BERNARD TREVES'S BOOTS (continued 2)

The girl nodded.

"They came to ask where you were, and wanted your address, but I remembered what you told me and would not give it."

Then for the first time John looked keenly into her face. He had never seen her in his life before, and at any moment she might recognise him. But even with that danger hovering over him he could not help wondering if she loved Treves.

"Come, Bernard"; she took his hand in hers. "You must see your friends and get rid of them."

John walked with her along the narrow passage. At the door of the parlour the girl halted.

"When they are gone," she whispered, "I have whole heaps of things to tell you."

She pushed open the door and followed John into the room.

Manners, who was seated at the hearth, sprang up and rushed towards Manton.

"Come in! Come in!" he cried, drawing John forward. "It does my eyes good to see you again, eh, Captain Cherriton?"

Baron Rathenau, who had also risen, enclosed Manton's fingers in his hard, cold grip. "I, too, am glad to see you," he said, fixing his eyes steadily on John's.

CHAPTER VII

Things were not as they seemed. The situation in the little parlour was delicate in the extreme, and as John's gaze passed from the fat countenance of Manners to the cold forcefulness of Cherriton, whose strong hand but a moment ago gripped his own in greeting, he told himself that if he could creep from that situation with credit he could escape from anything. Both Cherriton's and Manners's welcome rang false. They were not pleased to see him. They were startled and puzzled, and Cherriton, at least, was more than puzzled. John knew that whatever occurred between himself and these two men must occur privately. Moreover, there was a second danger, which he knew to be ever present. The light in the bright little parlour was quite strong. The fact that he had dexterously placed his back to the window might not serve him for more than a few minutes. What if Elaine Treves suddenly discovered her mistake?

Somehow the teeming possibilities of the moment gave steadiness to John's nerves. He thought of a plan, and put it into execution on the instant.

"Elaine," he said—he used her name for the first time, and as he spoke he took her slender hand in his grasp—"I have business to discuss with Captain Cherriton and Mr. Manners."

"I promise we shall not keep your husband more than a few minutes," intervened Cherriton. "Yes, old Manwitz for once is right," he thought; "here is an Englishwoman possessed of beauty."

He made across the room, intending politely to hold open the door for Elaine to pass out. John, however, was quicker, and as he held the door wide Elaine lifted her grey-blue, beautiful eyes and searched his. Her expression, John thought, was one of surprise—surprise at what?

He closed the door, and instantly Cherriton laid a hand on his shoulder.

"Well," he demanded, "what happened to you last night."

"You were present at the beginning of the happening," returned John.

"The four men were police officers, were they not?"

"Detectives from Scotland Yard. They took me there, cross-examined me, and discovered that a mistake had been made."

Manners drew in a deep breath of relief.

"Ah—a—mistake!" he exclaimed.

Cherriton, who was busy with a cigarette, looked at John under his brows. He had retreated to the hearth, and-was leaning with his back against the mantelshelf. "A very unpleasant incident for you, eh, Treves?" he inquired.

"Very," responded John.

"And my overcoat—my very excellent summer overcoat—what happened to that?"

From the moment of John's appearance in the room he had been leading up to this question—had his overcoat been searched, had Treves's incriminating letter been discovered? It occurred to him that if John, immediately after his arrest, had established his identity no search of his overcoat was probable. And yet caution was bred in him. His deeply subtle mind prompted him to probe the matter to its depths, and at the same time to convey no suspicion of his anxiety to John.

"Cherriton, your overcoat is quite safe," John said quietly. "I left it on your behalf in the cloak-room at Charing Cross Station." He put his hand into his pocket and drew out the ticket. Cherriton took it from his extended fingers.

"I am particularly obliged to you, Treves," he said. "I have a special fondness for that overcoat? So the Scotland Yard people were for once mistaken."

"Entirely," said John, with truth; "they mistook me for another man."

"Were you made acquainted with the charges against the real person?" probed Cherriton.

"He was wanted for misappropriation of military funds."

Both Manners and Cherriton exhibited increasing interest in the unknown culprit.

"You heard the person's name?"

"His name was John Manton. He was a sergeant at Scarthoe Fort."

"That is in the Isle of Wight?"

"Yes," John answered; "that accounts for them seizing me—they traced me from the Isle of Wight."

Cherriton and Manners exchanged glances; neither man felt at all comfortable. But Cherriton felt that he had pressed the matter enough. He suddenly assumed his air of bland amiability, but it sat ill on him.

"Well, Manners," he exclaimed, looking at his confrère, "you were mistaken—you assumed that our dear friend Treves had escaped, and were in a great fluster of anxiety on his behalf; whereas the little misfortune that occurred to him was all a mistake."

"All a mistake," repeated John.

"And now, I think," Cherriton remarked, taking up his grey felt hat and denting it carefully with his hand, "I think we will not keep you from your wife any longer."

For the second time that day he gripped John's hand in his, and John, looking back into his cold blue eyes, felt the steady, penetrating power of Cherriton's gaze.

"Here was a man," thought John, "used to command—a man possessed of exceptional powers of mind and physique. You are a daring fellow," thought John; "a subtle and cunning worker of evil, but for once in your life you are mistaken. I am not the man you think, either in name or in character."

Then a singular thing happened to John. On the very instant when his fingers slid away from the other's touch a flaming instinct ran through him—a passionate impulse to leap upon the other's throat and squeeze the life out of him came upon him as a definite and conscious wish. Though he had known Cherriton only for two days, he felt a great hate swirl up in him against this serenely poised, potent enemy. Against Manners, whom he knew, and whom Dacent Smith knew to be a spy, he felt nothing of this. That afternoon he had been instructed well and thoroughly by Dacent Smith. Dacent Smith had talked much with him, drawing him out, subtly examining him as to his aspirations and his powers. And gradually, during the talk of that afternoon, Smith had come to realise that in John Manton he possessed a keen and highly-wrought weapon. Here was a young man who had fought for his country, who was willing to fight for it again in any circumstances. And long before the end of that interview the chief of a great branch of the Secret Service had laid his hand on John's arm.

"Manton," he had explained, "you were wasted as a sergeant at Scarthoe Head. There are big things awaiting you. You have fought the enemy in the open; from to-day you shall fight him in the dark. You will find him more tricky and subtle and dangerous than he was in France"—then he had paused a moment, looking at John. "Accidents sometimes happen, Manton, my boy!"

"One must be prepared for accidents," John had answered, quietly.

"I have lost two or three splendid fellows during the past year. I am telling you this," the chief resumed, "that you may remain always on your guard. Fate or Providence has placed you in a wonderful position with the aid of your acquaintance, Manwitz. I have the complete dossier in that cupboard over there." He pointed to a cabinet against the wall. "Your acquaintance with Manwitz gives you a splendid start. You will use it to acquire such information as will be useful to the Department, but in the first place you must discover all there is to know about the amiable and unexpected Cherriton. We shall at the same time be working to discover things from our end."

John thought of this conversation as Manners and Cherriton took their departure.

"You will come and see me again soon, will you not?" Manners had remarked at the moment of departure. He looked cunningly and meaningly into John's eyes. In effect he had been saying: "You will come and see me again immediately those cocaine tabloids have been consumed." Bernard Treves's craving for cocaine, both Manners and Cherriton knew, held that young man as by bonds of steel.

"I'll come again soon," John had answered, slipping the new address Manners had given him into his waistcoat pocket. He watched the two men pass into the street, then closed the door, and re-entered the empty parlour. The daintiness, the cleanliness, and the perfect taste of the little apartment had already won his appreciation. He wondered when Elaine Treves would descend from above, and what would happen then. Until now only a few fleeting words had passed between himself and the beautiful girl who was Treves's wife. What was to happen now in the intimacy that would ensue when she re-entered the room?

John was smoking one of Treves's cigarettes, with his back against the mantelshelf, when the door opened and Elaine quietly entered.

"So you have got rid of them, Bernard?"

She looked at him, he thought, a little shyly, with something of reserve in her glance. He watched her as she crossed to a chintz-covered wicker arm-chair, with its back to the window. At her side was a small work-table. She took out a needle, a thread, and various bits of coloured silk. A silence drew itself out that became awkward. John moved from one foot to another; then he made an effort to pick up the thread of what he believed to be Treves's life in relation to the girl who was so industriously sewing, with bowed head.

"I am sorry I wasn't able to come in answer to your wire."

"I think, Bernard, you might have answered it," returned Elaine, quietly, without raising her head.

"Well, you know, I was not able to. Circumstances did not permit me to answer it."

"I was afraid of that."

She suddenly looked up at him with an expression of hopelessness in her fine eyes.

"Bernard," she said, "sometimes I think you will never, never be able to keep your promise to me!"

"Why not?" John asked, feeling his way cautiously. He could see that she was stirred, that something had moved her deeply. He was more than ever assured of this when she rose, stood before him, and looked steadily into his face.

"Oh! Bernard, if you could only, only fight!"

Under the close scrutiny of her eyes John felt extraordinarily uncomfortable.

"Other people have fought and have conquered," went on the girl. "Why should not you? Sometimes," she went on, "you are quite as you should be, just as you are now—the man who once won my love. And then, again——" She broke off.

Accidentally John had put his fingers in his waistcoat pocket. He felt the contact of the little bottle of cocaine tabloids Manners had forced upon him. He had guessed that Elaine was referring to Treves's enslavement to this drug, and he drew out the bottle, holding it in the palm of his hand. He saw the girl look at the tabloids with an expression of loathing; then something seemed to pass through her that drew her rigid and erect.

"I wonder," she said, "in our very short months together, how often you have promised, have sworn, to give it up!" Her manner suddenly changed again, and she held out her hand imploringly. "I wonder, Bernard, if you have the courage to give them to me?"

