BERNARD TREVES'S BOOTS (continued 3)

"Crumbs" was in a white apron and a white cap when John entered and found him at work. The bake-house was dark, the air warm and fragrant with a scent of freshly-baked loaves. "Crumbs," with flour on his eyelashes, and a heavy, drooping moustache, also powdered with flour, turned as John entered. In his hands he held a big iron tray of newly-baked loaves. John introduced himself. He felt that every step he made must be made with infinite caution.

"You've got a fine bakehouse here, Sims."

"Yes, sir; not so bad."

"I hear you are a master hand at cake making."

"Well, not exactly," deprecated "Crumbs." "I can hardly say that." He placed his tray of bread on the table.

"Sergeant Ewins tells me he's very fond of cake," went on John.

"Crumbs's" eyes moved quickly. The momentary, fleeting glance he cast at John was unobserved.

"The sergeant has a sweet tooth, sir."

"So have I," answered John, with a smile. "Perhaps you will make a note of that, Sims."

Sims smiled. John noticed that his complexion was sallow, that he was a loosely built, shambling man of forty. There was nothing in the least suspicious about him. No trace, so far as John could gather, of a foreign accent. He went out of the bakehouse in a dissatisfied frame of mind.

The mystery of the guns was still a mystery.

* * * * *

Next morning, at parade, John ran his eye along the men of the battery until it rested upon "Crumbs." The man, with his sallow complexion and glassy eyes, struck him as looking vacant and somewhat foolish.

"You are either that, my friend," thought John, "or most devilish cunning. I wonder which it is?"

He made it his business during that day, and the days which followed, to acquaint himself with every member of the battery. Nothing, however, occurred to arouse his suspicion or to give him the slightest clue to the untoward things that had happened. He wrote a letter to Dacent Smith reporting matters, and on the afternoon of the third day he decided to go into Newport for an afternoon's recreation. Colonel Hobin granted him leave instantly—and then John changed his mind, and decided not to go. He had no reason for staying in the fort, other than that he wanted to be on the spot as much as possible. He took a book from the badly-equipped fort library, and went to his room. Here he flung himself on the bed, and read for an hour or two. Save for the never-ending moan of the wind and the grind of the wind-gauge, the fort buildings were very quiet. Colonel Hobin, Parkson, and another officer were on duty, a subaltern was on leave, and in the four bedrooms that ran along the corridor John was the only occupant. He was lying, deeply absorbed in his book, when something made him turn his gaze towards the door. To his amazement, he saw the latch lift without noise. A moment later the door moved cautiously open, and "Crumbs," in white cap and apron, came softly in. For a minute the intruder did not see John.

"Well, Sims, what is it?"

"Crumbs's" mouth clicked shut. The start he had received caused his head to jerk.

"What do you want, Sims?"

"Crumbs" smiled under his black, flour-speckled moustache.

"It was the cake, sir," he said. "You told me you were fond of cake, sir, and I just put a cake in the mess-room for you."

John rose from the bed.

"Is there nothing else you want?"

"No, sir, thank you," answered "Crumbs," moving towards the door. John noticed, as he went, that his nose had been flattened at the bridge, as though at some time or other a heavy blow had fallen upon it.

"I only wondered," John went on, "why you came into my room."

"Merely to tell you about the cake, sir."

He went out, closing the door quietly behind him. When the door was shut between himself and John, he drew himself suddenly erect, and listened for a moment, then moved quickly away down the passage.

CHAPTER XIII

"'Crumbs' is the man," thought John the moment he opened his eyes next morning. During the night he had been awake for hours pondering the situation, and this was the decision he had arrived at. He decided, however, to say nothing of his suspicions to Hobin or to anyone else until "Crumbs" had further committed himself. Possibly, after all, he was mistaken; only time could tell. The first thing he did, however, when breakfast was at an end, was to write a note to Dacent Smith, asking that Private Sims's history might be discreetly inquired into.

"I think Private Sims is not quite what he seems," said John, concluding his letter. Nevertheless, if "Crumbs" was the suspicious character John believed him to be, he possessed an extraordinary talent for hiding his guilt.

