There was a strange light in Beecher Monmouth's eyes as he stepped into
the outer apartment. He was a man who irrevocably and finally had made
up his mind.
"Mr. Treves," he said, "I hand these into your care. You have discharged
your duty very well indeed. I think the letters will be of great
service to your department." He uttered the words tonelessly and his
manner puzzled John, who took the box, and then observed that Monmouth's
hand was outstretched.
"You carried out your duty honourably and well."
Their hands touched and John noticed how icy cold were the other's
fingers.
"I hope, sir," he said, in a sudden rush of pity for the utterly broken
and deluded husband, "I hope you will forgive my seeming harshness of a
few minutes ago."
"Certainly, certainly," said Beecher Monmouth dully. He appeared
grateful that John had shaken him by the hand. "You can tell your chief
that I feel no animosity and that I shall keep my promise not to leave
this house. Whenever you return you will find me here."
"On behalf of the department I think I can say," remarked John, "that
you will suffer as little inconvenience as possible."
"Thank you," said Beecher Monmouth. "This discovery is for me, as you
can well understand, a tragic one." He paused a moment. "In any case,"
he added, "you will find me in my wife's room when you return."
John took the japanned box and bowed slightly. He was quite sure that
Beecher Monmouth would make no attempt to escape. He was also quite
sure in his own mind that no charge would be brought against him. The
case was clearly one of a duped and shamelessly deluded husband who had
unwittingly aided his country's enemies. For a moment the elder man
appeared to hesitate on the point of making some further communication,
then, turning slowly on his heel, re-entered his wife's room and shut
the door.
Beecher Monmouth's unfortunate advent had delayed John longer in the
house than caution allowed. He made haste now to repair the tactical
disadvantage, and the moment the door closed upon the elder man he
emptied the letters from the box into his overcoat, hurried out of the
room and down the great staircase.
In two minutes he reached the front door, which he drew open upon the
darkness of the night. He inhaled a deep breath of relief. His task
had been accomplished; in another moment----
Then he stopped and stood stock still upon the top-most step--exactly
opposite him a taxi had drawn to a halt. A light laugh floated up to
him, and Mrs. Beecher Monmouth, shimmering in silk and jewels, alighted
briskly! She was the last person in the world John at that moment
desired to see, still if she had been alone John believed that he could
have still escaped unobserved. She was not alone, however. With her
were two men in evening clothes, and as the little party of three
crossed the pavement John made out that the heavily-built, thick-necked
figure who had helped her to alight was Doctor "Voules," and that the
taller figure who walked upon her left hand was Captain Cherriton.
Cherriton's keen eyes had recognised John in an instant, and almost
simultaneously Mrs. Beecher Monmouth uttered an exclamation.
"Why, Mr. Treves!" She ran lightly up the steps, holding out her hand
in greeting. "I had no idea you were coming to-night."
"Nor had I," said John. "I came upon the impulse of the moment."
"But you knew I should be out," protested Mrs. Beecher Monmouth.
"That is true," John admitted; "but as you were not going to a theatre I
expected you would be back early."
"That was very nice of you; now you must come in again." She laid her
hand lightly on his arm and shepherded him back to the wide hall.
"Where is the butler?" Mrs. Beecher Monmouth, sweeping the empty hall
with her eyes, turned in surprise upon John.
"I don't know," said John; "I think he's downstairs."
"But surely some one was here to let you out?"
Cherriton and his Excellency von Kuhne had both entered the hall. His
Excellency pushed shut the big door, and as John heard the latch click a
curious sensation of finality seized him. On several occasions in past
months he had been in tight situations. He had been in an awkward
position, for instance, half an hour earlier, with Beecher Monmouth.
The situation, however, which now held him in its grip was in point of
danger beyond anything he had yet experienced. He knew that coolness
and sang-froid and daring were the only weapons with which he could
fight against the three national and ruthless enemies who stood about
him in the dimly lit hall. He had shaken hands with Mrs. Beecher
Monmouth, and, avoiding a direct answer to her last question, he now
turned to von Kuhne and held out his hand.
"How do you do, doctor?"
"I am very well," answered his Excellency in his thick voice. He looked
steadily into John's eyes. Manton could read nothing in his expression,
and he gave his attention to Cherriton.
"It is a long time since we met, Cherriton!"
Cherriton bowed. He made no effort to shake hands; nevertheless his
manner was not openly hostile, rather was it sharply and keenly
watchful.
"Quite a long time," he answered.
John, looking again into the captain's cold, light blue eyes, his pale
shaven face with its bony contours, his cruelly-turned mouth, thought
him even more unpleasant than he had formerly believed. He was willing
to grant, however, that Cherriton carried himself with an air, that he
was a powerful, big-boned, tall, well-set-up fellow.
