John, who had deposited himself on a chair at the hearth, lit a
cigarette, and was consuming it with a good deal of satisfaction. He
had never in his life partaken of an evening meal that had given him so
much satisfaction; even the funereal and shabby waiter seemed to him a
creature of delight, and the little room in the hotel--he would always
remember it as an apartment brightened by the eyes of Elaine Treves. It
was not usual for John Manton to be led away, but to-night, for some
minutes, he let his senses toy with impossibilities. He permitted
himself to forget the existence of Bernard Treves. And when the waiter
left the room, and Elaine rose and came towards him, he made no effort
to avoid her approach, as he had done once or twice earlier in the
evening. She stood beside his chair and laid her hand on his shoulder.
John looked up and saw that her face had grown serious.
"I want to make a confession to you, Bernard."
"Let it be a cheerful confession," smiled John.
"I was mistaken, after all."
"It's easy to make mistakes," returned John.
"I ought not to have sent you away from me," said Elaine.
John thought a moment, then observed quietly:
"Perhaps I deserved to be sent away."
"Do you remember, Bernard, when you came to Camden Town after you had
seen your father?"
John, naturally, did not recollect.
"I do not recall it very clearly," he said.
"When you--you----" She broke off, and again, as she had done in the
street, she moved a little away from him. A wave of aversion towards
him appeared to sweep over her. "When," she went on, "I told you that
we could not be together again until--until----"
"Until I could behave myself," John put in.
Elaine nodded slightly in assent.
"I thought that I was doing right, and when you said you'd never forgive
me I still held out. I wonder, Bernard, if you will forgive me?"
"Of course I'll forgive you," returned Manton, magnanimously. He would
have forgiven her anything. He could not believe her capable of anything
which would need forgiveness. She came to him again and stood before
him, looking down.
John, out of politeness, that she should not be standing when he was
seated, stood up, and suddenly he felt Elaine's hand in his.
"Bernard," she whispered, "you care for me still----"
"I care for you more than ever I did," said John. He tried valiantly to
slip his hand from hers.
"You love me, I mean?"
Elaine's face was upturned; there was a wistful expression in her fine,
grey eyes, and there was something more than wistfulness. John could
see it shining there. Inwardly he was conscientiously cursing the Fates
that had placed him in this impossible position--and yet outwardly he
was glad. He was thrilled and happy that this situation had arisen.
Then his thoughts took a turn, and his spirits sank. The love he saw
shining in her eyes was not for him, but for Bernard Treves. He put away
her hand and moved back in his chair.
"You do love me, Bernard?" she whispered again.
"Yes," John answered. He was convinced that there was no other thing
for him to say.
"And you'll forgive me for sending you away?"
John nodded.
Elaine went on again: "It was wrong not to let you stay with me. I had
no right to do it; after all, a wife has no right to act as I did."
"Why think of it and worry about it now?" said John, attempting to
strike an ordinary tone of voice.
"But I want to make everything straight between us, Bernard."
John led her to a chair, and she seated herself. He tried to turn the
conversation, but this time he failed. Elaine felt a growing desire to
wipe away all misunderstandings between them.
"I have still my confession to make, Bernard."
"What is it?" inquired John cheerily.
There was a silence for a moment--a silence that John felt to be
momentous, that rendered him uncomfortable. Then Elaine's words came to
him, uttered in a low tone.
"I never loved you till to-night, Bernard!"
John was conscious of a sudden and exultant thrill.
"Is that all your confession?" he asked.
Elaine nodded. Her hand was in his. John lifted it to his lips. Then
recollection came to him; he drew himself erect, standing away from her.
"It's getting late, Elaine," he said. "I ought to be going." There was
something vibrant and new in his voice that caused her heart to beat
violently. "You see," John went on, somewhat clumsily, "I have
important work to do to-morrow."
But Elaine had not loosed her grip of his hand. She suddenly hid her
face on his shoulder; he could feel her arms about him. For a minute,
what was to John an awkward silence, subsisted between them, then Elaine
spoke again:
"Why should you go, Bernard?" she whispered. "I was cruel to you, but I
did not wish to be cruel."
"You are never cruel," protested John. "Don't think of it any more."
His situation in that moment was the hardest that Fate could have
possibly imposed upon him. Here was the finest woman he had ever
met--young, beautiful and ardent, with her arms about his neck,
whispering love to him. She was speaking to him as a wife to a husband
whom she loves, and all the time he was not that husband. And, to
complicate matters, he felt now that the love she was prepared to offer
was not offered to the other--to Bernard Treves--but to himself alone.
"Bernard," she murmured, "at the back of my heart, through all those
black days, I whispered always that some time I should be happy."
"I am sure you'll be happy," said John. "It will not be my fault if you
are not." He drew in a deep breath. "But to-night--I must go; I--I am
very busy; I have many things to do to-night. Confidential work." He
lifted her hand, bent and kissed her slender white fingers. "Some day
I'll explain."
A minute later he was gone.