John had pursued his investigations with such closeness during the past days, he now felt that the time had come when he might reasonably seek a certain amount of relaxation.

Therefore the morning of the tenth day saw him briskly descending the long steps cut in the face of the cliff to the lower fort. Here, immediately beyond the fort gates, a hired car awaited him. Manton stepped into the car after answering the challenge of the sentry, and drove down the long, winding road. A second sentry challenged him at the foot of the fort road, and thereafter the car bowled merrily along until it reached the gates of Colonel Treves's house at Freshwater.

John was wondering what he should say to the old gentleman. During the past weeks nothing had created a deeper impression on his mind than the pathetic figure of Bernard Treves's father. The old man, the soul of honour, cursed with a worthless son, appealed intensely to the sympathetic side of John's nature. John had learnt something of Bernard Treves's recent life from Dacent Smith. Following the discovery that the young man had been associated with Manwitz and Cherriton, he had been kept in a nursing home in strict confinement. An attempt had been made to cure him of his drug habit, with the result that he had suffered an utter physical collapse, and now was lying seriously ill. John, in discussing the matter with Dacent Smith, had mentioned the old Colonel, and the deception that had been practised upon him.

"When the time comes," the Chief had answered, "you can either reveal your real identity to Colonel Treves, or not, as you wish. In any case, I rather doubt if his amiable son will appear on the scene again; that is a matter entirely for the military authorities. From what I hear," Dacent Smith continued, "the old Colonel hasn't much of this life before him, and if he learnt the truth about his son I know exactly what would happen. He would not be able to face it. Either death would mercifully carry him off, or——" John nodded, "or," he thought, "he would seek the death he once offered me." John saw now that the deception that had been practised upon the Colonel at the instigation of his friend, General Whiston, and Dacent Smith, was possibly the kindest thing that could have happened.

At the door of the house, Gates, the elderly butler, appeared in answer to John's ring. For a moment the servant paused wide-eyed, staring at the erect figure in uniform on the threshold.

"Why, Master Bernard!" he exclaimed, "I didn't recognise you for a minute. Come in, sir; I'll get your luggage."

"There isn't any luggage. Is—is my father in the library?"

"Yes, sir."

"How is he, Gates?"

"Just the same as usual, sir." Then the old servant forgot himself for a brief moment. "He'll be beside himself with delight, sir," he said, "to see you like that, back again in the Army, an' all."

John moved to cross the wide hall, but Gates followed him instantly.

"Perhaps I'd better break the news to him, sir; it's a little sudden like."

John followed him, and when the elderly butler knocked at the baize-covered door of the library a minute later, he heard Colonel Treves's voice from within. Gates went into the room and closed the door behind him. The old Colonel was seated in his deep chair near the hearth.

"I beg your pardon, sir," said Gates, crossing and standing before him, "but Mr. Bernard has returned."

Colonel Treves, who held a book on his knee, laid down his big reading glass on its open page, and lifted his head slowly. There was a stern light in his old faded eyes.

"I won't see my son, Gates!"

"Pardon me, sir," protested the old servant, "I think you would like to see him."

Colonel Treves rose to his feet, felt for his stick, and began to move feebly across the room.

"He is no son of mine, Gates," he said, as he went. "You can tell him that. A liar and a humbug," he said. "Always a liar and a humbug. No soul of truth in him, no honour——"

But Gates, the faithful servant of thirty years, knew his master well. He made no attempt to argue with the Colonel, but moved quietly to the door behind which John was waiting, and whispered, "Come in, Mr. Bernard."

John entered, and crossing the soft carpet laid his hand on the old Colonel's shoulder. The Colonel turned quickly, flinging up his head in indignation, then something took place on his face that touched John to the heart. The old firm lips quivered a moment.

"Is that you, Bernard?" he asked. He came nearer, peering at John, looking at the upright, uniformed figure. "I can't believe it," he added.

"It is true, sir," said John. "I received a commission a month ago."

"Take my arm, boy," said the Colonel, suddenly; "lead me back to the chair."

