"Winds in the whinns
Shall kene for me--
(_For Love is Love though men be men!_)
Till all my sins
Forgiven be--
(_Maxima culpa, Lord. Amen._)
And Mary's grace my fault shall purge,
While skylarks plead my cause above,
And breezy rivers sing my dirge,
Because I loved and died of Love.
(_I love, and die of Love!_)
Amen."
When the soft cadence of the last notes was stilled, Dulcie turned
once more toward him in the uncertain light.
"It's very lovely," he said, "and dreadfully triste. The air alone is
enough to break your heart."
"My mother, when she wrote it, was unhappy, I imagine----" She swung
slowly around to face the keys again.
"Do you know why she was so unhappy?"
"She fell in love," said the girl over her shoulder. "And it saddened
her life, I think."
He sat motionless for a while. Dulcie did not turn again. Presently he
rose and walked slowly out and down stairs, carrying his letters with
him.
The stolid, mottled-faced German girl was on duty at the desk, and she
favoured him with a sour look, as usual.
"There was a gen'l'man to see you," she mumbled.
"When?"
"Just now. I didn't know you was in."
"Well, why didn't you ring up the apartment and find out?" he
demanded.
She gave him a sullen look:
"Here's his card," she said, shoving it across the desk.
Barres picked up the card. "Georges Renoux, Architect," he read.
"Hotel Astor" was pencilled in the corner.
Barres knit his brows, trying to evoke in his memory a physiognomy to
fit a name which seemed hazily familiar.
"Did the gentleman leave any message?" he asked.
"No."
"Well, please don't make another mistake of this kind," he said.
She stared at him like a sulky sow, her little eyes red with malice.
"Where is Soane?" he inquired.
"Out."
"Where did he go?"
"I didn't ask him," she replied, with a slight sneer.
"I wish to see him," continued Barres patiently. "Could you tell me
whether he was likely to go to Grogans?"
"What's Grogan's?"
"Grogan's Cafe on Third Avenue--where Soane hangs out," he managed to
explain calmly. "You know where it is. You have called him up there."
"I don't know nothin' about it," she grunted, resuming the greasy
novel she had been reading.
But when Barres, now thoroughly incensed, turned to leave, her small,
pig-like eyes peeped slyly after him. And after he had disappeared
through the corridor into the street she hastily unhooked the
transmitter and called Grogan's.
"This is Martha.... Martha Kurtz. Yes, I want Frank Lehr.... Is that
you, Frank?... The artist, Barres, who was pumping Soane the other
night, is after him again. I told you how I listened at the door, and
how I heard that Irish souse blabbing and bragging.... What?...
Sure!... Barres was at the desk just now inquiring if Soane had gone
to Grogan's.... You bet!... Barres is leery since _K17_ hit him with a
gun. Sure; he's stickin' his nose into everything.... Look out for
him, if he comes around Grogan's askin' for Soane.... And say; there
was a French guy here callin' on Barres. I knew he was in, but I said
he was out. I was just goin' to call you when Barres came down....
Yes, I got his name.... Wait, I copied it out.... Here it is, 'Georges
Renoux, Architect.' And he wrote 'Hotel Astor' in the corner.
"Yes, he said tell Barres to call him up. Naw, I didn't give him the
message.... You don't say! Is that right? He's one o' them nosey
Frenchman? _A captain_?... Gee!... What's his lay?... In New York?
Well, you better watch out then.... Sure, I'll ring you if he comes
back!... No, there ain't no news.... Yes, I was to the Astor grille
last night, and I talked to _K17_.... There was a guy higher up there.
I don't know who. He looked like he was a dark complected Jew....
_Ferez Bey_?... Gee!... You expect Skeel? To-night? Doin' _what_? You
think this man Renoux is watchin' the Clan-na-Gael? Well, you better
tell Soane to shut his mouth then.
"Yes, that Dunois girl is here still. It's a pity _K17_ lost his
nerve.... Well, you better look out for her and for Barres, too.
They're as thick as last year honey!
"All right, I'll let you know anything. Bye-bye."
* * * * *
Barres, walking leisurely up the street, kept watching for Soane
somewhere along the block; but could see nobody in the darkness,
resembling him.
Outdoors the July night was cooler; young girls, hatless, in summer
frocks, gathered on stoops or strolled through the lamplit dark.
Somewhere a piano sounded, not unpleasantly.
In the branch post office he mailed his letters, turned to go out, and
caught sight of Soane passing along the sidewalk just outside.