"Certainly," John said, "I will give them to you!"

He unscrewed the top of the little bottle, and poured the white tabloids one after another into the palm of her hand. She looked at them for a moment, then into his face. John was still standing with his back towards the small fire. He felt the girl's hand on his arm; she was thrusting him aside. A moment later she had flung the tabloids into the red embers, and before John knew it she was holding his hand in hers, looking up into his face.

"Bernard," she said, in a low voice, "I believe—I believe you have changed! I think strength is coming to you—you will win yet!"

"Yes," John answered, "I swear I'll win."

The words came from him almost without volition, and at the same moment an instinct came to him that matters were drifting too far. He turned the conversation with a laugh, and for some minutes they were discussing general topics. He helped her to prepare the supper, going into the little kitchen and bringing out plates and dishes, under her direction.

Daylight faded, much to John's relief. They took supper together in the little parlour; John noticed how deft and womanly she was.

"Our friend Treves is a lucky man, if he only knew it," thought he.

"I am afraid there is nothing to drink, Bernard."

"That doesn't trouble me," John answered; then saw her pause with the teapot uplifted in frank surprise. "I mean," said John, striving to recover the situation, "if you haven't got it, I don't mind."

The meal passed off in an air of general cheerfulness. Elaine's little clock struck nine, and when the meal was at an end John took the seat opposite Elaine and her little work-basket. She busied herself with her fancy-work, and occasionally John caught her eyes resting upon him with a thoughtful and somewhat puzzled expression. He strove to gather from her manner what her feelings really were towards her husband. "She can't love him," thought John; "he's too much of a brute and a waster for that. And yet women are strange creatures."

Elaine had been silent for some minutes, but presently she spoke, uttering something that appeared to have dwelt for long in her mind.

"Bernard," she said, "I am not so hard as you think, but I am sure the way I am acting is the only right way." She paused.

"I am sure it is the right way," answered John, looking into her candid, girlish face.

He noticed again the flicker of surprise. He was always making false steps. The situation was difficult beyond everything he had experienced. Dacent Smith had impressed upon him the importance of tact and finesse. Here was a situation thrust upon him requiring abundance of both.

"You seem to have changed your point of view?"

"Well——" John began, cautiously.

"You were so violent with me," interposed Elaine.

"There was no intention on my part to be anything of the sort towards you," John answered.

He wondered what Treves had done, what Treves had said. He began to experience pleasure in the situation; he began to wonder what was to happen next. But very soon after that the clock struck ten.

Elaine put away her needlework and rose somewhat abruptly.

"You must go now, Bernard."

John looked at her for a moment in surprise.

"Oh, yes," he said, "I see—of course."

Then Elaine crossed the hearthrug and laid her slender hands on the lapels of his coat.

"To-night, Bernard," she said, "I have almost felt as if you were your old self again."

"Thanks," answered John, awkwardly; his position at that moment was awkward and utterly false; he was like a man who walks blindly on the edge of a precipice. He wondered if she was about to kiss him, or if she expected him to salute her in that way. This doubt was still upon him when Elaine reached up and touched his cheeks lightly with her lips. There was no passion, no love—nothing but a sort of sisterly affection in the embrace, but John was glad when it was over. If she had been a less beautiful woman the situation would have been so very much easier.

Elaine accompanied him along the passage, handing him his hat and stick as they went. In the darkness at the door, as they shook hands, John felt that the impression of her fingers was warmer and infinitely more cordial that the greeting she had given him upon his arrival. He could see her face only dimly. She had seemed surprised that he had departed so easily; he felt that he must say something, utter some remark that possibly might have been uttered by Bernard Treves.

"I am sorry to have to go," he said.

Then Elaine's voice came to him quietly in the darkness. There was a new note in her words.

"You must come again—soon, Bernard."

The door closed softly, and she was gone.

CHAPTER VIII

Dacent Smith, busy in his luxurious bachelor apartments in Jermyn Street, was going through a pile of documents, all relating directly or indirectly to the multitudinous activities of his department. He had continued his work for, perhaps, half an hour after his brief luncheon interval when the man-servant entered and announced a visitor. Dacent Smith's man-servant was discretion itself. He looked like a walking secret, and was a big, pallid man, with high cheek-bones and a grim, hard mouth. He was devoted body and soul to Dacent Smith, and no tortures ever devised could have ever wormed a word from him of his master's activities.

"Well, Grew?"

"Mr. Treves, sir."

"I'll see Mr. Treves at once."

Grew, the man-servant, departed, and a minute later John was ushered into the apartment.

Dacent Smith greeted him with brief cordiality, then indicated a chair.

"Well, Treves," he said, with a smile, "what is your news?"

"There is very little to tell you, sir, so far. The person who wrote that telegram signed 'Elaine,' is Bernard Treves's wife!"

Dacent Smith lifted his eyebrows; a twinkle of humour was detectable in his expression.

"What happened?"

"She was quite deceived, sir!"

"A piquant situation," smiled Dacent Smith.

"Very!" answered John, seriously.

"You see how quickly you find yourself in deep waters, my friend." Dacent Smith was looking at him with an expression of raillery in his keen eyes. Nevertheless he was saying inwardly: "I like you, Manton; you are a man after my own heart. There is a good deal of humour, as well as courage and intelligence, hidden behind that good-looking face of yours."

"Now, Manton," he said, "tell me about Manwitz. Are you in touch with him again?"

"I have his address, sir, and an invitation to go to him whenever I wish—that is, whenever the cocaine habit seizes me violently."

"I see," remarked the elder man. "Whenever the craving is violently upon you, you go to Manwitz and he supplies your want?"

John nodded.

"It is amazing," went on the chief, "the way these fellows manage to secure these drugs. Perhaps, later, Manton, you will be able to enlighten us upon that little matter; but in the meantime Cherriton is your chief responsibility."

"Cherriton showed a particular anxiety about his overcoat, sir, containing Treves's letter."

John gave a brief report of the events of the previous evening, and Dacent Smith made one or two notes on a slip of paper marked M. 15.

When John had finished, the elder man leaned back in his chair.

"It will take you some days—perhaps weeks," he said, "to get the hang of things with us. At present you are to play a lone hand. There is a chain of German emissaries working against us—some traitors and some spies—who pass information from all our dockyards to London, and thence to Germany. I want you to get into contact with one of the links of this chain—any link will serve our purpose. You must do all you can to keep the confidence of Cherriton and Manwitz. If they set you upon any task, carry it through absolutely. If papers or documents are given to you to be delivered elsewhere, don't fail to act absolutely according to their instructions. If you can get a sight of the documents, and memorise them during transit, do so, of course. This applies to letters or documents which may be handed to you by strangers—other German spies. Do you understand the importance of all this?"

John assured him that he did.

"It appears to me, sir," he added, "that by doing this I shall myself become a sort of link in their chain."

The great man looked at him with eyes of approbation.

"Exactly," he responded; "that is what you will be. Information is leaking out of England day by day, hour by hour—rippling along these chains of which I speak."

Half an hour later, John took his departure from the chief's sumptuous bachelor apartments. He had learned many things that amazed him, and one of these things, which filled him with fury and loathing, was that there were indeed traitors in unexpected places, that there were British-born people, few, but active, who were willing to sell their country into the power of the enemy.

"I hope it won't be my destiny to run across one of these gentry," thought John; "for even the chief himself would find it hard to make me keep my hands off him."

And yet that night, in a few brief hours, he was to find himself in contact with just such a traitor.

Reaching the corner of Jermyn Street, after his departure from Dacent Smith's rooms, John hailed a taxi and drove to Hampstead Tube at Tottenham Court Road. Here he took train to Hampstead, and made his way towards the address Manwitz had given him. The address was Cherriton's, and when John arrived there he found that the unamiable captain occupied a suite of rooms in a large, old-fashioned house near the Heath. The house was maintained by a retired butler, who received John at the door. The butler ascended to a handsomely furnished, spacious drawing-room on the first floor. Here Manners was seated at a grand piano, and Cherriton, deep in an arm-chair, was reading an English Pacifist pamphlet.

"Is that a telegram?" asked Cherriton, as the door opened.

"No, sir," answered the man; "it is a Mr. Bernard Treves called in to see Mr. Manners."

Two minutes later John stepped into the room.

"Did you get your overcoat?" he asked, shaking hands with Cherriton.

The fair man nodded.

"Many thanks," he said.

He had spent the earlier part of that day inquiring into the existence, status, and habits of John Manton. He was still not quite satisfied as to his visitor's release from Scotland Yard, and at that very moment he was awaiting a telegram from the Isle of Wight which would either increase his suspicions or remove them altogether. In the meantime, he preferred to trust John to a certain extent.

"You have come at an opportune time, Treves," he said.

John was seated now, and this time accepted a cigarette from the Baron's case. Suddenly, Rathenau looked him full in the face.

"You and I, Treves," he said, "have both been treated damnably!"

"Damnably!" answered John, wondering what was coming. The other continued:

"But there comes a time, Treves, eh, when the worm turns? You turned and I turned! You cast in your lot with our friend Manners, who knows how to appreciate loyalty! Manners," he continued, in the ironical tone that was his general habit, "fat and stupid and lazy as he is, is always willing to pay for loyalty!"

John looked into the Baron's thick-skinned, pallid face, into the steel-like eyes, and smiled inwardly. A pause came. John leaned forward.

"Cherriton," he said, "what are you leading up to?"

Manners, from the piano-stool, spoke up.

"Ah, you see, Cherriton—he is sharp, our friend Treves. Tell him what you want, Cherriton, straight out!"

He rose, came, for all his great bulk, softly across the room. He laid a fat hand on John's shoulder and looked down at him.

