I
THE steamer had no sooner reached Calais than a new cause for alarm
presented itself. During the channel crossing Hindwood had been keyed up
to the last point of tension. Every moment he had expected to be tapped
on the shoulder and informed that his secretary's identity had been
discovered. He had spent most of his time surreptitiously mounting guard
in the neighborhood of Santa's cabin. If the same man chanced to pass
him twice, he had at once jumped to the conclusion that he was being
shadowed.
The hesitancy at Dover over O.K.'ing Santa's passport had robbed him
of whatever sense of security he had possessed. It had compelled him
to acknowledge the ruin that faced him, should he be exposed while
engineering the flight of so notorious a criminal. As the Major had
warned him, she was being sought by the police of every country.
If the worst should happen, he would find no apologists. It would be
useless for him to plead a chivalrous motive. She had been the lodestar
of masculine passions too often. Though he managed to escape a prison
sentence, he would emerge from the catastrophe broken in character--a
paltry creature, half knave, half fool, who had gambled away his
integrity and made himself a laughing stock. Already in imagination he
was reading the scare headlines which would advertise his shame to the
world. He would be regarded as a malefactor--hustled behind bars and
herded for trial with blackmailers and pickpockets.
Dogged by these persistent dreads, when the ship was inside Calais
harbor he rapped on her door and having heard her bid him enter, slipped
across the threshold, announcing tersely:
“We're there.”
Since she joined him, he had held no conversation with her. She made
no attempt to break through his silence. Rising obediently, while she
adjusted her hat, she watched him in the mirror with the eyes of a
reproachful dog. Without sign or sound, as he turned away impatiently,
she followed. No sooner did they appear on deck than the new cause for
alarm started.
A handsome and distinguished-looking foreigner began taking immediate
notice of her. He was so quick to pick her out in the throng that it
seemed he must have been watching for her. Whoever and whatever he was,
he was manifestly a man of breeding--the kind of man who might have
been her companion in the old, wild days of her triumphant folly. He was
about thirty-five, tall, dark, finely-built, and of military bearing.
He had a closely-trimmed mustache, bold, black eyes, and a Latin type
of countenance. That was all that Hindwood permitted himself to observe;
changing his position promptly, he shut Santa out from the stranger's
line of vision. But the man was not to be balked. With an air of
complete unconcern, he fell into line immediately behind them, treading
closely on their heels as they passed up the gangplank. On the way
to the Customs he managed to get ahead, so that he could glance back
several times at Santa.
After their baggage had been inspected it was necessary for them to file
through a stuffy room where passports were examined. It was here that
Hindwood was fully prepared to be caught. The officials at Dover had
probably cabled a warning; the inquisitive stranger might prove to
be their emissary. Quite the contrary occurred. The French official,
catching sight of the magic words _Diplomatic_ and _Special_,
scrutinized no further and returned the papers with a courteous apology.
Making the most of his luck, Hindwood hurried Santa out onto the
platform, down the long train labeled Stuttgart, Warsaw, etc., and into
the _wagons-lits_ which went express to Vienna.
Before leaving London he had reserved two separate compartments in the
name of “Philip Hindwood and party.” Now that he claimed them, he found
to his annoyance that they were adjoining and connected by a private
door. It was an indiscretion that he had not intended. Having seen Santa
safely settled, he set off to superintend the placing on board of their
bags.
He was gone perhaps five minutes. As he reentered the corridor of his
section, the first sight that met his eyes was the handsome stranger
engaged in earnest talk with the _wagon-lits_ conductor. Some money
passed. Next thing the stranger's belongings were being transferred
from lower down the train to the compartment on the further side from
Santa's. Hindwood entered his own compartment, shaded the windows that
looked out on the corridor and made fast his door.
What was the game? Was this a fresh example of Santa's irresistible
charm? And if it was, was he to be subjected to this kind of
impertinence throughout the entire journey? Or was the man a secret
service agent in the employ of some foreign Government, who, believing
he had recognized her, was keeping her in sight till she should have
crossed the frontier into his own country, where he would have power to
arrest her?
In his anger he tried to blame Santa; she must have unconsciously
exercised her talent for attraction. Strangers didn't follow women
unless----
But he had to own himself unjust. She was dressed with the utmost
plainness, in a tailored costume, minus furs or any lavishness. There
was nothing to complain of in her deportment. It was as modest as
could have been expected had she really been “Edith Jones, aged thirty,
American-born citizen, confidential secretary.” The fault lay in
something beyond her control--her beauty. It refused to be subdued.
It shone out the more conspicuously in the absence of adornment. It
constituted itself an unforeseen embarrassment, if not a menace. The
further he traveled into continental countries, the less he would be
believed when he stated that she was Miss Jones and no more than his
secretary. Already more people than the obtrusive stranger had stared
at her. She had only to appear to make herself the focus of attention.
Sooner or later, to-day, to-morrow, a month hence, some one would catch
sight of her who had known her in the past. She had been feted in
too many cities, her portrait had been too widely published, for her
features not to be remembered. These distressing reflections were cut
short by the shrill tootings of tin horns which announce the departure
of a train in France. When Calais had been left behind and they were
rushing past stripped orchards and harvested fields, he unlatched the
dividing door. She was sitting lost in thought, staring out of the
window with a wistful expression.
“Come into my compartment. I'd like to talk.”
