Ca va, ca vient,
Ca donn' de l'air, ca fait du bien.
C'est vraiment magnifique.
Quel instrument magique!
Ca va, ca vient,
Ca donn' de l'air et du maintien
Et ca ne coute presque rien:
Voici l'eventail parisien!
Hardly had she concluded the final line when the door opened and a tall,
dark-haired, good-looking young man entered, crossed to her, and,
placing his hand upon her shoulder, bent and kissed her fondly.
"Why, Jack, dear--you really are late!" the girl exclaimed. "Were you
kept at the office?"
"Yes, dearest," was his answer. "Or rather I had some work that I
particularly wanted to finish, so I stayed behind."
He was tall and broad-shouldered, with a pair of keen, merry brown eyes,
a handsome face with high, intelligent brow, as yet unlined by care, a
small, dark moustache, and a manner as courteous towards a woman as any
diplomat accredited to the Court of St James.
Jack Sainsbury, though merely an employee of the Ochrida Copper
Corporation, a man who went by "Tube" to the City each morning and
returned each night to the modest little flat in Heath Street, at which
his sister Jane acted as housekeeper for him, was an honest, upright
Englishman who had, in the first month of the war, done his duty and
gone to the recruiting office of the Honourable Artillery Company to
enlist.
A defective elbow-joint had prevented him passing the doctor. And
though no one in the office knew he had tried to join the new army, he
had returned to the City and continued his soul-killing avocation of
adding figures and getting out totals.
His meeting with Elise Shearman was not without its romantic side.
One Sunday morning, two years before, he had been riding his motor-cycle
up to Hatfield, as was his habit, to meet at the Red Lion--that old inn
that is the rendezvous of all motor-cyclists--the men and women who come
out there each Sunday morning, wet or fine, from London. Fine cars,
driven by their owners, turn into the inn-yard all the morning, but the
motor-cyclist ignores them. It is the meeting-place of the man on the
cycle.
One well-remembered Sunday morning Elise, who was advanced enough to put
on a Burberry with a leather strap around her waist and sit astride on a
motor-cycle, was careering up the North Road beyond Barnet when, of a
sudden, she swerved to avoid a cart, and ran headlong into a ditch.
At the moment Jack Sainsbury, who chanced to be behind her, stopped,
sprang off, and went to her assistance.
She lay in the ditch with her arm broken. Quickly he obtained medical
aid, and eventually brought her home to Fitzjohn's Avenue, where he had,
with her father's knowledge and consent, been a constant visitor ever
since.
Jack Sainsbury, whose father, and his family before him, had been
gentlemen-farmers for two centuries in Leicestershire, was, above all, a
thorough-going Englishman. He was no smug, get-on-at-all-hazards person
of the consumptive type one meets at every turn in the City. On the
contrary, he was a well-set-up, bold, straightforward, fearless fellow
who, though but a clerk in a City office, was one of that clean-limbed,
splendid type which any girl would have welcomed as her hero.
What Jack Sainsbury said, he meant. His colleagues in the office knew
that. They all regarded him as a man of high ideals, and as one whose
heart had, ever since the war, been fired with a keen and intense spirit
of patriotism.
That Elise Shearman loved him could be seen at the first moment when he
had opened the door and crossed the threshold. Her eyes brightened, and
her full, red lips puckered sweetly as she returned his fond, passionate
kisses.
Yes, they loved each other. Elise's parents knew that. Sometimes they
were anxious, for Dan Shearman felt that it would not be altogether a
brilliant match, as far as an alliance went. Yet Mrs Shearman, on her
part, had so often pleaded, that no separation of the pair had, as yet,
been demanded. Hence they found idyllic happiness in each other's love.
"You seem unusually thoughtful to-night, Jack!" exclaimed the girl,
tenderly smoothing his hair as they stood together clasped in each
other's arms.
"Do I?" he answered with a start. "I really didn't know," he laughed,
aroused from his deep thoughts.
"You are, Jack. Why?"
"I--well, I'm really not--except perhaps--"
"Perhaps what?" asked Elise determinedly.
"Well, I had rather a heavy day at the office," was her lover's
hesitating reply. "And I've just remembered something."
"Oh! business. And that's all?"
"Yes, business, dearest," was his reply. "I must apologise if my
thoughts were, for the moment, far away," he laughed.
"You're like father," said the girl. "He sits by the fire sometimes for
a quarter of an hour at a stretch staring into it, and thinking of his
horrid business affairs. But of course business is an obsession with
him."
"Perhaps when I'm your father's age it will be an obsession with me,"
replied Jack Sainsbury.
"I sincerely hope it won't," she said, with a smile upon her pretty
lips.
"It won't, if I'm able to make sufficient money to keep you properly,
darling," was the young man's fervent answer, as he bent until his
moustache lightly brushed her cheek.
Truth to tell, he was reflecting seriously. For hours he had thought
over those strange words he had overheard on entering the boardroom that
afternoon.
Those astounding words of Lewin Rodwell's were, in themselves, an
admission--a grave and terrible admission.
Lewin Rodwell and Sir Boyle Huntley were engaged in a great conspiracy,
and he--Jack Sainsbury--was the only person who knew the ghastly truth.
Those two highly patriotic men, whose praises were being sung by every
newspaper up and down the country; whose charitable efforts had brought
in hundreds of thousands of pounds and hundreds of tons of comforts for
our troops abroad; the two men whose photographs were in every journal,
and whom the world regarded as fine typical specimens of the honest
Briton, men who had raised their voices loudly against German barbarism
and intrigue, were, Jack Sainsbury knew, wearing impenetrable masks.
They were traitors!