"Bernard," he half whispered, "you shall have all you want of everything. Money—and the other thing. I want you to throw in your lot with me as the good Captain has done. That note," he continued, still in the half whisper, "you gave me in regard to the sailing of the Polydor was well appreciated in certain circles."

"I am glad to hear that," John answered.

"That was good service," continued Manners, "but there are bigger things afoot." He paused a moment, then walked round John, and seated himself on a sofa quite near. "You have heard, no doubt," he continued, "of the Imperator——"

"You mean the new Grey Star liner?"

Manners nodded.

"A monster ship—a wonder ship! Forty-eight thousand tons."

He uttered the words slowly, rolling them unctuously over his tongue.

"Nearly as big as the Vaterland," John said, and for the life of him he could not help looking across at Cherriton's face.

But Cherriton was quick as lightning.

"The Vaterland?" he repeated. "You mean the German ship?"

John returned his attention to Manners. He could feel the web closing about him—the web in which Dacent Smith had ordered him to entangle himself.

"The Imperator," said Manners, "is to sail one day quite soon, but your Admiralty has grown doubly cunning of late. As yet we know not either her port of departure or the hour of departure!"

John noticed that the fat man's tones deepened as he spoke; excitement gleamed in his eyes. He leaned forward and laid a fat hand on Bernard's knee.

"Treves, my boy, I trust you—eh?"

"Certainly!" answered John, truthfully. "I want you to trust me."

"Good!" exclaimed Manners, uttering the word thickly in his throat. "Now, you will understand Cherriton and I cannot appear in certain places, but with you—it is different with you—eh?"

"Quite," said John. "I can appear anywhere without suspicion."

Cherriton, who had remained silent, again took control of the situation.

"What Manners and I want you to do," he said, "is to stay a few days at the Savoy Hotel. A Dutch gentleman is giving up Room 104C. You are to take that room, and stay at the hotel at Manners's expense."

"Thank you," said John.

"There will be no need for you to stint yourself. What is more, you will have no duties whatever to perform!"

John lifted his eyebrows in genuine surprise.

"I don't quite see what help I can be in that case!"

"We are hoping that the matter will resolve itself," said Cherriton.

"Yes—yes!" intervened Manners, "everything will resolve itself beautifully. All you have to do now, my dear boy, is to say that you accept the——"

"The invitation," intercepted Cherriton.

John thought there was nothing easier in the world than to accept an invitation to stay, free of expense, at a first-class hotel, and with no duties to perform. He said as much to Manners, and two nights later found him the occupant of the room 1046, a delightful Louis Seize bedroom overlooking the Embankment. He had spent a day and a night at the hotel, and no incident whatever had occurred. On the evening of the second night, however, after dinner, John seated himself in the foyer and ordered coffee and cigarettes.

Presently, in the great crowd moving, laughing and talking near him, John observed a politician who at various periods in the past had loomed importantly in the public eye.

"He is even more ugly than his photographs," thought John, watching the important personage move among his friends. John did not like Beecher Monmouth's smile; altogether he disliked the man on the instant, and was the more astonished to notice that a strikingly beautiful woman of thirty, wearing a glittering diamond necklace and diamond ear-rings, moved towards him and slipped her arm through his. The woman wore a deeply decollété evening dress of a shimmering silk that looked to John now green and now blue. He noticed her flash a smile into Beecher Monmouth's face. He saw the politician put her hand into his. Then recollection came to John. The woman was Beecher Monmouth's wife, a beautiful woman thirty years his junior, who had appeared from nowhere and married him.

"She certainly is a beautiful woman," thought John. "A case of Beauty and the Beast!"

Then, to his utter amazement, Mrs. Beecher Monmouth's eyes met his. She slid her arm from her husband's, and made her way quickly through the crowd to John. He felt his heart-beat quicken. A moment later Mrs. Beecher Monmouth was holding out her hand towards him. She flashed a smile into his face.

"My dear Mr. Treves," she said, in a voice that was low and intimate, "I have been looking for you all the evening!"

A moment later she was shaking hands with John.

"I must fly now," she added, "but you must come and see me to-morrow—six o'clock."

A moment later she was hurrying back towards her husband, her gown shimmering and gleaming as she went. There was something in the palm of John's hand—something that had passed from Mrs. Beecher Monmouth to himself.

Holding his hand below the table and free from observation, John saw that the something Mrs. Beecher Monmouth had passed into his hand was a slip of paper on which was pencilled: "Imperator—three o'clock to-morrow. Route 28."

John was conscious of a quite definite thrill. His nerve was of the best; he had accepted the momentous slip of paper without any outward sign of disturbance. Indeed, he had smiled back into Mrs. Beecher Monmouth's eyes in a manner that had won that lady's sincerest approbation. Nevertheless, he was not inwardly calm. He felt that fate, or destiny, had seized him suddenly in its relentless grip. The slip of paper was still in his right hand, concealed beneath the level of the table. For some minutes he drew at his cigarette, then, carefully taking out the pocket-book, laid the slip in its leaves, and replaced the book in the inner breast pocket of his coat. For some minutes longer he retained his seat, leaning back in the delicate gilt chair. His gaze wandered among the brilliant and fashionable crowd moving about him. The gentle murmur of music mingled still with the chatter of voices, and twenty feet away he caught the gleam of Mrs. Beecher Monmouth's ear-rings, the scintillation of her superb diamond necklace. She was talking to her yellow-skinned and unprepossessing husband, but her attention was entirely and solely fixed upon John.

Their eyes met, and John was obliged to concede, for the second time, that she was a woman of exceptional beauty. The art of her coiffeur, and, possibly, the art of her complexion expert, had wrought its best for her. Nevertheless, she would have stood out among any assemblage of young and prepossessing women. Her husband quite visibly adored her, and every word she condescended to transmit to him was received with a quick, responsive smile on his part.

John was thinking rapidly, wondering and speculating. Was it possible that Beecher Monmouth knew of the existence of the little slip of paper that reposed in his pocket-book? Beecher Monmouth, who had sat on numerous committees, who had more than once stood in the running for an under-secretaryship? The thing seemed utterly incredible!

As these things flashed through John's mind, realisation slowly came to him that Mrs. Beecher Monmouth was observing him with close intensity, under slightly lowered lids.

John rose, and as he did so the lady flashed a brilliant smile towards him—an intimate, understanding smile, full of meaning.

"I wish I knew what you meant," thought John, as he made his way through the throng out towards the cloak-room.

The circulating door received him, and he passed out into the dim light of the Strand. There was a crowd, as always at that hour, and a young man who followed closely at his heels found difficulty in keeping him in sight.

John was burning once more to look at the information Mrs. Beecher Monmouth had conveyed to him. But caution forbade anything of the sort. He was determined that this, his first swim in deep waters, should achieve a successful issue. His chief desire in life was to make good in Dacent Smith's eyes, and, moreover, obeying his chief's instructions, he had already indelibly impressed upon his memory the portentous sentence: "Imperator—three o'clock to-morrow. Route 28."

The word "treachery" floated into his mind, and filled him with rage. Until now he had been outside—one of the public. But to-night the curtain had been drawn aside. He felt himself engaged in the secret fight which is for ever taking place beneath the surface—the fight between our own secret service and the spies and traitors in the pay of the other nations.

At Hampstead, John emerged from the Tube and made his way through the darkness of Well Walk. Presently he turned to the left, through an alley, crossed a square of shabby-looking houses, and ascended a further closely-built, narrow street, leading towards Cherriton's residence.

The young man who had followed him from the Savoy was still in his wake. At this point, however, he apparently ceased his pursuit, and vanished up a side alley.

John, who had been aware of footsteps for some minutes, halted and looked behind him. The road was empty, and the suspicion that had been growing on him vanished. Nevertheless, he laid a hand on his hip pocket, assured himself that he was prepared for eventualities and moved forward again.

"I'll give this nefarious bit of news to Cherriton, then hop down to Dacent Smith and report the fact as quickly as I can," thought John.

He reached the top of Christ Church Road and paused to recollect which turning was the right one. At that moment some one moved in the shadow of the church railings near him, and before John could turn his head a doubled fist smote him heavily. The attack was so sudden, unexpected and swift that before he could in any way retaliate a second blow had been delivered.

His assailant leaped through the air, clasped two strong hands round his neck, and fell into the road, still gripping for all he was worth.

The two struggled ignominiously, and John became aware that the stranger, who had released one hand grip, was groping for the precious pocket-book. For the first time John was able to aim a blow, then, with a violent twist, he drew himself uppermost, and plunged his knee heavily into the other's chest. In the dim light he observed that his opponent was young. John was already aware that he had met no mean antagonist, and he was taking no chances.

The downward blow he now delivered on the other man's countenance staggered him for a moment. He wrenched himself free and stood upright on his feet.

His enemy was prone, but only for a moment.

"You've got a good deal of spirit, my young friend," said John, through his teeth, "but you'll get nothing from me, except another punch like the last! Now, get up!"

"Thanks," returned the other.

He rose and began to dust his clothes carefully. John did not like the man's attitude. He was quite obviously preparing to make another attack.

"Now," commanded John, moving back a pace, "don't try that with me!"

He stepped back and reached for the Colt weapon that reposed in his pocket.

"I should hate to do anything drastic," he continued; "but if you make it a habit to leap at people in the dark, and to aim half-arm jolts at strangers, you must take the consequences."

"I am prepared to take anything that is coming to me!" responded the young man.

He spoke almost jauntily, and John admired his spirit.

"I evidently did not hit you quite as hard as I thought," John remarked.