John led him across to his deep chair, and Gates softly went out of the room. When the Colonel was seated, he fumbled for his strong glasses, and put them on with fingers that shook visibly. Once again he looked John over from head to foot.

"It's the good blood that tells," he said after a long pause. Suddenly he broke into a laugh. "Do you know, Bernard, boy," he said, "a minute ago I was telling Gates you were no son of mine. You see, I thought you had broken your promise; you broke it so often before."

"That may be, sir," answered John quietly, "but this time I managed to keep it."

He permitted John to help him into his chair at the hearthside, and John, at his bidding, rang the bell.

"Gates," said the Colonel, when the old servant entered, "serve tea up here; I and my boy will have it together."

"Very good, sir."

"Now, Bernard, boy, tell me your news!" demanded the old soldier, when Gates had left the room.

John gave a sketchy, vague account of his doings during the past weeks.

"And so you are with Colonel Hobin. You must give him my kind remembrances; we met thirty years ago, when he was a subaltern at Aldershot. He had the making of a good soldier, I remember." He talked on, on general matters, and all the while John felt that his mind was solely occupied with his pride and satisfaction at seeing his son in uniform once again. In his excitement and pleasure he forgot two letters that had reposed on his desk for two days, waiting for John. Finally, he remembered them. "I must give you your letters, Bernard."

"Thank you, sir," answered John, "I'll get them myself, if you tell me where they are?"

He found the letters on the Colonel's desk, and excused himself for reading them. The first letter began: "Dear Bernard," and the first sentence ran: "You bad, bad boy." John knew in a moment that it was from Mrs. Beecher Monmouth, and skimmed the four closely written pages casually.

"Have you seen the Great One yet? ... The Ogre is always in the House of Commons now ... I am utterly alone ... I wonder if any fine, handsome young man is thinking of sending me a hundred Russian cigarettes, the same as the last.... Next time you come, you must not be nearly so bold....—Yours, ALICE."

"A very satisfactory letter," thought John, "if I had happened to care two straws about her." A vision of Mrs. Beecher Monmouth's brilliant beauty came before his eyes. It seemed strange to think that this woman, in the heart of London society, was a traitor, using her gifts of fortune and beauty for the nefarious purpose of ruining her own country, but such was indeed the case. What had been the original cause of Mrs. Beecher Monmouth's treachery, John did not know; only afterwards was the full truth made plain to him.

He opened the second letter, which was in a handwriting unknown to him. The note was from Captain Cherriton, to whom he had given this address when he left London.

"DEAR TREVES," ran the letter—"Will you please call at Rollo Meads one day next week, Tuesday for preference, at five in the afternoon? I shall be there, and you will meet a new friend, Doctor Voules, who will supply you with what you want." (He was referring to the tabloids Manwitz had been in the habit of supplying to Treves.) "* Our old friend,*" went on the letter, "who formerly supplied you, you will regret to hear, was taken ill, and has gone away to the coast for a time.

"Yours very truly,

"JOHN CHERRITON."

John folded this letter carefully and placed it within his pocket-book. A specimen of Cherriton's handwriting, he inwardly decided, would be useful to Dacent Smith. Half an hour later John took his departure, and the old Colonel accompanied him to the door of the house.

"Good-bye, my boy," said the old man, gripping his hand at parting, "come again soon"; then he lowered his voice so that Gates, who was waiting at John's hired car, could not hear, "Bernard, boy," said the Colonel wistfully, "when you are tempted to go a little wrong, just keep in mind that I am believing in you."

"Very good, sir," John answered, "I won't forget that." He stood at salute a moment, then ran down the steps and sprang into the car.

"Good-bye, sir," said Gates, the old butler.

"Good-bye," cried John as the car whirled out of the avenue.

When John reached the foot of Heatherpoint Hill, and began to ascend the long slope towards the fort, it was already seven o'clock. The sun lay low in the west, and there was no wind.

"Fine visibility if there was any shooting for Ewins," thought John.

The car halted before the first sentry.

"Friend," said John.

"Pass, friend," answered the man.

