The night was dark but fine, and the crossing smooth. Louise, wrapped
in furs, abandoned her private cabin directly they had left the harbor,
and had a chair placed on the upper deck. Von Behrling found her there,
but not before they were nearly half-way across. She beckoned him to
her side. Her eyes glowed at him through the darkness.
“You are not looking after me, my friend,” she declared. “By myself I
had to find this place.”
Von Behrling was ruffled. He was also humbly apologetic.
“It is those idiots who are with me,” he said. “All the time they
worry.”
She laughed and drew him down so that she could whisper in his ear.
“I know what it is,” she said. “You have secrets which you are taking
to London, and they are afraid of me because I am a Servian. Tell me,
is it not so? Perhaps, even, they think that I am a spy.”
Von Behrling hesitated. She drew him closer towards her.
“Sit down on the deck,” she continued, “and lean against the rail. You
are too big to talk to up there. So! Now you can come underneath my
rug. Tell me, are they afraid of me, your friends?”
[Illustration]
“Is it without reason?” he asked. “Would not any one be afraid of
you—if, indeed, they believed that you wished to know our secrets? I
wonder if there is a man alive whom you could not turn round your
little finger.”
She laughed at him softly.
“Ah, no!” she said. “Men are not like that, nowadays. They talk and
they talk, but it is not much they would do for a woman’s sake.”
“You believe that?” he asked, in a low tone.
“I do, indeed. One reads love-stories—no, I do not mean romances, but
memoirs—memoirs of the French and Austrian Courts—memoirs, even,
written by Englishmen. Men were different a generation ago. Honor was
dear to them then, honor and position and wealth, and yet there were
many, very many then who were willing to give all these things for the
love of a woman.
“And do you think there are none now?” he whispered hoarsely.
“My friend,” she answered, looking down at him, “I think that there are
very few.”
She heard his breath come fast between his teeth, and she realized his
state of excitement.
“Mademoiselle Louise,” he said, “my love for you has made me a
laughing-stock in the clubs of Vienna. I—the poverty-stricken, who have
nothing but a noble name, nothing to offer you—have dared to show
others what I think, have dared to place you in my heart above all the
women on earth.”
“It is very nice of you,” she murmured. “Why do you tell me this now?”
“Why, indeed?” he answered. “What have I to hope for?”
She looked along the deck. Not a dozen yards away, two cigar ends
burned red through the gloom. She knew very well that those cigar ends
belonged to Streuss and his friend. She laughed softly and once more
she bent her head.
“How they watch you, those men!” she said. “Listen, my friend Rudolph.
Supposing their fears were true, supposing I were really a spy,
supposing I offered you wealth and with it whatever else you might
claim from me, for the secret which you carry to England!”
“How do you know that I am carrying a secret?” he asked hoarsely.
She laughed.
“My friend,” she said, “with your two absurd companions shadowing you
all the time and glowering at me, how could one possibly doubt it? The
Baron Streuss is, I believe, the Chief of your Secret Service
Department, is he not? To me he seems the most obvious policeman I ever
saw dressed as a gentleman.”
“You don’t mean it!” he muttered. “You can’t mean what you said just
now!”
She was silent for a few moments. Some one passing struck a match, and
she caught a glimpse of the white face of the man who sat by her
side—strained now and curiously intense.
“Supposing I did!”
“You must be mad!” he declared. “You must not talk to me like this,
Mademoiselle. I have no secret. It is your humor, I know, but it is
dangerous.”
“There is no danger,” she murmured, “for we are alone. I say again,
Rudolph, supposing this were true?”
His hand passed across his forehead. She fancied that he made a motion
as though to rise to his feet, but she laid her hand upon his.
“Stay here,” she whispered. “No, I do not wish to drive you away. Now
you are here you shall listen to me.”
“But you are not in earnest!” he faltered. “Don’t tell me that you are
in earnest. It is treason. I am Rudolph Von Behrling, Secretary to the
Chancellor.”
Again she leaned towards him so that he could see into her eyes.
“Rudolph,” she said, “you are indeed Rudolph Von Behrling, you are
indeed the Chancellor’s secretary. What do you gain from it? A
pittance! Many hours work a day and a pittance. What have you to look
forward to? A little official life, a stupid official position.
Rudolph, here am I, and there is the world. Do I not represent other
things?”
“God knows you do!” he muttered.
“I, too, am weary of singing. I want a long rest—a long rest and a
better name than my own. Don’t shrink away from me. It isn’t so
wonderful, after all. Bellamy, the Englishman, came to me a few hours
ago. He was Dorward’s friend. He knew well what Dorward carried. It was
not his affair, he told me, and interposition from him was hopeless,
but he knew that you and I were friends.”
“You must stop!” Von Behrling declared. “You must stop! I must not
listen to this!”
“He offered me twenty thousand pounds,” she went on, “for the packet in
your pocket. Think of that, my friend. It would be a start in life,
would it not? I am an extravagant woman. Even if I would, I dared not
think of a poor man. But twenty thousand pounds is sufficient. When I
reach London, I am going to a flat which has been waiting for me for
weeks—15, Dover Street. If you bring that packet to me instead of
taking it to the Austrian Embassy, there will be twenty thousand pounds
and—”
Her fingers suddenly held his. She could almost hear his heart beating.
Her eyes, by now accustomed to the gloom, could see the tumult which
was passing within the man, reflected in his face. She whispered a
warning under her breath. The two cigar ends had moved nearer. The
forms of the two men were now distinct. One was leaning over the side
of the ship by Von Behrling’s side. The other stood a few feet away,
gazing at the lights of Dover. Von Behrling staggered to his feet. He
said something in an angry undertone to Streuss. Louise rose and shook
out her furs.
“My friend,” she said, turning to Von Behrling, “if your friends can
spare you so long, will you fetch one of my maids? You will find them
both in my cabin, number three. I wish to walk for a few moments before
we arrive.”
Von Behrling turned away like a man in a dream. Mademoiselle Idiale
followed him slowly, and behind her came Von Behrling’s companions.
The details of the great singer’s journey had been most carefully
planned by an excited manager who had received the telegram announcing
her journey to London. There was an engaged carriage at Dover, into
which she was duly escorted by a representative of the Opera Syndicate,
who had been sent down from London to receive her. Von Behrling seemed
to be missing. She had seen nothing of him since he had descended to
summon her maids. But just as the train was starting, she heard the
sound of angry voices, and a moment later his white face was pressed
through the open window of the carriage.
“Louise,” he muttered, “I am on fire! I cannot talk to you! I fear that
they suspect something. They have told me that if I travel with you
they will force their way in. Even now, Streuss comes. Listen for your
telephone to-night or whenever I can. I must think—I must think!”
He passed on, and Louise, leaning back in her seat, closed her eyes.