"Quite hard enough," responded the other, "but please don't shoot, because——"

Then, to John's amazement, and with the utmost daring, he leapt forward like a flash and seized John's pistol. There was a swift, fierce struggle. The moment was one for quick decisions. The stranger held the weapon by the wrong end, and John knew it. Unexpectedly he let go, and simultaneously landed a heavy left on the young man's downbent jaw. He followed with a right, and then another left. He was as busy as he had ever been, and he knew he was fighting for his entire future, possibly for his life.

"I've had enough," gasped the stranger.

He reeled away, and seated himself on the farther side of the narrow street.

John searched about, picked up the weapon from the middle of the road and pocketed it. Then he buttoned his coat, after carefully satisfying himself that the pocket-book was still in its place, and prepared to go.

"Good night," called the other, seated on the edge of the pavement, as he went.

Manton, however, was in no mood for persiflage. He took himself off, walking as swiftly as he could.

"He certainly doesn't lack pluck," mused John.

Five minutes later he reached the large house wherein Cherriton had his abode.

"I want to see Captain Cherriton at once," he said, when the door was opened to him.

He found Cherriton alone in the big drawing-room. He was in evening clothes, and was wearing comfortable house slippers.

"So it's you, Treves?" exclaimed the German as the door closed. "Come in, and I'll give you a drink of whisky; that is always acceptable, eh?"

"Always," answered John.

Cherriton was looking at him intently.

"There is a slight cut on your forehead."

"Is there? It must be a scratch."

John applied his handkerchief to the slight abrasion, then slipped off his overcoat and took a drink of whisky and soda.

"I have some news for you, Cherriton."

"News?"

The other flashed a swift glance at him.

John slowly drew out the pocket-book and produced the slip of paper.

"You wanted to know when the Imperator sailed out, and by what route."

Cherriton was suddenly and unfeignedly impatient.

"What is it you know?" he demanded.

"At the Savoy to-night," John said quietly, "this was handed to me."

He passed the slip of paper into the German's eager fingers.

"Gott!" exclaimed Cherriton, utterly absorbed. "You got this from——"

"Mrs. Beecher Monmouth."

"Three o'clock to-morrow," mused Cherriton. "There is not much time for us to act!"

He looked suddenly into John's face.

"What a woman she is!" he exclaimed. "Invaluable—invaluable!"

"Invaluable!" echoed John.

Cherriton laid a hand on John's arm.

"Keep your hold on her, my dear Treves. Your work to-night has been excellent!"

Excitement had brought an unusual gleam into his hard eyes.

"We will do great things for you yet!"

He crossed the room and rang the bell imperiously.

"My coat and hat," he commanded of the butler when the man appeared. "When Mr. Manners returns, ask him to wait up for me."

CHAPTER IX

The hour was eleven o'clock. Dacent Smith was, as usual, up to his ears in work. Very little of the real work, conducted by him on behalf of the Department, was dispatched at the office. If he possessed a weakness at all, it was a weakness for the luxury of his own suite of rooms and for the benign, competent aid of Grew. Servant and master were each equally devoted to the other, and yet even Grew was only vaguely aware of the greatness, of the importance of the stoutish, bland, keen-eyed gentleman who was his master.

At Dacent Smith's elbow a green-shaded electric lamp cast a bright light on the papers beneath his hand. The chief wrote neatly and carefully, and when the door opened and Grew came softly in he did not lift his head.

"Mr. Treves to report, sir."

"I'll see Mr. Treves immediately."

"Very good, sir."

Dacent Smith raised his head.

"Oh, Grew, please ask the gentleman who is in the other room to wait a little longer."

"Very good, sir."

Two minutes later John found himself alone with the chief.

Dacent Smith motioned him into one of the deep, leathered-covered arm-chairs, opened a silver box of Egyptian cigarettes, and pushed it towards him.

"Well," he questioned, wheeling his chair and looking at John much as an astute physician might look at a patient; "I can see by your expression," he went on quickly, "that you have something of importance to report."

"I think so," said John.

"Well, what is it?"

"In the foyer of the Savoy to-night, sir, Mrs. Beecher Monmouth"—an almost imperceptible change of expression occurred on Dacent Smith's smooth features—"Mrs. Beecher Monmouth," continued John, "passed a slip of paper into my hand. I assumed at once that the paper was meant for either Manners or Cherriton, and, obeying your instructions, I delivered it at once."

"You memorised it first?"

Dacent Smith's tone was almost sharp.

"It was very short, sir. I can remember it exactly."

Dacent Smith pushed a pencil and block of paper towards him.

"Perhaps you had better write it down immediately," he said. "If you visualise it in writing you will be less likely to have forgotten or misplaced a word."

John rose, and bending over the desk wrote the exact words of the message Mrs. Beecher Monmouth had conveyed to him. When he came to the word Imperator, Dacent Smith whistled softly.

"You have done very well, Treves," he said. He suddenly looked into John's face. "You must better your acquaintance with Mrs. Beecher Monmouth."

"I have an appointment with her for to-morrow night," answered John.

Dacent Smith glanced at a little gilt clock on the mantelshelf.

"I think we shall be in time!"

"That is exactly what Cherriton said," John answered.

Dacent Smith was silent for a moment.

"Treves," he said, "if the Imperator sails to-morrow at three o'clock by Route 28, which is their code for the North Ireland route, there will be another disaster for us."

He was silent a moment and John put a question that had troubled him somewhat.

"But if she doesn't sail at that hour," he said; "if she is suddenly delayed or dispatched by another route, won't that arouse their suspicions?"

Dacent Smith looked at him for a moment, then smiled quietly.

"Oh," he said, "we shall not be quite so obvious as that, Treves, otherwise they would come to suspect a leakage. What will occur is this: I shall communicate with the Admiralty at once, and some time to-morrow morning an accident will happen—quite a small accident—to the Imperator's boilers. The news of the accident will be well spread throughout the crew and the deck hands. Thus the Imperator will be unavoidably delayed and will not sail at three o'clock to-morrow."

He rose as he finished speaking and went quickly out of the room. When he returned he was obviously much easier in his mind. With slow deliberation he replaced himself in his chair at the desk.

"Now give me details of your interview with Cherriton."

John stated what had occurred.

"Anything else to report?" asked Dacent Smith, looking at him with a penetrating glance. "I see you have a scratch on your forehead."

"Yes," answered John. "It occurred in Hampstead; a young man attacked me and endeavoured to get my pocket-book!"

"Oh, that is rather alarming!"

"It was rather sudden," John confessed, "and he was a particularly energetic person."

"Would you know him again if you saw him?" asked Dacent Smith.

"I think I should," answered John. "He was about my own height, but more slenderly built. Rather a good-looking fellow, well dressed. He was a most energetic and audacious opponent," he continued, becoming unexpectedly expansive.

"Audacity is sometimes a fault!" observed Dacent Smith. "Just sit where you are a minute, Treves; I want to introduce you to some one."

He crossed the room and opened the door. John noticed him beckon to some one, and a moment later a young man in evening clothes stepped into the room.

Dacent Smith led the new-comer towards the hearth.

"Captain," he said, speaking to the young man, "this is Mr. Treves, who is now a member of our service."

John rose to shake hands, and found himself looking into the smiling face of a young man of twenty-eight, a young man with dark brown, daring-looking eyes, a sun-browned skin, and a dark moustache. The stranger's face was humorous, and on the lower part of his left cheek was a contused redness.

As John and he shook hands, John uttered an exclamation of astonishment.

"Why, you're the man who attacked me!"

"Well, I don't know about that!" smiled the Captain, cheerily; "it looks to me as if the attacking was mostly on your side."

"I must say," John continued, "you put up quite a good fight, but I don't quite see the point. If you were acting on behalf of the Department, why did you attack me?"

He glanced at Dacent Smith, and the great man undertook an explanation. "The whole thing was a slight mistake. Your new acquaintance, known to us as Captain X., was under my orders, his avocation to-night. He saw Mrs. Beecher Monmouth shake hands with you. He also observed you—and he says, very neatly—put something in your inner breast pocket. He had never seen you before, but he naturally jumped to the conclusion that you were in league with this particular fashionable lady, whom he had been sent to watch, hence his mistaken attack on you."

John turned again to his late antagonist.

"I am sorry if I hurt you!" he said.

"You did hurt me abominably," retorted Captain X. "I am not much of a pugilist and that half-arm jolt, or whatever you call it, has my sincerest admiration."

"The luck was on my side," returned John politely.

"And the misdirected energy on mine," smiled the Captain.

Dacent Smith moved to the table, took up a sheet of paper, folded it, and handed it to Captain X.

"Now," said he, "we will return to business."

At nine o'clock the following evening John found himself in a lady's boudoir, a room heavy with the odour of Russian cigarettes. The neat, capped foreign maid who had ushered him into the apartment had removed herself, closing the door softly behind her.

The room was not large, and every effort of a somewhat exotic taste had been put forth to create an atmosphere of intimacy. It was a room, as it were, planned and arranged for secret meetings. The carpet was thick; a while polar bear rug extended itself from the hearth, and beyond the hearth, running along the wall, was a divan covered in heavy silk of Chinese blue. A Chinese kakemono of brilliant colours—red, orange, azure, green, and gold—covered the wall behind the divan. The general air of the place was one that did not appeal to John in the least. He did not care a button about exotic boudoirs. Neither did he care for Mrs. Beecher Monmouth, who to-night was wearing a Chinese overgown as brilliant and sumptuous in hue as the kakemono that covered the wall.

She had been seated on the divan when John entered. She rose now and came towards him, with the pink light softening the cold splendour of her beauty. There was no doubt about her beauty—John was prepared to admit that even at this second meeting.

"You bad boy to be so late!" breathed Mrs. Beecher Monmouth, squeezing his fingers in hers. She drew him towards her.