* * * * *
The gloomy-looking waiter, who had served dinner the night before,
informed John that the only way to arrive at Brooke was by hired
pony-trap or by bicycle. Choosing the latter method, John, early in the
morning, hired a bicycle, visited the hotel, and said good-bye to
Elaine.
"You'll come back to me this evening, Bernard?" whispered she as she
kissed him good-bye.
"This evening," said John. "I had no right to let her kiss me," he
continued inwardly, "but, after all, it's part of the deception, part of
the character I am obliged to play." Nevertheless, he felt uneasy as he
rode the winding and hilly path to Brooke. The night before he had
played his part valiantly and well, but he felt that in regard to Elaine
tremendous difficulties were ahead.
It was eleven o'clock when John reached the road which led to the empty,
forlorn line of shore at Brooke. He could see the sea ahead of him, a
grand expanse of blue ocean. He passed quaint Brooke church on his left
hand, and suddenly slowed up near a large solid-looking dwelling,
overgrown with creepers. Here was Rollo Meads, with a strip of garden
in front. As John neared the dwelling he noticed a gardener at work.
Something in the quiet and homely exterior of the house made him for a
moment think he had made a mistake, but as his hand fell upon the gate
the gardener lifted his face, and John recognised the pallid countenance
and close-set eyes of Conrad, the manservant who had first admitted him
to Manwitz's house in St. George's Square.
Conrad informed him that Dr. Voules was in and was awaiting him.
"Now," thought John, as he followed Conrad to the front door, "matters
may begin to move again." Dacent Smith had for some time been groping
towards the identity of Dr. Voules, and John realised that in being
permitted to undertake the work he was now upon he was being trusted and
favoured by his Chief. He resolved, in his interview with the doctor,
to exercise the most extreme caution, and to play the part of Bernard
Treves with the closest simulation.
There was silence as John stepped into the hall of Rollo Meads. The
servant preceded him along the passage, knocked on a door, then entered,
and vanished, leaving John alone. Conrad emerged a minute later, and
summoned John towards him.
"Will you please go in, sir."
A moment later John found himself in a good-sized morning-room, with two
windows overlooking a lawn and a garden. The room was heavily furnished
with a long oak table in the middle, and half a dozen massive
dining-room chairs surrounding it. At the head of the table Doctor
"Voules" was seated. He wore a markedly English-looking tweed suit, but
his thick neck, his circular head, and heavy jaws showed him to be not
quite the amiable retired doctor he pretended to be. Seated on Voules's
right hand were two men, deeply sun-tanned. One of the men wore a blond
beard, and looked frankly and honestly at John. The other was a
fair-haired man, with a supercilious-looking expression. John put both
down at once as naval officers. Standing at the fire-place, in uniform,
was Captain Cherriton. The air of the room was heavily impregnated with
the smell of cigar smoke. Cherriton was smoking a cigarette, but Doctor
Voules held in his powerful mouth a long, black cigar. He flashed a
keen scrutiny upon John as the young man stepped into the room and
closed the door behind him.
"You are Mr. Treves, eh?"
John assured him that he was.
"You will take a seat," said Voules, pointing to a vacant chair upon his
left hand. "These are two friends of mine," he said, indicating the
blond-bearded man and the supercilious younger man, "Mr. Sharpe and Mr.
Rogers."
"I am pleased to meet you," said John, making a swift mental summary of
each man's appearance.
"I am glad to make your acquaintance," responded the blond-bearded man,
and his accent was so thoroughly German that it would have betrayed him
anywhere. The other man appeared to speak no English at all, for he
merely nodded.
"Sit down, Cherriton," commanded Voules, and Cherriton, who was lounging
at the hearth, came and seated himself at John's side.
"I am in the thick of it," thought John. He wondered what was to occur,
what attitude Voules would take towards himself, whether Voules would
regard him as of consequence, and of possible use, or would he fail to
trust him.
"You are no longer in the army?" Voules inquired, looking into John's
face with cold grey eyes. It was his custom to examine personally such
men as were brought to him; he had infinite belief in his own powers of
judgment, and in many ways he possessed a shrewd and penetrating mind.
His infinite confidence in himself, however, sometimes led him into
mistakes. He believed, as he looked at John, that he was examining a
weakling, and a drug-taker. Cherriton had supplied all information as
to Bernard Treves's unstable character and habits, and though Voules was
a little surprised to find the young man healthy and vigorous looking,
he was deceived by the manner in which John avoided his eyes; he was
still more deceived when John, cleverly resting his elbow on the table,
permitted his sleeve to fall back so that Voules could see pinpricks on
his wrist, the sort of wound that is left by a hypodermic syringe used
for administering morphia and cocaine.
Voules's sharp eyes instantly fell upon this tangible evidence of the
drug habit. He was quite satisfied with the evidence of his own eyes.
"You are no longer in the army?" he repeated.
"Well, as a matter of fact," John said, after a moment's hesitation, "my
father has used his influence, and I am to be restored to my
commission."
Voules's eyes widened a little.