And with him was the one-eyed man, Max Freund--the man who, perhaps,
had robbed Dulcie of half the letter.
His first emotion was sheer anger, and it started him toward the door,
bent on swift but unconsidered vengeance.
But before this impulse culminated in his collaring the one-eyed man,
sufficient common sense came to the rescue. A row meant publicity, and
an inquiry by authority would certainly involve the writer of the
partly stolen letter--Thessalie Dunois.
Cool and collected now, but mad all through, Barres continued to
follow Soane and Freund, dropping back several yards to keep out of
sight, and trying to make up his mind what he ought to do.
The cross street was fairly well lighted; there seemed to be plenty of
evening strollers abroad, so that he was not particularly conspicuous
on the long block between Sixth and Fifth Avenues.
The precious pair, arriving at Fifth Avenue, halted, blocked by the
normal rush of automobiles, unchecked now by a traffic policeman.
So Barres halted, too, and drew back alongside a shop window.
And, as he stopped and stepped aside, he saw a man pause on the
sidewalk across the street and move back cautiously into the shadow of
a facade opposite.
There was nothing significant in the occurrence; Barres merely
happened to notice it; then he turned his eyes toward Soane and
Freund, who now were crossing Fifth Avenue. And he went after them,
with no definite idea in his head.
Soane and Freund walked on eastward; a tramcar on Madison Avenue
stopped them once more; and, as Barres also halted behind them and
stepped aside into the shadows, there, just across the street, he saw
the same man again halt, retire, and stand motionless in a recess
between two shop windows.
Barres tried to keep one eye on him and the other on Soane and Freund.
The two latter were crossing Madison Avenue; and as soon as they had
crossed, still headed east, the man on the other side of the street
came out of his shadowy recess and started eastward, too.
Then Barres also started, but now he was watching the man across the
street as well as keeping Soane and Freund in view--watching the
former solitary individual with increasing curiosity.
Was that man keeping an eye on him? Was he following Soane and Freund?
Was he, in fact, following anybody, and had the lively imagination of
Barres begun to make something out of nothing?
At Park Avenue Freund and Soane paused, not apparently because of any
vehicular congestion impeding their progress, but they seemed to be
engaged in vehement conversation, Soane's excitable tones reaching
Barres, where he had halted again beside the tradesmen's gate of a
handsome private house.
And once more, across the street the solitary figure also halted and
stood unstirring under a porte-cochere.
Barres, straining his eyes, strove to make out details of his features
and dress. And presently he concluded that, though the man did turn
and glance in his direction occasionally, his attention was
principally fixed on Soane and Freund.
His movements, too, seemed to corroborate this idea, because as soon
as they started across Park Avenue the man on the opposite side of the
street was in instant motion. And Barres, now intensely curious,
walked eastward once more, following all three.
At Lexington Avenue Soane sheered off and, despite the clutch of
Freund, went into a saloon. Freund finally followed.
As usual, across the street the solitary figure had stopped. Barres,
also immobile, kept him in view. Evidently he, too, was awaiting the
reappearance of Soane and Freund.
Suddenly Barres made up his mind to have a good look at him. He walked
to the corner, walked over to the south side of the street, turned
west, and slowly sauntered past the man, looking him deliberately in
the face.
As for the stranger, far from shrinking or avoiding the scrutiny, he
on his part betrayed a very lively interest in the physiognomy of
Barres; and as that young man approached he found himself scanned by a
brilliant and alert pair of eyes, as keen as a fox-terrier's.
In frank but subtly hostile curiosity their glances met and crossed.
Then, in an instant, a rather odd smile glimmered in the stranger's
eyes, twitched at his pleasant mouth, just shaded by a tiny
moustache:
"If you please, sir," he said in a low, amused voice, "you will
not--as they say in New York--butt in."
Barres, astonished, stood quite still. The young man continued to
regard him with a very intelligent and slightly ironical expression:
"I do not know, of course," he said, "whether you are of the city
police, the State service, the Post Office, the Department of Justice,
the Federal Secret Service"--he shrugged expressive shoulders--"but
this I do know very well, that through lack of proper coordination in
the branches of all your departments of City, State, and Federal
surety, there is much bungling, much working at cross purposes, much
interference, and many blunders.
"Therefore, I beg of you not to do anything further in the matter
which very evidently occupies you." And he bowed and glanced across at
the saloon into which Soane and Freund had disappeared.
Barres was thinking hard. He drew out his cigarette case, lighted a
cigarette, came to his conclusions:
"You are watching Freund and Soane?" he asked bluntly.
