all, I was a fool!" thought John.
He could see quite clearly the impress of "Crumbs's" body as it had lain
upon the ground. And as he stood looking upon this impression he
observed that "Crumbs" had made what might be called a crude pattern
with pebbles--a row of parallel lines. John was able to make out, in
all, three separate lines of stones.
For a long minute he remained looking down upon these innocent-seeming
pebbles laid out with childish regularity. Then gradually his first
suspicions returned. His attention ran along the orderly row of little
stones--a third and a fourth time.
And suddenly a vivid light blazed in his eyes. He uttered an
exclamation under his breath.
"Great Scott! so that's it."
His whole mind focused upon the pebbles; he began to speak in measured
tones.
"Dot-dash-dot-dash; dash-dash-dash."
As the words left his lips on the solitude of the sands, he was
conscious of a quick thrill of excitement. The stones laid thus
innocently held a sinister meaning spelt out in the Morse code. Two
pebbles lay together, then further to the right an isolated pebble, then
again two pebbles.
"Dash-dot-dash," John interpreted.
The message was quite a long one. With a glance at the cliff edge--he
knew that "Crumbs" was safely in his quarters--John took out his
pocket-book and made a faithful copy of "Crumbs's" laborious message.
When he had copied it all down he made his way back to the fort,
pondering upon the significance of his discovery. For whom was the
message intended? Both Hobin and Commander Grieves had told him that
the possibility of any enemy signalling from the fort, or to the fort
from outside, had been completely eliminated, and had said, "We should
instantly see any light that might be exhibited by an enemy."
"And yet," thought John, "our ingenious friend, 'Crumbs,' seems to have
thought out a plan which evades every one of their precautions."
The ingenuity and simplicity of "Crumbs's" plan struck him with
astonishment. It was clear to John that "Crumbs" regularly placed his
innocent-looking messages on the sands, to be subsequently taken up by a
confederate who came ashore from a submarine in the darkness.
"Cunning isn't the word for him," thought John, as he hurried towards
the fort.