The moment was a delicate one for Manton. What Treves's relations had been with this woman he could not guess. But it was his business to find out. It was indeed his business to find out many things about her. For months the Intelligence Department had held her in suspicion, but Dacent Smith's most brilliant assistants had failed to make headway in her case. She was slippery as an eel—quick-witted, cunning, daring and resourceful. In that moment, as she drew John towards her, she suspected a ruse. But there was no ruse. She looked up, her brilliant eyes searching him.

"Have you nothing for me?" she whispered.

There was only one thing to do, only one safe course to take, and John took it. He, as it were, plunged, and risked the consequences. He put his arms about her shapely shoulders and pressed a kiss upon the upturned lips.

"No, no! I didn't tell you you could kiss me!"

"You said something very like it!" laughed John.

"You are a bad, daring boy."

"Faint heart never won anything worth having," returned John.

Mrs. Beecher Monmouth returned to her divan and disposed herself comfortably. "You bad Bernard, you must sit in that low chair at once, and tell me all you have been doing lately!"

She lifted a cigarette case from a low, ivory-topped table. John took one, noticing that they were the excellent cigarettes Treves had been in the habit of smoking.

"Tell me what you have been doing."

John mused, and the woman went on:

"Do you know, you looked rather handsome last night at the Savoy." She paused and became coyly and softly wistful. "I dislike handsome boys; they are so conceited as a rule."

"If I can keep her talking like this for a while," thought John, "I shall not get into deep water!"

There was a silence, during which the lady luxuriantly smoked her Russian cigarette. Then she looked at John with her slow, low-lidded smile.

"Talk," she commanded.

"I prefer to hear you talk," said John. "Tell me what you have been doing lately—to-day, for instance."

The lady pondered.

"Oh, to-day the Ogre gave a luncheon party."

John guessed that the Ogre was her unprepossessing husband.

"The Ogre gave a luncheon party, and among others we had Lady Rachel Marlin, a delightful chatterbox. Her husband's in the Navy, you know. I could listen to her talk for hours."

"I don't doubt it," thought John.

"After tea," resumed she, "I went to my Red Cross work."

John was wary. The fact that she did Red Cross work surprised him, but possibly Treves had been aware of the fact, and it would be unsafe for him to express his surprise.

There was silence for a moment until John hit on a safe question.

"Do you go to the same place?" he inquired.

"Oh, yes, the Officers' Hospital, you know. They are such dear, delightful fellows."

She told him no more about the Officers' Hospital, and he put another question.

"What have you done this evening?"

"I have been boring myself to death until you came. And now you make poor me talk and don't entertain me in the least!"

Suddenly she lifted her head.

"I hope you aren't in one of your moods?"

"Oh, no," said John, quickly. "What makes you think that?"

She looked at him long and steadily. He sustained her gaze; her brilliant, hard beauty smote his consciousness again.

"Do you remember how awful you were at first, Bernard?"

"I suppose I was pretty awful," answered John, wondering what Treves had done to earn himself that character.

Suddenly Mrs. Beecher Monmouth ceased her scrutiny and broke into a laugh, a long tinkle of laughter that showed all her fine teeth.

"What a boy you are," she said. "Do you remember that night when you swore and tore about this room like a madman?" She laughed again, as though in memory of a scene that had been grotesquely ridiculous. Somehow, in that moment John felt his instinctive dislike of her intensify. He saw her as an utterly cold-blooded traitor to her country. Only forty-eight hours earlier she had slipped into his hand information that had been intended to doom a great ship to disaster. The slip of paper that had so astoundingly come into his possession had in itself constituted a vile blow at the safety of England. And here was the woman who had safely engineered that atrocity, who had acted as an intermediary in Germany's pay. And this same woman was smiling at him in her Grosvenor Place boudoir, surrounded by all the luxuries of life, the wife of a politician of some eminence, who had only recently been in the running for an under-secretaryship.

The thought flashed into John's mind—was Beecher Monmouth, M.P., also a traitor? He did not know. But he was prepared to risk a good deal to find out.

Once more he turned his attention to the woman before him.

"It was rather weak of me," he said, "to act the way I did."

"It was as good as a melodrama," replied she. "You said you were ruined, and swore you'd end everything! I forget whether it was to be the river or in some less pleasant manner. Called yourself a traitor——"

"Traitor!" repeated John—he wanted to know more of this.

"Melodrama again," responded Mrs. Beecher Monmouth. "However, you calmed yourself in the end. You became your own delightful, foolish self again."

"Thanks," said John, and for the life of him he could not help saying aloud, "and you were able to twist me round your pretty fingers!"

She looked at him with one of her quick looks.

"Now, that is delightful of you to say pretty things to me. Do you know," she continued, leaning towards him, "you have improved immensely—you are quite changed! Before you really came to us," she adopted a note of seriousness, "you were really too dreadful for words. You raved against the army, that had treated you so abominably, and yet would not throw in your lot with us. Oh, you were very difficult, mon ami!"

"And now?" inquired John.

"Oh, now, you are quite another man."

"I'm glad you think that," said John aloud, and to himself he added, "my clever lady, you never spoke a truer word in your iniquitous life."

"The change in you is so marked," went on Mrs. Beecher Monmouth, "that Captain Cherriton actually doubted your loyalty to us. He regarded your escape from Scotland Yard authorities as so sudden."

"Ah," protested John, "but I was mistaken for another man."

"Of course, I know that, you silly boy! But Cherriton could not rest satisfied until he had discovered that there actually existed a person called John Manton, and that you had really been mistaken for this personage."

John made a mental note that in Cherriton he had an adversary of no mean order.

"I hope," said he, "now that Captain Cherriton has discovered my story to be true, he won't suspect me again."

"As for that," responded the lady, "he suspects his own shadow. But you are very high in favour just at the moment."

"His favour is worth having?" probed John.

"We shall discover that," said Mrs. Beecher Monmouth. Her tone suddenly became fervent, almost exalted. "After the war there will be great things for us all. Now is the time to sow; then will be the time to reap the harvest!"

The expression of her face had changed. A dark, fierce light seemed to illumine her features.

"We shall win yet! We are winning now, but the end will be swift!"

"The end of some people," thought John, "will be devilishly swift!" He was thinking of Manners, of Cherriton, and of the lady before him.

"What do you think will happen?" he inquired.

"They will come here, of course," she retorted, suddenly standing erect beside the divan and speaking with fiery and passionate intensity, "they will come here—my people!"

"Your people?" interjected John, quickly.

"My people," droned she, with a lift of her head. "You didn't know that before? But you are one of us, and I can trust you now."

"But everybody thinks you are an American," observed John, recalling what Dacent Smith had told him.

"Quite true—they do think that, and for convenience sake I am an American—a rich American who married"—she lifted a scornful lip and pointed towards the door—"who married the Ogre."

"Were you working for the—the cause when you married him?" inquired John.

But the sudden flame that had animated her appeared to die away; she became once more her beautiful exotic self.

"I have worked for the cause since——" she stopped.

She, as it were, returned to earth.

"Bernard," she said, when she had smoked a few minutes in silence, "I have something to show you."

She rose, crossed the room, and unlocked a buhl cabinet. A moment later she returned to John, and handed him an envelope. Within was a closely written letter beginning: "Dearest Alice."

As John glanced at the writing Mrs. Beecher Monmouth came behind him, and laid her manicured finger-nail on the bottom four lines of the first sheet.

"That is all you need read," she said.

The four lines at which she pointed ran:

"If you think Treves has the courage for the task I will take your word for it—he shall be the man!"

CHAPTER X

John looked up quickly.

"Is this from Captain Cherriton?" he asked.

Mrs. Beecher Monmouth shook her head.

"From a far greater one than he," she answered slowly.

John pricked up his ears, then flashed a glance at the contents of the letter. But Mrs. Beecher Monmouth was very quick; he caught only the words, "secret session," and "ready by the twenty-eighth," when Mrs. Monmouth dexterously laid her white hand over the writing and drew it from his fingers. She folded it and placed it carefully in the bosom of her dress. She wore evening dress beneath her gorgeous Japanese rest gown, and John noticed the coquetry with which she concealed the letter from his view. He was young enough to be affected by her beauty, and was yet old enough to suspect she was playing a part—was, in fact, seeking to entangle him for the benefit of the cause. He put her down in that moment as a passionate, unscrupulous, dangerous woman, to whom adventure was the very breath of life. Moreover, he doubted her statement that she was German. She was certainly not his idea of a woman of Teutonic nationality.

Her arm that had been resting upon his shoulder still remained there. The lady's handsome face was very close to his; he could see deep into her smiling eyes, and was not comfortable under the closeness of her scrutiny. His resemblance to Bernard Treves was striking, but it was not perfect enough, he feared, to deceive the watchfulness of a woman who had evidently been closely intimate with that young man. He endeavoured to break the intensity of her gaze by leading her back to her chair.

"Well," she whispered tenderly, "have you nothing to say to me?"

"There are a thousand things I would like to say," returned John, promptly. "Let me light you a cigarette." He struck a match and placed one of her buff-coloured Russian cigarettes in her fingers. As he held the light, Mrs. Beecher Monmouth spoke on a new note of seriousness.

"Bernard, I have been kindness itself to you."

John assured her that she had.

"When the others doubted you I clung to my belief in you."

"You have been wonderful!" said John.

"You are changed, Bernard."

"That's impossible," answered John, "where you are concerned." He again experienced the sensation—a common one with him these days—that he walked upon the edge of a precipice.

"I have shown my confidence in you."

"You mean," proceeded John, "you have spoken up for me to the great personage who wrote the letter."

"Yes. Are you grateful?" inquired she, looking at him quizzically. She had disposed herself upon the divan in a graceful, languid poise.

"I am more than grateful," said John. "But, tell me, who is this great personage?"