"And you, sir? Are you observing the stars?" inquired the young man,
evidently amused at something or other unperceived by Barres.
The latter said, frankly and pleasantly:
"I _am_ following those two men. It is evident that you are, also. So
may I ask, have you any idea where they are going?"
"I can guess, perhaps."
"To Grogan's?"
"Of course."
"Suppose," said Barres quietly, "I put myself under your orders and go
along with you."
The strange young man was much diverted:
"In your kind suggestion there appears to be concealed a germ of
common sense," he said. "In which particular service are you employed,
sir?"
"And you?" inquired Barres, smilingly.
"I imagine you may have guessed," said the young man, evidently
greatly amused at something or other.
Sheer intuition prompted Barres, and he took a chance.
"Yes, I have ventured to guess that you are an Intelligence Officer in
the French service, and secretly on duty in the United States."
The young man winced but forced a very bland smile.
"My compliments, whether your guess is born of certainty or not. And
you, sir? May I inquire your status?"
"I'm merely a civilian with a season's Plattsburg training as my only
professional experience. I'm afraid you won't believe this, but it's
quite true. I'm not in either Municipal, State, or Federal service.
But I don't believe I can stand this Hun business much longer without
enlisting with the Canadians."
"Oh. May I ask, then, why you follow that pair yonder?"
"I'll tell you why. I am a painter. I live at Dragon Court. Soane, an
Irishman, is superintendent of the building. I have reason to believe
that German propagandists have been teaching him disloyalty under
promise of aiding Ireland to secure political independence.
"Coming out of the branch post office this evening, where I had taken
some letters, I saw Soane and that fellow, Freund. I really couldn't
tell you exactly what my object was in following them, except that I
itched to beat up the German and refrained because of the inevitable
notoriety that must follow.
"Perhaps I had a vague idea of following them to Grogan's, where I
knew they were bound, just to look over the place and see for myself
what that German rendezvous is like.
"Anyway, what kept me on their trail was noticing _you_; and your
behaviour aroused my curiosity. That is the entire truth concerning
myself and this affair. And if you believe me, and if you think I can
be of any service to you, take me along with you. If not, then I shall
certainly not interfere with whatever you are engaged in."
For a few moments the young Intelligence Officer looked intently at
Barres, the same amused, inexplicable smile on his face. Then:
"Your name," he said, with malicious gaiety, "is Garret Barres."
At that Barres completely lost countenance, but the other man began to
laugh:
"Certainly you are Garry Barres, a painter, a celebrated Beaux Arts
man of----"
"Good heavens!" exclaimed Barres, "_you_ are Renoux! You are little
Georges Renoux, of the atelier Ledoux!--on the architect's side!--you
are that man who left his card for me this evening! I've seen you
often! You were a little devil of a nouveau!--but you were always the
centre of every bit of mischief in the rue Bonaparte! You put the
whole Quarter en charette! I saw you do it."
"I saw _you_," laughed Renoux, "on one notorious occasion, teaching
jiu-jitsu to a policeman! Don't talk to me about my escapades!"
Cordially, firmly, in grinning silence, they shook hands. And for a
moment the intervening years seemed to melt away; the golden past
became the present; and Renoux even thrilled a little at the
condescension of Barres in shaking hands with him--the _nouveau_
honoured by the _ancien_!--the reverence never entirely forgotten.
"What are you, anyway, Renoux?" asked Barres, still astonished at the
encounter, but immensely interested.
"My friend, you have already guessed. I am Captain: Military
Intelligence Department. You know? There are no longer architects or
butchers or bakers in France, only soldiers. And of those soldiers I
am a very humble one."
"On secret duty here," nodded Barres.
"I need not ask an old Beaux Arts comrade to be discreet and loyal."
"My dear fellow, France is next in my heart after my own country. Tell
me, you are following that Irishman, Soane, and his boche friend, Max
Freund, are you not?"
"It happens to be as you say," admitted Renoux, smilingly. "A job for
a 'flic,' is it not?"
"Shall I tell you what I know about those two men?--what I suspect?"
"I should be very glad----" But at that moment Soane came out of the
saloon across the way, and Freund followed.
"May I come with you?" whispered Barres.
"If you care to. Yes, come," nodded Renoux, keeping his clear,
intelligent eyes on the two across the street, who now stood under a
lamp-post, engaged in some sort of drunken altercation.
