It was well over an hour since he had returned to his compartment. He
had left his door wide, so that he could inspect every one who passed
along the corridor. They couldn't have slipped by without his noticing.
He was becoming almost as distrustful of Santa as he was of the
stranger. Already the rôle of unwanted husband was growing irksome. The
thing that baffled him most was her morbid curiosity. It was revolting
to think of her, with her disarming air of refinement, encouraging
her admirer to conjecture the details of a crime which she herself had
committed. But how had she committed it? He himself did not know. He had
just begun to contrive the scene in his mind when they entered. Her face
was lit with a new intensity. At a glance he was aware that whatever she
had learned had quickened her emotions. The Captain followed grudgingly,
like a dog hanging back on a chain.
“Captain Lajos has been telling me,” she commenced. “But we'd better
have the door closed. He's been telling me things that you ought to
know. He's so concerned for my sake that he's offered to repeat them.”
The Captain seated himself opposite to Hind-wood and regarded him
gravely. “The things that I've been telling your wife are not my
secrets. I must ask you to give me your solemn promise.”
“You may take that for granted.”
“And there's one other point. I didn't offer to repeat them; it was Mrs.
Hindwood who urged me. I'm making this plain because I don't want you to
think I'm offering you my advice uninvited.”
Hindwood lit a fresh cigar, fortifying himself against whatever shock
was pending. “I give you full credit for your motives.”
“Then let me ask you a question. Have you noticed that there are
scarcely any women on this train?”
“I believe you're right. But until you mentioned it I hadn't noticed.”
“Well, if you'll watch, you'll see that I'm correct. There are women
and children in plenty on trains moving westward. But on trains moving
eastward, where we're going--no.”
Hindwood watched the man intently, wondering at what he was driving.
“Would you be surprised,” he continued, “if I were to tell you that one
of the chief reasons for the women's absence is this affair of Prince
Rogo-vich?”
“You rather harp on Prince Rogovich, don't you?” Hindwood flicked his
ash. “After a time one ceases to be surprised at anything. But aren't
you presuming too much in insisting on his having been murdered? All
that's known by your own account is that he's vanished. In any case,
what can he possibly have to do with the scarcity of women on trains
running eastward?”
“Everything.” The Captain's face darkened with earnestness. “What I'm
trying to tell you is that you're taking your wife into danger. Every
man who can afford it, in the countries to which you're going, is
hurrying his women-folk to France, England, Spain, America--anywhere
westward for safety. They can feel the storm rising, the deluge of
catastrophe that can't be held back much longer. When it bursts, it'll
tear everything established from its moorings and sweep across Europe in
a wave of savagery.”
“And this deluge that you speak of--what had Prince Rogovich to do with
it?”
“He was keeping it from bursting.”
Hindwood smiled. “Alone?”
“No man's single strength could accomplish that. He was one of the most
powerful of the resisting forces. When society's tottering, it's the
little added strain that upsets the equilibrium. Remember how the last
war started, with an obscure assassination.”
Hindwood crossed his knees and dug himself back into the cushions. “Your
information, to say the least of it, is strangely melodramatic. If I
understand you aright, you're urging me to discontinue my journey. Can't
you be more explicit?”
“I can.” The Captain betrayed a hint of temper. “I suppose I shall have
to if I'm to convince you. The stability of the whole of Central and
Eastern Europe has been upset by the repartitioning of the Peace Treaty.
The situation as it exists to-day is intolerable. The ruin which the war
commenced has been completed by the pacification. The old social order
has been overthrown; in its place we have a dozen rash experiments. In
Russia, instead of the Czar, we have Bolshevism. In what was once the
Austro-Hungarian Empire we have a series of Republics, which are nothing
more than old racial hatreds entrenched behind newly created frontiers.
In Poland, which was prisoner to three nations for two centuries,
we have a released convict, vengeful with a sense of past injustice.
Instead of reconstruction, we have disorganization. Trade is at a
standstill. Money is valueless. Confidence is gone. Poverty has made a
clean sweep of class distinctions. Mob-rule has usurped the rights of
authority. Like a lean wolf, famine gallops through the desolation in
ever widening circles.”
“But Prince Rogovich?” Hindwood recalled him. “What had he to do with
it?”
“He was the leader of the monarchist party in Europe--the organizer of
a secret movement to set up again the thrones which war has toppled.
Incidentally he was to have established a new throne for himself
in Poland. Behind him he had the landowning classes and the old
aristocracy, which the new regime of haphazard democracy has beggared.
He was biding his time till the crisis should become sufficiently acute
for him to strike his blow. He had his armies ready. All he lacked was
munitions. The floating of the loan in America completed his program.”
“But you said that the fact that he was returning in triumph was known
only to a few. If only a few knew it, why should his death have caused
this sudden exodus of women on trains running westward?”
“For two reasons: because he was the recognized strong man of the buffer
states which lie between Russian anarchy and civilization; and because
the crisis of starvation, for which he had been waiting, is now in
sight. While Bolshevism was making its drives against Poland, Central
Europe was compelled to hold together. Now that Bolshevism is crumbling,
that compulsion is relaxed. All the way from Siberia to the frontiers of
Germany millions are perishing from lack of food. Presently the Russian
millions will commence to march westward to the lands of plenty.