A minute later, from his seat in the car, John was able to see the south shore of the island, and obtained a momentary glimpse of a strip of sand below, which was accessible only to those within the area of the fort itself. Looking down into the little bay three hundred feet below, John was caught with admiration by the mirror-like blue of the water, the languid white roll of the waves. The little beach, as always, was deserted, or at least, John thought so in the first moment. But a second glance showed him that a soldier was strolling about with apparent aimlessness down below. The man was smoking a cigarette, and in the clear evening air John could plainly see the white smoke. So much he saw, when the man was lost to view.

In the fort, a minute later, John caught himself wondering what soldier it was.

"Evidently somebody who is fond of his own company," thought John. He went up to Commander Grieves's look-out. The old naval officer was at the long telescope. "May I have a squint through that, sir?" John requested.

"By all means, youngster, by all means," returned the old man; "here you are." He swung the telescope, and John found that, to his chagrin, he could see nothing of the man on the strip of beach below.

"What do you want to see?" asked Commander Grieves.

"I want to look sharp down from here to the south," John said. "Some one from the fort is walking down there, and I'm wondering who it is."

"You can't see with this; I'll lend you my Zeiss," returned the Commander. He took out a pair of binoculars, and handed them to John. "We do not cover that bit of shore," said Grieves, "either with the guns or with the searchlights. It's of no importance, and isn't navigable for anything drawing more than three feet of water."

John took the binoculars, and thanked him, then went to the cliff edge. Here, moving with particular caution, he began to focus his glasses. When definition seemed to be right, he leaned carefully forward, and surveyed the beach below. The soldier was still there. After pacing with apparent aimlessness back and forward, he had seated himself on the smooth strip of sand. At the present moment the khaki figure was occupied in placing a pebble on the sand at arm's length. He placed a second small stone next to this, then made a span with his fingers, and put a third pebble in a line with the first and second. He made another span, and placed down a fourth stone and a fifth beside it. His operations were steady and systematic. He was absolutely absorbed with his work. John, from that cliff top, watched him for a full five minutes; never once did the soldier raise his head. In khaki uniform, at that distance, he might have been any soldier at the fort. Finally, however, when he had finished his operations, which had grown more and more interesting to John, he rose and looked at his handiwork upon the smooth sand. Evidently he had completed his task, whatever it was, for he turned and continued his aimless strolling. This time he was pacing towards the fort, and as he turned he lifted his eyes, and swept the cliff in a swift, embracing glance. In an instant John had recognised the sallow, upturned face of "Crumbs."

For a full ten minutes he waited, holding himself back. At the end of that time, however, he again cautiously approached and looked down. Below him spread the bright golden sands, a few chalk boulders were scattered here and there, and the waves continued to roll and break languidly as before.

The figure of "Crumbs" had now vanished from the sands. A steep, winding path ascended the cliff to the fort, and it was upon that path that John again saw Sims. It was a good twenty minutes' walk from where "Crumbs" was to the fort itself, and John, after watching him for a minute, lowered his glasses, rose and made his way back to the mess-room.

"Collins," he said to an orderly, "bring me the leave book."

When the leave book was in his hand he ran his finger quickly down the list of names.

"Pte. Sims, eight o'clock," he read.

Sims was on leave until eight.

"I'll wait and investigate," thought John, "when he is safely in his quarters."

He went to his room after that, took the cartridges out of his Colt automatic revolver and examined the weapon closely. Having reloaded the pistol, he slipped it into his hip pocket.

At eight o'clock, when John passed across the asphalt pavement between the officers' quarters and the kitchen, he was able to observe Sims, who was fond of his bake-house, sitting in the open doorway of the bakehouse itself, innocently reading the morning's paper. He appeared not to be aware of John's departure, and continued to read.

Manton, in the meantime, made his way towards the sentinel-guarded wire entanglements. A tall, double ladder, spanning the entanglement, here permitted exit on to the cliff edge behind the fort. The ladder was a temporary affair, drawn in always at night, thus making the fort, with the aid of the sentries, impregnable from the rear.