His own eyes and Cherriton's remained engaged for the fraction of a
second, then Mrs. Beecher Monmouth's voice broke the tension.
"Come, come," she exclaimed, "we mustn't stand in the hall. I'll ring
for Duckett to bring us something upstairs, and in the meantime you
shall each have a cigarette in my boudoir."
"I don't like cigarettes!" said von Kuhne curtly.
"Then you shall smoke one of your black cigars," concluded Mrs. Beecher
Monmouth, flashing at him one of her brilliant smiles. She rang the
bell, and when the butler appeared, commanded him to bring wine and
glasses upstairs.
Mrs. Beecher Monmouth began to run up the wide carpeted staircase. John
noticed that she wore grey shoes with scarlet heels, and that her
stockings were of dark red silk to match her dress. She ascended half a
dozen steps, then turned, noticing that John had begun to frame an
excuse. He wanted to get away before she reached her boudoir, before
she could enter her bedroom where her husband awaited her. The meeting
between these two which was imminent was not one which John wished to
witness. He waved a farewell hand, uttered conventional apologies and
made to go.
Mrs. Beecher Monmouth, however, would hear nothing of it. She ran down
the stairs, took him by the arm, shook a finger in his face, called him
a "bad, cruel boy," and led him upstairs.
Cherriton and von Kuhne closed in behind.
The boudoir was empty when Mrs. Beecher Monmouth entered and switched on
the lights. In a swift survey of the apartment John noticed the rifled
dispatch-box on a gilt-legged chair where he had left it. Very swiftly
and dexterously he whipped off his light overcoat and threw it over the
box, hiding it from view.
Mrs. Beecher Monmouth, who wore extensive _decolletee_, with a small
tiara glimmering in her perfectly arranged dark tresses, permitted John
to relieve her of an opera cloak of grey silk brocade. She stood for a
minute displaying herself in perfect consciousness of her striking
beauty. Her arms and shoulders, perfectly modelled, were white as
marble. There was a challenging light in her brilliant eyes as they
sought John's. She was one of those women who look best at night, a
flower that bloomed best in artificial light.
John's mind, since their entrance into the room, had not, however, been
occupied either with her beauty or his own personal danger.
He was thinking only of a sound he had heard some minutes earlier, at
the moment he had drawn open the front door. The sound, like a distant
crack of a whip, had reached him from the interior of the house. Only
now did that sound gather to itself significance.
Sudden doubts assailed John. In that room behind the closed door
Beecher Monmouth had seen his own doting attempts at love mocked and
laughed at; he had read the passionate letters of her real lover, Kurt
von Morgen. She had betrayed not only her husband but her husband's
country.
What if Beecher Monmouth strode in among them? At any moment the door of
that silent room might fly open.... John could conceive Monmouth in a
frenzy, rushing into the room and putting his lean hands about that
white, bejewelled throat. The situation tingled with terrible
possibilities.
In those tense and throbbing moments John felt a kinship between himself
and the deluded man beyond the closed door of the bedroom.
Cherriton, he was certain, suspected him, and would take the first
opportunity to cross-examine him as to his visit to Heatherpoint Fort.
Nevertheless, he was determined to escape from that house with Mrs.
Beecher Monmouth's incriminating letters, and with the newly-found code.
He was not afraid of Cherriton; he feared neither the tall German's
subtlety of wit, nor his strength of arm. His sole feeling indeed
towards this unpleasant enemy was one of infinite antagonism. He knew
the time was bound to come, possibly at any minute, when he and
Cherriton would enter upon open conflict.
The butler came into the room bearing a large silver tray, decanters and
glasses. General von Kuhne lit one of his big black cigars, and seating
himself, drank a glass of champagne. The butler went out of the room
and closed the door noiselessly behind him. John and Cherriton each
accepted from Mrs. Beecher Monmouth's hands a whisky-and-soda. John
felt Mrs. Beecher Monmouth's eyes steadily upon him. A faint shadow of
doubt seemed to flit across her face and then vanish. With an almost
imperceptible movement of her head she beckoned him towards her, and
seizing a moment when Cherriton and von Kuhne were in conversation, she
said to him in a whisper:
"Why did you come to-night, when you knew I should be out?"
John had been expecting the question, and was prepared.
"I knew you would be out," he said, looking deep into her eyes; "but I
expected you'd come in again!"
"What do you mean, you enigmatical boy?" Then feeling that she had read
his mind, she added: "Do you mean--you came because my husband was
away?"
John smiled at her.
"Don't you think that an excellent reason for coming?" he asked.
This struck her as an extremely amusing remark. As always she was
conscious of, and confident in, the potency of her beauty. She laughed
and tapped him on the shoulder with her fan.
"I don't believe you love me," she uttered almost soundlessly, shaping
the words with her lips.