They'll march like Death, swinging his scythe. They'll sweep on like a
pestilence. They'll lope like gaunt wolves, savage and relentless. The
starving peoples of Central Europe, who would once have resisted them,
will join them. Prince Rogovich, had he lived, could have prevented
them.”
“How?” It was Santa.
“He would have declared a new war, with the return to monarchy as his
battle-cry. He had his nucleus armies in readiness; they would have
sprung from their hiding-places overnight. There would have been a
tremendous rally to him as the only man unscrupulous enough to handle
the situation. He would have made his bargain with the Allies.”
“And then?”
“He would have trained his guns on the lean hordes of Russia and would
have blown them back across their borders.”
Again Santa spoke. Her voice came low and haltingly. “He would have made
the world pass through the fires of Moloch for a second time. The person
who murdered him must have known it.”
Hindwood turned to her. There was a startled expression in his eyes. He
was quite certain she had known it. He was seeing the real Santa for
the first time. She was a Charlotte Corday, who had dipped her hands in
blood that she might prevent a more colossal crime.
“I begin to see,” he muttered.
The Captain took the words as addressed to himself. “I'm glad you do.
It must be obvious to you now that where you're going is no place for
a woman. If you'll accept my advice, you'll turn back at the next
stopping-place.”
“Impossible.” Hindwood recalled himself to the part he was playing.
“You're a soldier; you'd be ashamed to run away at the first hint of
danger. In a sense I also am a soldier, a soldier of business. I, too,
have my marching orders and my duty.”
“Then if you won't turn back yourself, send Mrs. Hindwood back.” The
man's voice shook. “You're taking her to almost certain death. She's too
beautiful--I beg it of you.”
To his amazement Hindwood found himself liking the stranger. “My wife's
beauty has no bearing on the problem. We're exceedingly grateful to you,
Captain Lajos; but to act on your warning--it's out of the question.”
The Captain shot him a dark look, then let his gaze rest on Santa. When
she kept her eyes averted, he pretended to lose interest in the subject.
The train was slowing down. He cleared the pane with his glove.
“It's the frontier.”
Hindwood rose and hurriedly commenced to gather together his belongings.
Sitting perfectly still with an air of quiet criticism, the Captain
watched him. When the last bag had been strapped and made ready for
removal, “Why are you doing that?” he inquired.
“The German Customs. I suppose we'll have to get out and go through the
old jog-trot of being inspected.”
“You don't need to; you can have it done here. Excuse me, if I seem
officious. I was immediately behind you at Calais and couldn't help
noticing that your passports are the same as mine--diplomatic. The
advantage of a diplomatic passport in crossing frontiers is that the
officials have to come to you.”
“I didn't know. If that's the case--”
He resumed his seat with a sickening sensation. The Captain's presence
was stifling him. He longed to escape, if it were only for five minutes.
He felt choked with lies. It seemed impossible that the Captain should
not be aware of the atmosphere of falsehood.
Passengers were already filing down the corridor and being herded by
soldiers on the platform. As carriages were emptied, doors were locked
and sealed. Evidently nothing was to be left to chance; while the
passengers were held prisoners in the waiting-rooms, the train was to
be searched from end to end. To a guilty conscience there was something
exceedingly intimidating about this military display of thoroughness.
The _wagon-lits_ conductor looked into the compartment. Seeing the three
of them seated there, he burst into a frantic protest. Captain Lajos
annihilated him with the ferocity of his explanation. When the conductor
had retreated, the Captain turned to Hindwood.
“Like most of your compatriots, I see you're not strong on languages. If
I can be of use to you, I'll act as your interpreter.”
“My wife is--” Then he remembered that he knew nothing of Santa's
linguistic attainments. “You're very thoughtful of our comfort,” he
substituted.
Guttural voices sounded. Two crop-headed ex-drill-sergeants presented
themselves. Without waste of words they rasped out a peremptory order.
“They want to see your passports,” the Captain interpreted.
While the passports were being examined, there was silence. Again
questions were asked and again the Captain interpreted.
“Are you carrying fire-arms?”
“Have you any contraband?”
“Do you intend to stay in Germany?”
There was a pause. The passports were folded and on the point of being
returned when another unintelligible conversation started.
The Captain smiled. “They're punctilious. As a matter of form, they want
to hear you assert that you're the Philip Hindwood to whom this passport
was issued.”
“Most certainly. They can prove that by comparing my face with the
attached photograph.”
The Captain turned to Santa with the utmost suavity. “And that you're
the Edith Jones, Mr. Hindwood's secretary.”
Having exploded his bomb, he rose. For a moment he seemed to hesitate as
to whether he should expose them. Then, making a stiff bow, he murmured,
“That's all.”
Directly he had departed, Hindwood locked the door behind him. “He shall
ferret out no more of our secrets.”
From then on, they traveled in a state of siege. Several times they
thought they heard a tapping. Whether it was the Captain's, they did not
allow themselves to discover. They opened to no one whom they had not
summoned.