The lady's laughter sounded musically in the little pink lighted room.

"Oh, my dear Bernard," she protested; "that comes much later."

"I suppose," John said, feeling that a bold plunge was worth while, "the personage is the head of the German secret agents in England?"

"What makes you think that?"

"My dear Alice, you would not stand in such awe of anyone less important than that." For some minutes—since the time he had caught sight of the letter, in fact—he had resolved to call her "Alice" at the earliest opportunity. He was playing a part. He had taken up another man's love affair at an unknown state of development—a dangerous thing to do. However, the duel between them, he believed, was to his advantage. Mrs. Beecher Monmouth had made a false step. She had already revealed to him the existence of a high secret power—a power far above and beyond Cherriton and Manwitz.

"Alice," he said, suddenly, drawing his chair a little nearer and laying a hand on her arm, "tell me who is the Great Unknown?"

"Patience, patience, Bernard. You will hear, all in good time." She lifted his hand from her arm and pushed him gently away. At the same moment there came a low knock at the door. A discreet pause followed before Mrs. Beecher Monmouth's foreign maid, in cap and white apron, entered.

"The master's returned, ma'am."

The girl spoke in a low tone, intended for her mistress's ear alone, and immediately went out, closing the door behind her.

"Sit over there," commanded Mrs. Beecher Monmouth, waving John towards a chair at the hearth. "Sit over there, and be very good."

John moved to the hearth. He wondered if Bernard Treves had known the Ogre, or if an introduction was to take place. The awkwardness of the situation was solved for him a moment later, when the door behind him opened. In a slender strip of mirror on the opposite wall John saw the reflected figure of Beecher Monmouth, M.P. The pink light softened a little the bilious yellow of his skin. But he was still an unprepossessing object, with his bald head, his long, pointed nose, and his thin-lipped mouth.

Mrs. Monmouth rose as her husband entered, and went towards him with hands outstretched.

"William, darling," she exclaimed, "how nice of you to come home so early. I must introduce you to Mr. Treves."

John rose and bowed. Beecher Monmouth put a large bony hand in his. He had just returned from the House of Commons, and looked weary and old; he looked every one of his sixty-four years. John wondered whether he ought to stay or not, but Mrs. Beecher Monmouth solved the situation by holding out her hand.

"You must come and see me again, Mr. Treves." Her tone was almost motherly. He shook hands with her, and saw her move towards her husband and slip her arm through his.

Husband and wife were standing together as the maid conducted John downstairs.

"What a monument of treachery and deceit she is," thought John, as he stepped out into the starlit night.

In the meantime Mrs. Beecher Monmouth had pressed her ungainly husband into a deep arm-chair, had commanded that whisky and soda should be brought, and was already holding the match that lit his cigar. Beecher Monmouth watched her with admiration in his tired eyes. He was prepared to sell his soul for her, and was never weary of telling her that he was the luckiest man in the world to have won her love.

"And what did my William do to-night?" she inquired, softly, when the whisky and soda had been placed at his side, and he had helped himself to a somewhat liberal dose.

"A most boring evening," said Beecher Monmouth. "Irish question!"

"And you saw no one interesting?" asked she.

"I saw Brackston Neeve in the lobby," answered her husband. "There is some talk of a military expedition to ——. I don't know whether it will come off or not. The Cabinet, I believe, discussed it yesterday."

"What did Brackston Neeve say?"

Beecher Monmouth took a sip of whisky.

"Why should I bore you with stupid politics?"

"They aren't stupid to me," she said. "You know every tiny bit of your political life interests me intensely." She settled herself in a low chair beside him. "Now you must tell me everything Brackston Neeve said. He is in the confidence of the Cabinet, is he not?"

Her husband nodded.

"He has the confidence of several members of the Cabinet."

"Tell me everything, William...."

Half an hour later, when Monmouth had finished his cigar and whisky, he rose wearily, kissed her, and went to his room. Mrs. Beecher Monmouth waited until he was safely out of the way, then, going to the telephone on the buhl writing-desk, rang up a number.

"Is that Doctor Voules?" she inquired.

At the other end of the telephone a deep voice answered in the affirmative.

"May I call upon you at eleven o'clock to-morrow?" inquired Mrs. Monmouth.

"Is it important?" asked the voice.

Mrs. Beecher Monmouth, in the solitude of her room, smiled slightly.

"I shall leave you to judge of that," she replied.

"Very good," answered the voice. "I shall expect you at eleven precisely."

On the following morning Mrs. Beecher Monmouth, quietly, but expensively, dressed, presented herself at the hotel bureau.

Three minutes later the lift door closed upon her and she was wafted swiftly upward to the third floor. A page boy conducted her along a corridor, opened a door, and departed.

The apartment into which she had been shown overlooked the Haymarket. Decorations of white and gold caught Mrs. Monmouth's vision. Seated at a desk from whence he could look down upon the busy life of the street below was a broad-shouldered, elderly man, who laid down his pen as his visitor entered.

Mrs. Beecher Monmouth hurried towards him.

"It is so good of you to see me, doctor," she exclaimed, effusively.

"Oh, not at all. I am charmed to see you," he answered. He moved a little farther into the room, so that prying eyes from the building opposite could not observe him; then, with an air of great gallantry, he bent over Mrs. Beecher Monmouth's hand and laid his lips upon it.

"You will sit down and tell me your news," said the doctor.

Mrs. Monmouth accepted the offered chair.

Doctor "Voules" was of middle height, sturdily, but not heavily, built. He carried himself well, holding his head high and looking squarely and masterfully before him. His head was round, his strong, heavy-jawed face was clean shaven, and his wide mouth drooped at the corners. Both physically and intellectually the doctor was a formidable figure, but the harshness of his countenance was belied by a surface air of politeness—a politeness which appeared to be assumed, and which sat ill upon him. His air, despite his efforts of concealment, was one of lofty authority.

"You will tell me your important news," he said quietly.

"I don't know that it is important," admitted Mrs. Monmouth, "but my husband heard accidentally in the House of Commons last night that there is talk of an expedition to ——."

Voules's eyebrows moved very slightly.

"I shall be grateful to know everything your husband heard."

Then Mrs. Beecher Monmouth told him exactly, word for word, all she had managed to worm from her husband.

"He considers, then," inquired Voules, "that the expedition is to become an accomplished fact?"

Mrs. Beecher Monmouth nodded.

"Did your husband learn anything else in regard to this most interesting little adventure?"

Mrs. Monmouth shook her head.

"Ah," exclaimed Voules, "it would be most useful to us if you could learn the name of the officer who is in command of the expedition. You will keep that in mind?"

Mrs. Beecher Monmouth assured him upon that point.

"Now, in regard to your protégé, Mr. Treves," observed the doctor. "This young man, I understand, is very well connected, and is the son of Colonel Treves?"

Mrs. Monmouth nodded.

"My information is that his disappearance from the British Army was somewhat rapid, and that fact, together with his propensity for drugs, gradually brought him into our service. I should like to see him," went on the doctor, "to judge for myself; but in the meantime I can make much use of him. I shall take you at your word and give him important duties to perform."

"Thank you," observed Mrs. Monmouth. "That is extremely kind of you, doctor."

Voules, who had seated himself, rose now and held out his hand.

"My compliments to you upon your excellent work."

Two minutes later, with much politeness, he accompanied her out of the room, along the corridor, and saw her into the lift.

When he returned to his own room, he opened the door of an inner apartment and summoned a thin young man, wearing tortoise-shell-rimmed spectacles. The young man was clean shaven and was possessed of a somewhat small and receding chin, which gave him a foolish aspect. He was not foolish in the least, however; he was, on the contrary, extremely fox-like and alert. The doctor's politeness vanished as he confronted the young man.

"Baumer," he commanded, "come into the other room, please." He crossed to his desk near the window overlooking the street, and seated himself. The young man entered and stood at his side, awaiting instructions. "You will make a note," said the doctor, "that a Mr. Bernard Treves is to come to my house to-day week."

"Very good, Excellenz," answered the young man deferentially. He began to write a note in pencil on a small writing block he had produced.

"You will also," went on the doctor, "inform Hauptman Rathenau that I wish to see Mr. Treves's dossier again."

"Yes, Excellenz; but if I might be permitted to suggest so much, Lieutenant Treves, whose family is well known, would be a safer person to use for purposes of association with the officers at Fort Heatherpoint."

"But our excellent Cherriton was educated at Oxford," said the elder man. "He is to all outward seeming an Englishman."

"Nevertheless, Excellenz," Baumer insisted, "I feel we should be safer to employ an Englishman. There is much freemasonry among the English, and there is always danger, Excellenz, that some one who knew the real Captain Cherriton may meet Herr Rathenau."

"But Heatherpoint," said Voules, "is one of our key positions. You forget that, Baumer."

"No, Excellenz, I remember it perfectly."

His superior was silent for a moment, then said, quietly, "I have decided that Cherriton shall do this work; he has greater experience. This time our movements must be all perfect. Our staff work here, Baumer, must be even superior to the staff work in France. We must in no degree underrate our enemies." He was silent a moment, pondering the great scheme that had grown in his brain months earlier—the scheme that was to strike a blow at the very heart of England. His orders were to restore new confidence throughout Germany in the failing U-boat campaign. Minutely, piece by piece, he had worked out his daring and masterful plan. The success of his country in discovering the sailing of British ships; the strength and equipment of our distant expeditions; the amount of munitions and arms being manufactured—these things were in the daily routine of espionage. But General von Kuhne was no believer in defensive operations. He, like his friend Bernhardi, was a disciple of Clausewitz—a believer in offensive warfare. To strike, to strike hard and unerringly, after minute preparation, was his ideal of strategy. Already, for many weeks, he had been placing his pawns ready for the great coup. Cunningly and with infinite patience he had prepared for the great blow that was intended to send a shudder through the British Isles.