The sun was low in the west when John reached the expanse of sand whereon "Crumbs" had occupied himself. Once upon the shore, it was the simplest matter in the world to trace "Crumbs's" path. He walked briskly, following the man's footsteps, full of a keen desire to know what "Crumbs" had been doing. No ordinary purpose, thought John, had been at the back of "Crumbs's" operations. Nevertheless, an ordinary observer watching, as John had watched, would have entertained no suspicion at all.

"Perhaps," mused John, as he followed "Crumbs's" irregular footprints, "I am a fool for my pains! He may be the mere aimless nonentity he seems to be." He remembered that "Crumbs" was known to be a collector of shells, that he spent a good deal of time searching for specimens upon the foreshore. A baker and a conchologist are incongruous mixtures at any time. Especially were they incongruous on that coast where shells are almost non-existent. Keenly interested he drew nearer to the spot whereon "Crumbs" had occupied himself, but the smooth sand was undisturbed save for the man's heavy-footed indentations.

John's spirits instantly fell. There was nothing upon that spot which in the slightest degree could arouse his suspicions. The sand was smooth and firm, with round, sea-eroded pebbles plentifully scattered here and there—the usual pebbles that lay in thousands upon the beach.

"After all, I was a fool!" thought John.

He could see quite clearly the impress of "Crumbs's" body as it had lain upon the ground. And as he stood looking upon this impression he observed that "Crumbs" had made what might be called a crude pattern with pebbles—a row of parallel lines. John was able to make out, in all, three separate lines of stones.

For a long minute he remained looking down upon these innocent-seeming pebbles laid out with childish regularity. Then gradually his first suspicions returned. His attention ran along the orderly row of little stones—a third and a fourth time.

And suddenly a vivid light blazed in his eyes. He uttered an exclamation under his breath.

"Great Scott! so that's it."

His whole mind focused upon the pebbles; he began to speak in measured tones.

"Dot-dash-dot-dash; dash-dash-dash."

As the words left his lips on the solitude of the sands, he was conscious of a quick thrill of excitement. The stones laid thus innocently held a sinister meaning spelt out in the Morse code. Two pebbles lay together, then further to the right an isolated pebble, then again two pebbles.

"Dash-dot-dash," John interpreted.

The message was quite a long one. With a glance at the cliff edge—he knew that "Crumbs" was safely in his quarters—John took out his pocket-book and made a faithful copy of "Crumbs's" laborious message.

When he had copied it all down he made his way back to the fort, pondering upon the significance of his discovery. For whom was the message intended? Both Hobin and Commander Grieves had told him that the possibility of any enemy signalling from the fort, or to the fort from outside, had been completely eliminated, and had said, "We should instantly see any light that might be exhibited by an enemy."

"And yet," thought John, "our ingenious friend, 'Crumbs,' seems to have thought out a plan which evades every one of their precautions."

The ingenuity and simplicity of "Crumbs's" plan struck him with astonishment. It was clear to John that "Crumbs" regularly placed his innocent-looking messages on the sands, to be subsequently taken up by a confederate who came ashore from a submarine in the darkness.

"Cunning isn't the word for him," thought John, as he hurried towards the fort.

CHAPTER XIV

A few minutes later in his own room and by candle-light he set to work to find a meaning for the arrangement of little pebbles "Crumbs" had placed upon the foreshore. A dozen times he went over the dot-dash lines in his pocket-book, and each time the hidden meaning intensified in clarity. Finally, he began to write with a sudden vivid and passionate interest.

The first word defined was "Oberst." Then he continued slowly and carefully: "Mistrauish und aufgeregt. Neue Minen karte in Händen des Capitans. Nicht möglich es sofort zu finden. Von R. ist nichts zu hören. Ganze geschichte schwierig. Bitte um antwort.—S.

"So, friend 'Crumbs' is a German after all, and an educated German at that," he exclaimed under his breath.

Then he took his pencil and began to translate the message. The result in English was as follows:

"Colonel suspicious and nervous. New mine chart in hands of naval commander; impossible to find it at once. No news of R. Matters difficult. Answer this.—S."