"Indeed," he remarked. He appeared to consider this change in John's
circumstances for a moment, then he put out a hand and laid his heavy
fingers on John's sleeve. "You have told this news, eh----" he paused a
moment; "you have told this news to Alice?"
For a second John hesitated; he did not realise who Alice was; then he
remembered her as Mrs. Beecher Monmouth.
"No," answered John, "I have not told her yet, but I intend to write and
tell her to-night."
"Ah," said Voules, "you think she will be pleased?" The intensity of
his gaze increased. John saw quite plainly a doubt in his eyes. "You
think she will be pleased?"
"I am sure of it," said John.
"And why?"
"Because I can be of more use, doctor."
"We have a very high opinion of the lady in question," said Voules; "we
have every reason to trust her."
"I hope you will have every reason to trust me," John said.
Voules looked at him silently for a minute.
"I hope so," he announced. "We shall make it worth your while to serve
us." He paused for a moment, and glanced at Cherriton. "Cherriton has
already told you," he said, "that when the Day arrives, when the success
that is bound to come, has been given to us, we shall not forget our
friends in England." He suddenly turned away from John, and looked at
the blond-bearded man on his right. His voice seemed to deepen in tone,
and he began suddenly and rapidly to speak in German. "What is your
opinion of our young English friend here?" he rapped to the
blond-bearded man.
"I cannot judge of him, Excellence."
Voules went on still in German:
"Manwitz and Rathenau have each testified to his usefulness; he is also
in the hands of a lady who can well supervise his doings."
The blond man fingered his blond beard, sliding it through his hands.
"Excellence, let me say, may I not suggest a certain reserve in our
conversation, in the circumstances."
Voules laughed for the first time. John noticed that his teeth were
strong and well kept, and that his laugh was not at all pleasant.
"Our Englander," he said, "understands not one word of German. We may
speak freely, Muller. Is it not so, Rathenau?" He turned quickly to
Cherriton.
"Yes, Excellence," answered Cherriton, with his contemptuous curl of the
lip. "Not one English officer in a thousand knows half a dozen words of
German; our friend is no exception."
"He is well controlled by the particular lady mentioned?" inquired
Voules.
Cherriton smiled.
"Quite, Excellence; even if she cared for him in the way he believes she
does, she would still watch him like a cat."
"True," said Voules; then again turned to John and spoke in English.
"My apologies to you, Mr. Treves," he said, "for speaking in German, but
my friends here speak no English."
"I don't mind in the least," answered John. He did not in the least,
and as he had understood every word it made no difference.
"In regard to your reinstatement in the army," went on Voules, "I offer
you my felicitations. You will be able to help us even more than in the
past, and I may hardly say that the reward will be in proportion to the
work done. If you are stationed in London we can find work for you in
London. If, on the other hand, you are returned to your regiment, then
you can also help us. The treatment you have received at the hands of
the army, Cherriton tells me, is abominable. You are quite honourably
acquitted of allegiance to your nationality. I tell you this, that you
may have no inner qualms; in serving us you serve the cause of Kultur.
Is that not so, Cherriton?"
"Yes, Herr Excellence."
"Kultur," thought John; "Kultur, that stabs in the dark, that murders
children and women; that calls might right. Kultur that takes a man
sodden with drugs and turns him into a traitor to his country; then,
having made him commit crimes against his fellow-countrymen, has the
audacity to tell him that he is acting the part of a man of honour!
Some day," thought John, a sudden blaze of fury burning through him,
"you, Voules, will be taught a very different culture from that." Aloud
John said nothing, but merely sat nervously in his chair, fidgeting with
his collar, and clasping and unclasping his hands upon the table--an
excellent imitation of the real Treves.
"Is there anything you would wish to say?" inquired Voules.
John looked guardedly at the two men who sat opposite.
"Please go to the window," commanded Voules.
The two men rose obediently and crossed the room. John dropped his
voice.
"I understood," he said to Voules, "that I was to receive"--he stopped,
looked into Voules's face, then turned his eyes away.
"Rathenau," Voules commanded, "ring the bell."
Cherriton rang the bell, and a moment later Conrad entered the room.
"The packet, Conrad, for Mr. Treves."
Conrad went out and returned a moment later, carrying a small white
packet. He handed it to Voules, and Voules passed it to John.
"Thank you--thank you!" exclaimed John, taking it quickly. He knew the
packet contained cocaine, and he slipped it carefully into his pocket.
"You will report to us wherever you are?" inquired Voules.
"Wherever I am," answered John.
"Great matters are pending," responded the doctor; "soon you will be of
use to us. In regard to finance," he added, after a moment's pause,
"you will write to our Captain Cherriton." He rose and gripped John's
hand. "You will have no cause to regret your association with us, I can
assure you of that."
"Perhaps you'll have some cause to regret your association with me,"
thought John, as he looked into the heavy jowled face.
Five minutes later he was out in the road, bidding good-bye to Captain
Cherriton, who waved a careless farewell to him.
"We shall meet soon again," said the captain.
John nodded, leapt on to his bicycle, and rode briskly down the road.