CHAPTER XI

The little clock on Dacent Smith's mantelshelf chimed the hour of seven.

"I am as empty as a drum," exclaimed Captain X. His slender figure occupied one of the Chief's deep armchairs. He was smoking one of Smith's cigarettes, and his handsome face and audacious-looking eyes were upturned as he watched the smoke ascend. "How long have we been here, Treves?" he inquired.

"Three hours," answered John. He too occupied one of Dacent Smith's deep chairs and smoked his Chief's cigarettes.

"What about asking old Grew if he knows anything," continued Captain X——. He leaned over and pressed his thumb upon the electric bell push. Almost immediately, and quite noiselessly, the door opened and Dacent Smith's big-boned manservant came into the room.

"Look here, Grew," said the Captain, twisting his head to get a view of the tall servant. "When do you think the War Council will break up?"

"I couldn't say, sir," answered Grew, looking at him with a wooden expression.

"You mean if you could, you wouldn't," returned the Captain. "But I would like to tell you, Grew, that both of us are most devilish hungry. Can you tell us anything about food?"

"I have orders to serve dinner at 7.30," answered Grew.

For three hours John and his companion, acting upon orders, had been waiting in Dacent Smith's room. The Chief had been called suddenly to a meeting of the War Council, and had not returned.

"I expect there are big things afoot," observed John, glancing at the other.

"It's a bit unusual," answered the Captain, "for him to stay so long. Perhaps he has ferreted out something new, and is communicating what he knows to the mighty ones."

He suddenly turned and looked close at John.

"How do you like our sort of work, Treves?"

"There is nothing to beat it," John answered. "My only trouble is that I am apt to lose my temper. Somehow I cannot stomach spies, but traitors always make me see red."

The Captain looked at him with smiling eyes.

"Mrs. Beecher Monmouth. The Chief would never trust me there. She is too beautiful by far, eh, Treves?"

John agreed that Mrs. Monmouth's beauty was undeniable.

"In my opinion," went on John's companion, "the Department ought to put her out of harm's way. But the Chief knows better. He has ordered supervision of all the letters she posts, and she posts a good many."

The door opened at that moment and Dacent Smith himself came hurriedly in. He apologised politely for his absence. The fact that he was head of a great department, that he was indeed a great man, never weighed with him in regard to his subordinates. Socially he treated them all as his equals; only in matters of discipline was he superior. He laughed as he looked at his depleted cigarette-box, and then seated himself at his desk.

With a brisk movement he switched on the light.

"I have had three hours of the War Council," he said, speaking to both Treves and the Captain. "Now, Treves, what is the news?"

John told him that Mrs. Beecher Monmouth was in communication with a person whose name was unknown to him; this person was evidently of great importance to the German secret service, and was considering the employment of John in a great undertaking.

"Who is the great unknown?" inquired Dacent Smith.

"I don't know, sir," John admitted.

The elder man tightened his lips.

"Mrs. Beecher Monmouth's acquaintances are becoming increasingly interesting to us, eh, Treves?"

"I believe so, sir," said John.

"We have been a little late in supervising her letters," said Dacent Smith, looking across at Captain X. "However," he said suddenly, turning the conversation, "that is a matter outside Treves's duties. I have other and more important work for both of you. This afternoon," he went on, "I have submitted a number of reports to the War Council, showing that certain of our defences are in a sensitive condition. Something is occurring, and news is leaking out at a serious rate." He was speaking particularly to John. But it was evident that he wished Captain X. to listen to the conversation. "There is a leakage of news from certain fortified zones on the South Coast. In the case of some of the lesser forts it matters not a brass farthing what the enemy discovers, but at other places—well," he continued, "it has been decided this afternoon that a department is to direct its special attention to the South Coast. Both of you gentlemen will resume uniform almost at once. You will like that, eh, Treves?"

"Very much indeed, sir."

"The War Council," went on Dacent Smith, "was inclined to treat my fears a little lightly, but I am sure I am right. There are secret operations preparing against us on the South Coast, which are of a greater magnitude than anything that has yet been attempted by German espionage. I want you"—he suddenly rose and took John's hand in his—"I want you, Treves, to put everything into this—all your shrewdness and all your tact. You will need every quality of nerve and mind in the work I am going to entrust to you. And believe me," he said, lowering his voice a little, "matters are very serious indeed. We are out against a secret enemy, who has of late increased his power amazingly. There is some one—a new power—directing German espionage in this country, which is a real menace to us. Up to now we have done very well, but at present, I will quite frankly admit to you, our position is delicate in the extreme. I dislike preaching," he concluded in a lighter tone, "but I think you know what I mean."

John, who had gripped his hand cordially, answered simply, "Yes, sir; I think I appreciate the danger."

The clock on the little mantelshelf chimed the half-hour. Grew knocked at the door.

"Dinner's ready," exclaimed Dacent Smith. "Come this way, and I'll show you how a miserable old bachelor lives."

CHAPTER XII

On the Saturday following John's first experience of his Chief's excellent bachelor cuisine, two men sat in a little, barely furnished room, four hundred feet above the sea. There was no view from the single window of the little apartment, the one-story building of which it formed a part was deeply embedded and concealed between high grass-covered mounds. Both men were beyond middle age, one of them, in fact, wearing the gold stripes of a naval commander, was over sixty years of age, a trim-bearded, well-preserved officer, drawn for war service from the reserve.

Lieutenant-Commander Grieves was chief naval officer attached to the fort. His companion, Colonel Hobin, was ten years his junior—a sharp, nervous, over-strung little man. Hobin held the reputation of a first-class officer; he knew every yard of Heatherpoint Fort, which was his present charge. His big guns were as children to him, and in regard to his subordinates he was a strict disciplinarian, with a reputation for fairness both to officers and to men.

At the present moment he was consuming marmalade, which he took from its jar with a dessert-spoon and spread on thick bread and butter. There were none of the refinements of home in the mess-room at Heatherpoint. A tablecloth existed, and a limited number of knives, forks, and spoons. The chef of the fort was a gloomy looking individual who had joined up at Liverpool and plain and good was his motto.

"I don't like it," exclaimed Hobin, suddenly. He was pouring the Commander another cup of black-looking tea. "I don't like the look of things at all."

"Nor do I," said the Commander, "but the responsibility is yours, and I think you did well to communicate with the powers that be."

"The powers that be will do nothing," complained Colonel Hobin; "they never do."

"If things are wrong at all," said the old naval lieutenant, "somebody in the fort's wrong, for I'll bet my hat nobody can get in and out without us knowing it."

"That's what is really troubling me," said the Colonel, the frown deepening on his brow. "It's damnable, Grieves, to think that we are being outwitted. I have turned every man in the fort inside out, and they all seem to me honest as the day."

"Wasn't one of the men in the lower fort reported to have a foreign accent?"

"He was," answered the Colonel, with a bitter laugh, "and I had him up and put him through a third degree examination, with the result that his accent turned out to be nothing more dangerous than an Irish brogue. He's as loyal as I am, and when I mentioned the fact of the signal book I believe if I hadn't been in uniform he would have hit me."

"If we were one of those tin-pot forts over there," returned the Lieutenant-Commander, jerking his thumb contemptuously in a certain direction, "I wouldn't mind, but we really count in the defences."

"We are the heart of this system of defence," returned Hobin tartly, "and yet we go and lose a signal book. If it was only that," he went on, "I might have thought there was carelessness in it, but there are other things, queer things, Grieves, that I cannot formulate into words even to you. I put it all before the authorities. Whiston listened as politely as he always does, and said he'd speak to the Intelligence Department about it, but nothing will be done."

"They'll have to do something."

"They won't," said Hobin. Colonel Hobin was constitutionally inclined to pessimism, despite his ability. "They won't," he said. And at that moment the door opened, and a young lieutenant, who had that day joined the battery, entered the room.

"Good evening, sir," said the young man to Colonel Hobin.

Hobin nodded grumpily. The young man drew out a chair, seated himself, and reached for the bread and butter. Hobin, from the head of the table, handled the teapot.

"Weak or strong?" he demanded of the new-comer.

"Weak," answered John Manton, who had been at Heatherpoint a matter of four hours, and was taking his first meal in the fort.

The Lieutenant-Commander pushed the marmalade pot towards him, and John began to spread it upon his bread and butter, not quite so thickly as his Colonel had spread it a minute or two before.

Everything was in order in regard to John's presence at Heatherpoint. Dacent Smith had arranged the whole matter, and for the first time in his life John Manton, who had once before been on the way to an officer's uniform, found himself of commissioned rank.

And for once, Colonel Hobin was mistaken in thinking that the War Office and Intelligence Department had left him entirely neglected.

"Well, how do you like Heatherpoint, Mr. Treves?" inquired the old Lieutenant-Commander genially.

"So far as I have got," answered John, "I am delighted with the chance to be here." He spoke truthfully.

"When you've had six months of it, and been through the winter," said the Colonel grimly, "with your wind-gauge showing seventy miles an hour for weeks on end, and the lighthouse siren never stopping booming, I am afraid you won't be in quite the same cheerful mood."

"I am cheerful by nature, sir," said the young man, tucking into the marmalade. He ate heartily, and by the time he had finished the Colonel was smoking a cigar.

Lieutenant-Commander Grieves filled his pipe, lit it, and, with a nod at the Colonel, sauntered out to his quarters. For the first time John was alone with Hobin. For some minutes there was silence, then the Colonel spoke.

"You will take the leave book to-night, Treves. Ask Parkson about it."

"Very good, sir," John answered.