John looked up with a grave face. Almost for the first time he felt a doubt. In that moment he almost doubted even Dacent Smith's power to cope with such subtlety, such ingenious co-ordination as this.

"Crumbs" was a spy actually in the heart of a vital fort, a spy who was possibly one of a score, or a hundred, busy upon the South Coast at that moment. John felt oppressed by a consciousness of dark agencies planning evil. Here was no romance. Here was real, hard, solid fact; War. Sims was an item in this warfare, one of a chain, of which Manwitz, Cherriton, Mrs. Beecher Monmouth, and the great unknown himself were all separate links.

For some minutes John paced the narrow confines of his room.

Who was R. from whom no news had arrived? A sensation that calamity and failure was possible bore in upon him. He had made a discovery truly, but would that discovery mean the frustration of the mysterious attack that was impending? He did not know, he hardly dared to hope.

"If Heatherpoint Fort were out of action," Colonel Hobin had said, "and if Scoles Head were similarly out of action, there might be the devil to pay."

John realised as he paced his little room with "Crumbs's" message in his hand, that an attack by sea was planned. Otherwise why the mention of the new mine chart? And if an attack by sea was intended on the great naval port of ... Scoles and Heatherpoint must be first put out of action. After that, the boom which ran across from Ponsonby Lighthouse to ... must be overcome.

He looked again at the message.

"This must be got to Dacent Smith at once," thought he; "and in the meantime 'Crumbs' must be watched."

He placed the message carefully in his pocket-book. Then, a new thought having struck him, he hurried out and sought Sergeant Ewins. The sergeant occupied one compartment of an old railway coach, which had been turned into huts for the men. Ewins was lying on his bunk when John entered, reading a Sunday paper by the light of a fort candle as thick as a man's wrist.

"I want to have a word with you, Ewins," said John, sitting on the edge of the chief gunner's bunk, which had formerly been a railway seat. "Can you tell me," he went on, "if it is possible for anyone to make a landing on the south shore, there? I mean in the bay below the look-out."

"It's possible, of course," Ewins answered, "but risky."

"You don't think it possible," inquired John, "for a submarine to lie out there in the bay and send a small canvas boat ashore?"

Ewins shook his head.

"You've forgotten our minefield—a submarine could not pass it, sir."

"No, I haven't forgotten that," answered John; "but suppose the Germans know where our mines are?"

"Then they'd know more than we do, sir," answered Ewins. "Nobody in the fort knows that, except the Commander, and perhaps the Colonel."

"The reason I am asking you," went on John, "is that I have discovered something and want to give you an opportunity of coming down on the shore with me."

"To-night, sir?" inquired Ewins.

John nodded.

"I suppose, Ewins, it seems fantastical and impossible to you, but I have a theory that the Germans intend to bring a boat ashore there. In my opinion, they have been there before to-night."

Ewins's eyes opened wide.

"Do you think that is so, sir?" he asked in a voice of deep amazement. Then his eyes brightened. "I'd like to come with you, sir, if you think there's any likelihood of that sort of thing."

"I don't only think it, I know it," said John. "It may not be to-night, because of the full moon, nor to-morrow night. But some time or other, and maybe soon, I am prepared to bet my hat that a German will land from the sea. He will land, Ewins, in the bay below us, within a quarter of a mile of where we are now sitting."

The manner in which Ewins took this information filled John with satisfaction. The old soldier was spoiling for a fight. For four years he had had nothing better to shoot at than a target, and he was longing for a chance of real action.

Nevertheless John's fear was correct, for that night and the next night the moon shone brilliantly, and nothing happened on the shore. "Crumbs's" message lay unread in the bright moonlight. The third night, however, the sky was overcast.

But by a sudden, swift turn of circumstances John was not there to see what happened.

Manton's record on "Crumbs's" secret signal had been taken with the utmost seriousness by Dacent Smith, and on the afternoon of the third day, when John was alone at tea in the mess-room, an orderly thumped along the passage.

"A gentleman to see you, sir," said the orderly.

"What's his name?" John asked.

