IF ANYONE KNEW
SIR HUGH ELCOMBE spent a most interesting and instructive day within the
Fortress of Haudiomont. He really did not want to go. The visit bored
him. The world was at peace, and there was no incentive to espionage as
there had been in pre-war days.
General Henri Molon, the commandant, greeted him cordially and himself
showed him over a portion of the post-war defences which were kept such a
strict secret from everyone. The general did not, however, show his
distinguished guest everything. Such things as the new anti-aircraft gun,
the exact disposition of the huge mines placed in the valley between
there and Rozellier, so that at a given signal both road and railway
tracks could be destroyed, he did not point out. There were other matters
to which the smart, grey-haired, old French general deemed it unwise to
refer, even though his visitor might be a high official of a friendly
Power.
Sir Hugh noticed all this and smiled inwardly. He wandered about the
bomb-proof case-mates hewn out of the solid rock, caring nothing for the
number and calibre of the guns, their armoured protection, or the
chart-like diagrams upon the walls, ranges and the like.
"What a glorious evening!" Paul was saying as, at sunset, they set their
faces towards the valley beyond which lay shattered Germany. That
peaceful land, the theatre of the recent war, lay bathed in the soft rose
of the autumn afterglow, while the bright clearness of the sky,
pale-green and gold, foretold a frost.
"Yes, splendid!" responded his father-in-law mechanically; but he was
thinking of something far more serious than the beauties of the western
sky. He was thinking of the grip in which he was held by the doctor of
Pimlico. At any moment, if he cared to collapse, he could make ten
thousand pounds in a single day. The career of many a man has been
blasted for ever by the utterance of cruel untruths or the repetition of
vague suspicions. Was his son-in-law, Le Pontois, in jeopardy? He could
not think that he was. How could the truth come out? Sir Hugh asked
himself. It never had before--though his friend had made a million
sterling, and there was no reason whatever why it should come out now. He
had tested Weirmarsh thoroughly, and knew him to be a man to be trusted.
As he strolled on at his son-in-law's side, chatting to him, he was full
of anxiety as to the future. He had left England, it was true. He had
defied the doctor. But the latter had been inexorable. If he continued in
his defiance, then ruin must inevitably come to him.
Blanche and Enid had already returned, and at dusk all four sat down to
dinner together with little Ninette, for whom "Aunt Enid" had brought a
new doll which had given the child the greatest delight.
The meal ended, the bridge-table was set in the pretty salon adjoining,
and several games were played until Sir Hugh, pleading fatigue, at last
ascended to his room.
Within, he locked the door and cast himself into a chair before the big
log fire to think.
That day had indeed been a strenuous one--strenuous for any man. So
occupied had been his brain that he scarcely recollected any
conversations with those smart debonair officers to whom Paul had
introduced him.
As he sat there he closed his eyes, and before him arose visions of
interviews in dingy offices in London, one of them behind Soho Square.
For a full hour he sat there immovable as a statue, reflecting, ever
recalling the details of those events.
Suddenly he sprang to his feet with clenched hands.
"My God!" he cried, his teeth set and countenance pale. "My God! If
anybody ever knew the truth!"
He crossed to the window, drew aside the blind, and looked out upon the
moonlit plains.
Below, his daughter was still playing the piano and singing an old
English ballad.
"She's happy, ah! my dear Blanche!" the old man murmured between his
teeth. "But if suspicion falls upon me? Ah! if it does; then it means
ruin to them both--ruin because of a dastardly action of mine!"
He returned unsteadily to his chair, and sat staring straight into the
embers, his hands to his hot, fevered brow. More than once he
sighed--sighed heavily, as a man when fettered and compelled to act
against his better nature.
Again he heard his daughter's voice below, now singing a gay little
French chanson, a song of the café chantant and of the Paris boulevards.
In a flash there recurred to him every incident of those dramatic
interviews with the Mephistophelean doctor. He would at that moment have
given his very soul to be free of that calm, clever, insinuating man who,
while providing him with a handsome, even unlimited income, yet at the
same time held him irrevocably in the hollow of his hand.
He, a brilliant British soldier with a magnificent record, honoured by
his sovereign, was, after all, but a tool of that obscure doctor, the man
who had come into his life to rescue him from bankruptcy and disgrace.
When he reflected he bit his lip in despair. Yet there was no way
out--_none_! Weirmarsh had really been most generous. The cosy house in
Hill Street, the smart little entertainments which his wife gave, the bit
of shooting he rented up in the Highlands, were all paid for with the
money which the doctor handed him in Treasury notes with such regularity.
Yes, Weirmarsh was generous, but he was nevertheless exacting, terribly
exacting. His will was the will of others.
The blazing logs had died down to a red mass, the voice of Blanche had
ceased. He had heard footsteps an hour ago in the corridor outside, and
knew that the family had retired. There was not a sound. All were asleep,
save the sentries high upon that hidden fortress. Again the old general
sighed wearily. His grey face now wore an expression of resignation. He
had thought it all out, and saw that to resist and refuse would only
spell ruin for both himself and his family. He had but himself to blame
after all. He had taken one false step, and he had been held inexorably
to his contract.
So he yawned wearily, rose, stretched himself, and then, pacing the room
twice, at last turned up the lamp and placed it upon the small
writing-table at the foot of the bed. Afterwards he took from his
suit-case a quire of ruled foolscap paper and a fountain pen, and,
seating himself, sat for some time with his head in his hands deep in
thought. Suddenly the clock in the big hall below chimed two upon its
peal of silvery bells. This aroused him, and, taking up his pen, he began
to write.
Ever and anon as he wrote he sat back and reflected.
Hour after hour he sat there, bent to the table, his pen rapidly
travelling over the paper. He wrote down many figures and was making
calculations.
At half-past four he put down his pen. The sum was not complete, but it
was one which he knew would end his career and bring him into the dock of
a criminal court, and Weirmarsh and others would stand beside him.
All this he had done in entire ignorance of one startling fact--namely,
that outside his window for the past hour a dark figure had been
standing in an insecure position upon the lead guttering of the wing of
the château which ran out at right angles, leaning forward and peering in
between the blind and the window-frame, watching with interest all that
had been in progress.