"You can go now, if you like," said the Colonel. "Get Parkson to show you the run of the place before parade in the morning."

At this point John rose mysteriously, opened the door into the corridor and looked out. Then, to the Colonel's surprise, he closed it again, and came quietly back into the room. From the inner pocket of his coat he took a long, narrow, yellow envelope, which he handed to Hobin.

"What's this?" demanded the Colonel. He tore open the envelope and began to read with furrowed brows.

When Colonel Hobin had perused the official-looking letter a second and a third time, his brow cleared; he lifted his eyes and looked at John with a new and keen interest.

"So you are from the Intelligence Department?"

"Yes, sir."

"I had no idea of that."

"My transfer was effected as quietly as possible, sir, with a view to arousing no suspicion. The letter is merely my credentials from General Whiston."

The Colonel nodded.

"Judging from this," said the Colonel, "General Whiston has an extremely high opinion of your gifts."

John tried to look as modest as possible.

"I am a great believer in luck, sir," he said, "and up to now I have had plenty of it." He was thinking of the saving of the Imperator, which had brought him so many laurels from Dacent Smith.

"I hope you'll bring luck to me," said the Colonel. "I can promise you I need it." He was delighted that the powers that be had really sent help, despite his disbelief in them. His eyes were still upon John. He liked the young man's frank expression, his cheerful and easy manners and the bold poise of his head.

"A good-looking, heftily-built youngster," thought he. "I only hope he is as shrewd as he looks active."

"Now, I suppose," he said aloud, "you want me to tell you all the trouble?"

"I should like to hear of anything, sir, that has aroused your suspicions," said John.

"That's a tall order," answered Hobin. "Everything has aroused my suspicions, and yet, if I put it into words, it may look like nothing to you. Have you ever had the sensation, Treves," he said, "that things were going wrong around you, and yet you could not lay your finger on a thing that is definitely wrong?"

"I have felt that way sometimes," admitted John.

"That's the way I feel now," returned the Colonel. Then, quite briefly, he gave John particulars of the loss of a signal book, which, however, might have been due to carelessness. Other things he told John were also mere surmises and sensations. "I must explain," he said, "that this fort, and Scoles Head opposite, are key positions in our South Coast defences. If we were incapacitated, the enemy would sneak in to —— and wreak the devil knows what damage. Given a big enough concentration of submarines, he could probably get fifty to a hundred ships——"

"It's hardly likely," John answered, "that he will ever be able to sneak in."

Hobin was silent for a minute, looking John over carefully.

"Would it surprise you to hear that we have already been incapacitated?" demanded the Colonel suddenly.

He thrust out his chin truculently as though challenging John to doubt him.

"How was that, sir?"

"For an hour one morning last week the whole eastern side of Upper Fort was out of action. I've been a gunner for thirty years, Treves, and until now such a thing has never occurred in my experience."

"Could it have been an accident, sir?"

"In normal times," answered the Colonel, impressively, "I would have said yes; now I say, no! Three of the guns, numbers one, six and eight, in this battery"—he jerked his head towards the south—"went wrong suddenly. A cleaning squad was at work on number one, and discovered that the gun could not be handled at all. It was just after daylight in the morning. You know how perfectly these six- and nine-inch guns are swung?"

John nodded.

"A child can swing them like a toy cannon. My own boy's often done it," went on the Colonel. "Well, on this particular morning the guns would not elevate. Just lay inert, like dead masses of metal. Everything was in order, both in the gun-chamber and engine house. But the guns wouldn't budge, and for an hour this whole upper fort was out of action. If the enemy had tried to rush us at that time, we could have done nothing! I was not quite so jumpy as now. Not quite so many things had happened to arouse my suspicions, and I blamed Ewins."

"Who is Ewins, sir?"

"Our chief gunner."

"Did Ewins discover what was wrong?" John asked.

"Neither Ewins nor any of us," answered the Colonel. "What happened is a mystery to us all. Ewins was in bed when the thing occurred, and, knowing how jealous he is of his gun, one of the cleaning squad called him. He came out of his hut half dressed. I hear from Parkson that he was in a blind rage, and felt his gun all over, as a mother may feel for a bruise on her baby; but he could make nothing of it."

"I'd rather like to see Ewins," said John, "if it can be managed."

"He is on duty now," responded the Colonel. "Come along and make his acquaintance. But, for Heaven's sake, don't run away with any idea that Ewins is a wrong 'un. Ewins is the best gunner on the South Coast, one of the old rule of thumb school. He knows nothing of trajectories or curves, and hardly ever looks at the wind gauge. But he has made ninety-eight per cent. at a submarine target doing nine knots."

"What was the range, sir?"

The Colonel told him, and John opened his eyes in surprise.

"Come along," said Hobin.

Together they left the mess-room, crossed a narrow, asphalted pavement, ascended a short ladder and came upon a gorgeous view of the ocean and the blue waters of the Solent. Beyond, to the right, lay England, an irregular coast-line, with swelling hills, green in the foreground and blue in the distance. In the middle of the picture, to the right, rose the tall tower of Ponsonby Lighthouse. The tower gleamed white in the bright sunshine. Colonel Hobin led the way along the edge of a grass-covered cliff, and presently, below him, John observed the long muzzle of a six-inch gun camouflaged scarlet, blue and green.

"That's Ewins's special gun," explained the Colonel. "You'll see he has the place of honour."

The green cliff-top sloped stiffly here, and beneath him John could see the big, circular iron gun platform, and below it the ladder leading into the gun chamber. On a parapet beyond the gun, and on the very edge of the cliff, a sentry paced back and forth, his outline picked out sharply against the blue of the sea that murmured faintly four hundred feet below. At the open breach of the gun itself another soldier was at work, a man who was long and thin, and a little grey at the temples. He was delicately wiping certain shining parts of the weapon with an oiled rag. As the Colonel's feet, followed by John, smote the iron platform, the soldier drew himself erect and stood at attention.

"This is Ewins," said the Colonel to John. John greeted Ewins with a friendly smile. Until that moment he had doubted him. Only a few days earlier he had met one traitor in Mrs. Beecher Monmouth, and as he and the Colonel approached the gun platform he had been wondering if in Ewins he was to meet a second.

Ewins was thin-faced, with a weather-reddened skin and clear, brown eyes. He was a man in the late forties, a typical old soldier. John, looking at him, wondered if it was possible that he could have been corrupted, but somehow he found it difficult to suspect the man.

Colonel Hobin made an excuse and left the two together.

"You are in a grand position here, Ewins," said John.

"Fine, sir," answered the soldier. His accent was British through and through. John gave him permission to carry on, and Ewins closed his breech with a heavy click.

"The Colonel has been speaking very highly of your gunnery."

Ewins looked up quickly, with an expression of pleasure in his eyes.

"Has he, sir?" He paused a moment and hesitated. "It makes a great difference being under him, sir; he sort of brings it out, if you know what I mean; puts you on your mettle."

John made a mental note of his admiration for the Colonel.

"I heard about your trouble last week, Ewins."

"You mean Tuesday morning, sir?"

"Yes," John answered. "What was the trouble after all?"

Ewins looked perplexed.

"It beats me fairly, sir. There was nothing wrong when they called me—that is, there was nothing wrong after I'd been here a minute or two. You know how she works, sir." As he spoke he almost with a finger raised the great muzzle of his weapon, then made a neat sweep to right and left. "Well, she just lay here like a dead thing."

"I suppose the explanation would be simple enough if we only knew it," answered John.

Ewins shook his head.

"I don't like it, sir. I was pretty wild that morning, thinking some of these young recruits had been messing about, but the same thing had happened to number six and eight." He pointed to a lower platform, beyond where the sentry was passing. "They went wrong that same morning," he continued.

"And got right again in the same mysterious way?" inquired John.

"Yes, sir."

"You don't think any of your cleaning squad had a hand in it?" inquired John.

"No, sir; I talked pretty straight to them, but it wasn't them."

"Perhaps you have an enemy in the fort, Ewins?"

The old soldier smiled.

"I don't know about that, sir," he said; "but everybody seems pretty friendly with me. I have been here a long time, sir."

"So I hear," said John.

"I don't think anybody in the fort, sir," Ewins went on, "would do a dirty trick on me like that. You see, sir," he said, in a voice of intense seriousness, "it put us out of Action."

John was silent for a moment. For the first time the full gravity of what had happened struck his consciousness.

"I'll swear it wasn't an accident," continued Ewins, emphatically. "Old 'Crumbs' said it was; but he don't know anything about guns."

"Who's 'Crumbs'?"

"I beg pardon, sir; I meant Private Sims, the baker."

"He said it was an accident?" pursued John.

"Yes, sir. I lost my temper that morning, and when I come here and found how things were, I gave one of the squad a bit of a push."

"Was 'Crumbs' one of the squad?"

"Oh, no, sir; he come in to bring me a lump of cake." Ewins looked sheepish a moment. "You see, sir, I am partial to cake, and he generally hands me a bit at odd times. He was in the gun chamber when I got here, sir, looking for me, with a bit of cake in his hand."

"But it was five o'clock in the morning!"

"It was new cake," said Ewins; "he'd just baked it."

"But you weren't supposed to be on duty."

"No, sir," answered Ewins.

"Wouldn't 'Crumbs'—Private Sims—know you were off duty?" probed John.

Ewins smiled again.

"He don't know much about soldiering, sir; they never do."

John had further talk with the chief gunner, which talk grew more and more technical as Ewins noticed John's interest in his work. But after a good many questions it still seemed to John that "Crumbs" walking about with cake at five o'clock in the morning showed an excessive benevolence. He felt he wanted to make the acquaintance of "Crumbs." And before going back to the Colonel in the mess-room, he looked in at the bake-house, a single-storied building next to the kitchen.