Renoux, watching them all the while, continued in a low voice:
"Remember, Barres, if we chance to meet again here in America, I am
merely Georges Renoux, an architect and a fellow Beaux Arts man."
"Certainly.... Look! They're starting on, those two!"
"Come," whispered Renoux.
Soane, unsteady of leg and talkative, was now making for Third Avenue
beside Freund, who had taken him by the arm, in hopes, apparently, of
steadying them both.
As Renoux and Barres followed, the latter cautiously requested any
instructions which Renoux might think fit to give.
Renoux said in his cool, agreeable voice:
"You know it's rather unusual for an officer to bother personally with
this sort of thing. But my people--even the renegade Germans in our
service--have been unable to obtain necessary information for us in
regard to Grogan's.
"It happened this afternoon that certain information was brought to me
which suggested that I myself take a look at Grogan's. And that is
what I was going to do when I saw you on the street, carefully
stalking two well-known suspects."
They both laughed cautiously.
Grogan's was now in sight on the corner, its cherrywood magnificence
and its bilious imitation of stained glass aglow with electricity. And
into its "Family Entrance" swaggered Soane, followed by the lank
figure of Max Freund.
Renoux and Barres had halted fifty yards away. Neither spoke. And
presently came to them a short, dark, powerfully built man, who
strolled up casually, puffing a large, rank cigar.
Renoux named him to Barres:
"Emile Souchez, one of my men." He added: "Anybody gone in yet?"
"Otto Klein, of Gerhardt, Klein & Schwartzmeyer went in an hour ago,"
replied Souchez.
"Oho," nodded Renoux softly. "That signifies something really
interesting. Who else went in?"
"Small fry--Dave Sendelbeck, Louis Hochstein, Terry Madigan, Dolan,
McBride, Clancy--all Clan-na-Gael men."
"Skeel?"
"No. He's still at the Astor. Franz Lehr came out about half an hour
ago and took a taxi west. Jacques Alost is following in another."
Renoux thought a moment:
"Lehr has probably gone to see Skeel at the Hotel Astor," he
concluded. "We're going to have our chance, I think."
Then, turning to Barres:
"We've decided to take a sport-chance to-night. We have most reliable
information that this man Lehr, who now owns Grogan's, will carry here
upon his person papers of importance to my Government--and to yours,
too, Barres.
"The man from whom he shall procure these papers is an Irish gentleman
named Murtagh Skeel, just arrived from Buffalo and stopping overnight
at the Hotel Astor.
"Lehr, we were informed, was to go personally and get those papers....
Do you really wish to help us?"
"Certainly."
"Very well. I expect we shall have what you call a mix-up. You will
please, therefore, walk into Grogan's--not by the family entrance, but
by the swinging doors on Lexington Avenue. Kindly refresh yourself
there with some Munich beer; also eat a sandwich at my expense, if you
care to. Then you will give yourself the pains to inquire the way to
the wash-room. And there you will possess your soul in amiable
patience until you shall hear me speak your name in a very quiet,
polite tone."
Barres, recognising the familiar mock seriousness of student days in
Paris, began to smile. Renoux frowned and continued his instructions:
"When you hear me politely pronounce your name, mon vieux, then you
shall precipitate yourself valiantly to the aid of Monsieur Souchez
and myself--and perhaps Monsieur Alost--and help us to hold, gag and
search the somewhat violent German animal whom we corner inside the
family entrance of Herr Grogan!"
Barres had difficulty in restraining his laughter. Renoux was very
serious, with the delightful mock gravity of a witty and perfectly
fearless Frenchman.
"Lehr?" inquired Barres, still laughing.
"That is the animal under discussion. There will be a taxicab awaiting
us----" He turned to Souchez: "Dis, donc, Emile, faut employer ton
coup du Pere Francois pour nous assurer de cet animal la."
"B'en sure," nodded Souchez, fishing furtively in the side pocket of
his coat and displaying the corner of a red silk handkerchief. He
stuffed it into his pocket again; Renoux smiled carelessly at Barres.
"Mon vieux," he said, "I hope it will be like a good fight in the
Quarter--what with all those Irish in there. You desire to get your
head broken?"
"You bet I do, Renoux!"
"Bien! So now, if you are quite ready?" he suggested. "Merci,
monsieur, et a bientot!" He bowed profoundly.
Barres, still laughing, walked to Lexington Avenue, crossed northward,
and entered the swinging doors of Grogan's, perfectly enchanted to
have his finger in the pie at last, and aching for an old-fashioned
Latin Quarter row, the pleasures of which he had not known for several
too respectable years.