He alone knew the truth--a truth so remarkable and startling that, were
it told and published to the world, Great Britain would stand aghast and
bewildered at the revelation. It was inconceivable, incredible. At
times he felt himself doubting what he had really heard with his own
ears. Yet it had been Rodwell's voice, and the words had been clear and
distinct, a confession of guilt that was as plain as it was damning.
Sir Boyle had, from his seat in the House of Commons, risen time after
time and denounced the policy of the Government in not interning every
enemy alien in the country; he had heckled the Home Secretary, and had
exposed cases of German intrigue; he had demanded that rigorous action
should be taken against the horde of German spies in our midst, and had
spoken up and down the country warning the Government and the people of
the gravity of the spy-peril, and that British citizens would take the
law in their own hands if drastic measures were not taken to crush out
the enemy in our midst.
Yet that afternoon--by no seeking of his own--Jack Sainsbury had learnt
a truth which, even hours after the words had fallen upon his ears, left
him staggered and astounded.
He knew the secret of those two great and influential men.
What should he do? How should he act?
Such was the cause of his marked thoughtfulness that night--an attitude
which Elise had not failed to notice and which considerably puzzled her.
Mrs Shearman, a pleasant-faced, grey-haired and prosperous-looking
lady, who spoke with a strong Lancashire accent, entered the room a few
moments later, and the pair, springing aside at the sound of her
footsteps, pretended to be otherwise occupied, much to the elder lady's
amusement.
After greeting Jack the old lady sat down with him, while Elise, at her
mother's request, returned to the piano and began to sing Leon Garnier's
"Sublime Caresse," with that catchy refrain so popular on the boulevards
of Paris and in cafes in every town in France--
Quand lachement
A l'autre amant
Je me livre et me donne.
Qu'a lui je m'abandonne.
Le coeur pame,
O cher aime,
C'est a toi que s'adresse
Ma sublime caresse!
Elise, who spoke French excellently, was extremely fond of the French
chansonette, and knew a great many. Her lover spoke French quite well
also, and very frequently when they were together in the "tube" or train
they conversed in that language so that the every-day person around them
should not understand.
To speak a foreign language amid the open mouths of the ignorant is
always secretly amusing, but not so amusing as to the one person who
unfortunately sits opposite and who knows that language even more
perfectly than the speaker--I was about to write "swanker."
In that drawing-room of the red-brick Hampstead residence--where the
road is so steep that the vulgar London County Council Tramways have
never attempted to invade it, and consequently it is a "desirable
residential neighbourhood" according to the house-agents'
advertisements--Jack and Elise remained after Mrs Shearman had risen
and left. For another quarter of an hour they chatted and kissed
wholeheartedly, for they loved each other fondly and dearly. Then, at
ten o'clock, Jack rose to go. It was his hour, and he never overstepped
the bounds of propriety. From the first he had felt himself a mere
clerk on the forbidden ground of the successful manufacturer's home.
Dan Shearman, honest, outspoken and square, had achieved Hampstead as a
stepping-stone to Mayfair or Belgravia. To Jack Sainsbury--the man of
the fine old yeoman stock--the refinement of the red-brick and laurels
of Hampstead was synonymous with taste and breeding. To him the dull
aristocracy of the London squares was unknown, and therefore unregarded.
How the people born in society laugh at Tom, Dick and Harry, with their
feminine folk, who, in our world of make-believe, are struggling and
fighting with one another to be regarded by the world as geniuses.
Money can bring everything--all the thousand attributes this world can
give--all except breeding and brains.
Breed, even in the idiot, and brains in the pauper's child, will always
tell.
When Jack Sainsbury descended the steps into Fitzjohn's Avenue and
strode down the hill to Swiss Cottage station, he was full of grave and
bitter thoughts.
As an Englishman and a patriot, what was his line of action? That was
the sole thought which filled his mind. He loved Elise with every fibre
of his being, yet, on that evening, greater and even more serious
thoughts occupied his mind--the safety of the British Empire.
To whom should he go? In whom dare he confide?
As he crossed from the Avenue to the station, another thought arose
within him. Would anybody in whom he confided really believe what he
could tell them?
Lewin Rodwell and Sir Boyle Huntley were national heroes--men against
whom no breath of suspicion as traitors had ever arisen. It was the
habit of the day to laugh at any suspicion of Britain's betrayal--an
attitude which the Government had carefully cultivated ever since the
outbreak of war. On that day the Chief of the Military Operations
Department of the War Office--in other words our Secret Service--had
been--for reasons which will one day be revealed--promoted and sent to
the front, leaving the Department in the hands of others fresh to the
work.
Such, alas! was the British Intelligence Department--an organisation
laughed at by the Secret Services of each of our Allies.
The folly of it all was really pathetic.
Jack Sainsbury knew much of this. He had, indeed, been, through Dr
Jerome Jerrold, a friend of his, behind the scenes. Like all the world,
he had read the optimistic, hide-the-truth newspapers. Often he had
smiled in disbelief. Yet, on that afternoon, his worst fears had in a
single instant been confirmed. He knew the volcano upon the edge of
which Great Britain was seated.
What should he do? How should he act?
In the narrow booking-office of Swiss Cottage station he stood for a
moment, hesitating to take his ticket.
Of a sudden an idea crossed his mind. He knew a certain man--his
intimate friend. Could he help him? Dare he reveal his suspicions
without being laughed at for his pains?
Yes. He would risk being derided, because the safety of the Empire was
now at stake.
After all, he--Jack Sainsbury--was a well-bred Briton, without a strain
of the hated Teutonic blood in his veins.
He would speak the truth, and expose that man who was so cleverly luring
the Empire to its doom.
He passed before the little pigeonhole of the booking-office and took
his ticket--an action which was destined to have a greater bearing upon
our national defence than any person even with knowledge of the facts
could ever dream.