"Don't you?" said John.
"Did Cecily let you in?"
"No," admitted John.
At that moment a knock fell upon the door of the room, and in answer to
Mrs. Beecher Monmouth's summons, Cecily herself entered.
"I beg your pardon, madame," she said, "but the corridor door of your
room is locked."
"Locked, Cecily?"
"Yes, madame."
Mrs. Beecher Monmouth saw no significance in the fact.
"In that case, Cecily," she said, "you may come through this way."
"Thank you, madame." Cecily, in her black dress, white cap and apron,
and high-heeled shoes, crossed the carpet. She reached the second door
of Mrs. Beecher Monmouth's bedroom and opened it. Nobody but John was
watching her. As the maid pushed open the door she gave a violent
start, stood stock still, then uttered a loud and terrified scream.
"Madame! Madame!" she called, turning a frantic face and wide-staring
eyes at her mistress.
"What is it?" cried Mrs. Beecher Monmouth, springing swiftly to her
feet.
The four of them were now standing staring blankly at Cecily, who was
leaning against the door-frame covering her eyes with one hand and
waving an arm frantically towards the bedroom.
Mrs. Monmouth hurried towards her, but it was John who first succeeded
in reaching the door. From the threshold he looked into the room. All
the softly-shaded golden lights were full on. And half lying, half
sitting on the bed he saw the figure of Beecher Monmouth. The inert
form was reclining upon its side on the rich purple counterpane. One
arm hung over the edge of the bed towards the floor. On the floor
itself lay the politician's ivory and electro-plated pistol, one barrel
of which had been discharged.
John rushed into the room and looked close into the ashen grey face, but
even before he reached the bedside, the very stillness of the prone
figure had told him the truth.
* * * * *
The knowledge that had come upon Beecher Monmouth that night had marked
the end. And with a courage for which few would have given him credit,
considering his weakness, he had taken arms against a sea of troubles.
His political life, his ambition, his hopes, the love that he had
lavished, had all vanished in a flash. Kurt von Morgen's letters had
told him everything, had revealed a sink of iniquity and duplicity such
as he had never thought possible. The blow had been too heavy for him
to bear. A younger man might have sought relief in vengeance upon the
woman who had betrayed him, but he was not of that spirit. He could
think of one way only, one act only which could extricate him from his
tragic position.
Innocently for months and years he had been a traitor to his country.
Unwittingly he had been supplying to the scheming, brilliant woman whom
he adored, all the knowledge that came to him in virtue of his position
in Parliament. In doing this he had himself become a criminal. No
court of law could, or would, punish him. That he knew. But with all
his weaknesses he was a loyal Englishman, and in thinking of the tragedy
that had been wrought by his doting folly, he resolved to act manfully
at the last.
Monmouth left no word, no scrap of writing, no murmur of complaint
against the woman who had betrayed him, and as John looked into the
waxen face that looked old, even beyond its years, he felt for the dead
man a genuine and deep sense of pity.
"After all," thought he, "he has chosen the only way out!" He looked up
from the face of the dead man, and saw Cherriton's eyes brooding upon
him narrowly. And all through the ensuing excitement he could feel
Cherriton's eyes following him keenly, spying upon every movement he
made. As the minutes passed John realised that the Captain not only
suspected him of playing a double game in regard to Heatherpoint Fort,
but he suspected him also of the murder of Beecher Monmouth.
John wondered what would happen when the ravished dispatch-box was
discovered. And the thought came to him that, despite the tragedy that
had occurred, Beecher Monmouth's return had been a useful circumstance
for himself and his department. For when Mrs. Beecher Monmouth found
that her lover's letters and the code had disappeared she would
instantly jump to the conclusion that her husband had discovered them.
Having made this discovery, his despair at her duplicity would account
for his self-destruction.
Soon after the finding of the body the servants were summoned from
below, but no one had heard the fatal shot.
Von Kuhne, who was disturbed and annoyed, showed an urgent desire to
take himself off. He was gone, accompanied by Cherriton, by the time
the police appeared.
When the police were in full possession of the situation John himself
took leave of Mrs. Beecher Monmouth. She was standing in her boudoir,
her face deathly white, her usually scarlet lips bluish in hue. John
noticed that her hand, as she touched his, was ice-cold. His feelings
were of intense detestation towards her, and he found it difficult to be
even conventionally polite. As to offering her words of comfort or
condolence, that would have been the merest mockery. He was amazed, in
bidding her good-bye, to find that there were tears in her eyes. She was
an astounding woman. Beecher Monmouth had destroyed himself solely
because of her unutterable depths of treachery. She had never loved
him; she had incessantly betrayed and duped him, and yet she could still
shed tears for him!
John went away pondering upon the mystery of the eternal feminine.