The jerk with which she turned betrayed the strain under which she
was laboring. He watched the undulating grace with which she rose, the
calculated delicacy of her every movement. Though she had dressed in
rags, nothing could have disguised her.
When he had closed the door, she remained standing.
“Please sit down,” he said with cold politeness. “We're safe for the
moment. As you see, I've lowered the blinds. No one can spy on us.
You've noticed him?”
Drawing off her gloves, she smoothed them out mechanically, maintaining
her silence.
“Tell me,” he urged, “what do you make of him?”
“Nothing.” Her voice was flat and toneless. “Wherever I go, it's always
the same. You ought to know--on the _Ryndam_ you were like it.”
He passed over the implied accusation. “Then you don't think he's
a----?”
“I've not troubled to think.” She glanced drearily aside. “Men are
brutes. If you'd left me alone on the cliff--I wish you had. It would
have been all ended.”
She said it without spite--almost without reproach. In the presence of
her melancholy, he recovered something of his compassion.
“But I didn't leave you, and nothing's gained by recrimination. The
point is this fellow next door. What's his purpose? How are we going to
manage him?”
“Easily. Fling me to him as you'd toss a dog a bone. You'll be rid of
your share of the danger.”
“I don't want to be rid of you.” He passed his hand across his forehead,
mastering his impatience.
“I don't pretend I shan't be glad----”
“To be quit of me,” she prompted.
“To be relieved of the risk of you,” he corrected. “But not until I've
fulfilled my promise.”
She smiled. “You promised you'd save me. I can't be saved. Varensky's
talk about redeeming me was visionary. I was born to be what I am.”
He relaxed and sat forward, exerting himself to make the conversation
less unfriendly. “Of course I know why you speak this way: it's because
of my recent treatment of you. We were nearly found out at Dover;
the anxiety of it's getting on my nerves. I promised to give you your
chance; my promise stands. The least I can ask of you as a sportswoman
is to play up to me.”
Her whole demeanor changed. The golden face flashed. “I will.”
“Then if this man is only an impudent admirer, how are we to shake him?
It's my business for the present to protect you. If this is the sort
of thing that always happens, it's possible that it'll occur again. I
daren't resent his conduct. Ordinarily I should know what to do with
him. How is the repetition of the annoyance to be avoided?”
A slow flush mounted from her throat to her cheeks. “You won't take my
suggestion, so I don't think I'll make it.”
“Let's have it.”
Not looking at him, she muttered: “He'll try to scrape acquaintance.
When he does, introduce me to him as your wife.”
“But to do that----”
He fell silent. He was thinking of Anna. For the first time he was
conscious of his aloneness with this woman.
Not wishing to wound her, he procrastinated.
“To do that might only add to our complications.”
“It might.” Her gray eyes struggled to meet his gaze. “It isn't likely.
He won't believe you.”
“Then what would be gained?”
“You'd have told him, without insult, that he wasn't wanted.”
He glanced out of the window at the rushing landscape. At last he spoke.
“If there's no other way----”
She rested her thin, fine hand on his gently. “You're generous. If the
day ever comes when you despise yourself as I despise myself to-day,
remember that once you were able to make a wicked woman believe in
goodness--to make her long with all her heart to be like you.” Her eyes
became misty. “At this moment I'm not far from redemption.”
Lunch was announced. He gave orders to have it served in his
compartment. While they ate, he outlined to her his plans. He had asked
her how long she expected to be with him.
Her reply was discomfortingly vague. “As long as you can endure me.”
“Inside of two months,” he told her, “I think I can promise you
immunity. At present, according to information, Central Europe's
starving. With winter comes the crisis. I've forseen that. For some time
I've been shipping food to Holland. It's lying there in warehouses in
immense quantities. I have an entire fleet secretly at work, plying back
and forth across the Atlantic. When the famine becomes too acute, I'm
prepared to strike my bargain. I'll take railroads and concessions in
exchange for bread. Other upstarts have carved out kingdoms with armies;
I intend to conquer mine with food. There never was a war or any social
uprising that wasn't caused by an empty stomach. Within three hours
of my terms having been accepted, my trains will be streaming out of
Holland. Where they halt, the flames of revolution will be quenched. If
I haven't miscalculated, I shall be unofficial President of the United
States of Europe.” He paused to watch his effect. “I've nominated
myself,” he smiled.
His smile was unreturned. She was regarding him with an expression of
horror. Their rôles seemed reversed. It was evident that to her way of
thinking it was he who had become the criminal and she who was looking
down on him from a higher moral level.
“But they're starving.” Her voice shook passionately. “If you have these
stores, why don't you feed them? They're dying. So many of them are
children!”
“You don't understand.” He tried to make his tones reasonable. “I've
invested all my fortune in the venture. I'm a business man. In business
one man's calamity is another's opportunity. The same is true of
nations.”
Seeing that she still looked grieved, he patted her shoulder. “Don't
worry. We'll rustle through. Your life will be spared.”
“I wasn't thinking of my life.” She spoke contemptuously.
“Then of what?”
“Of the women dead of hunger in the ditches about Kiev.”
As she rose to leave, she glanced back from the doorway. “There was
a message I had to deliver to you. Varensky's setting out on his last
journey. He hopes to see you in Budapest. He told me to say, 'Soon you
can have her.'”