"Captain Sinclair, sir."

John rose, and a minute later Captain X. stepped into the little room. Captain X. was in uniform, and John noticed that he wore the Mons ribbon and the D.S.O.

"Surprised to see me, eh?" exclaimed the young man, gripping John's hand heartily; then dropping his voice, "I'm here from the Chief. Is it quite private here?"

"Quite," John answered, "but I would rather take you into my room."

They went along the passage to John's bedroom. John seated himself on the bed, and Captain X. or Sinclair occupied the only chair.

"The Chief's thoroughly stirred up," said Sinclair, plunging into his subject without preliminary. "He has passed on your information to me. I must say you seem to have all the luck, Treves. A signal on the sands, eh? That beats everything for cunning. I have heard of clothes being hung out in the Morse code, and Morse smoke signals from a chimney—by the way, do you think your chap Sims signals with smoke from his bakehouse?"

John shook his head.

"I have spent hours looking at his chimney," he said. "It was the first thing I thought of when I began to suspect him, and it was only an accident which made me get on to his real game after all. I knew any kind of flash signal was out of the question here."

"Neatest thing they've done yet, eh, Treves? I must say this sort of thing makes the fight full of zipp and go," he said. Then he looked at John with a commiserating eye: "I am going to dash your spirits, old chap."

"Well, get on with it," said John.

"I am going to pick up the plums you have shaken off the tree."

"How's that?"

For answer Sinclair drew an envelope from his pocket. John recognised the colour and shape of the envelope in a minute. He read the short, typed letter with gathered brows, then struck a match and destroyed it carefully. The letter contained an order from Dacent Smith that John should surrender his position at Heatherpoint to Captain X., and was to resume work immediately against Cherriton, Dr. Voules, and Mrs. Beecher Monmouth.

"It's rough luck, old chap," said Captain X., "but I expect that before this big movement is finished you will have as much chance of adventure as I shall."

"I hope so," said John. "But I was looking forward to the result of 'Crumbs's' signal. Last night the moon shone out of pure cussedness."

Captain X. sprang up to the window and looked out.

"It's clouding up to-night, old chap," he exclaimed joyously, "and you'll be away for the fun. Hallo!" he said. His eyes were lowered and were fixed upon a man in shirt-sleeves in the doorway opposite. "Is that 'Crumbs'?"

"Yes," said John, "but don't let him see you looking at him. I am not so sure that he hasn't spotted something."

"He'll spot something in a day or two," said Captain X., coming back from the window, "and in the meantime the Chief's orders are to leave him a long rope."

John's orders from his Chief were that he should report to Colonel Hobin and leave Heatherpoint immediately. He began to change his clothes, and talked to his companion at the same time.

"You can rub acquaintance with 'Crumbs' while I get out of the fort," he said. "He mustn't see me in mufti. I shall spend a night in Newport, and call on Dr. Voules to-morrow morning."

"Who do you think Voules is?" asked the Captain.

John shook his head.

"I shall know more about that to-morrow," he said.

When he was ready to go he shook hands cordially with his companion. He always felt older than Captain X., though their ages were the same. Captain X.'s audacity and joy in life amused John. His colleague always put so much zest into everything he did.

"I should advise you," he said, gripping the Captain's hand, "to use Ewins if you want any help on the beach to-night. He is an old soldier, and I should think, if an awkward moment arrived, you could rely on him."

"Thanks," said Sinclair. "This is a new game for me. I have never had the chance of angling for a German submarine commander before, but I expect there'll be one ashore here to-night, eh, Treves?"

"Somebody comes ashore," responded John, "and reads those signals."

He went out and sat in the mess-room for a few minutes, leaving Sinclair time to occupy "Crumbs'" attention while he slipped away from the fort.

CHAPTER XV

The situation at Heatherpoint was exactly to the liking of Captain Sinclair. He realised, from what John had told him, that "Crumbs" was no mean antagonist, and he was feverish to make the spy's acquaintance. But the manner in which he strolled into "Crumbs's" bakehouse before John's departure was the most casual in the world. One of Sinclair's chief gifts was an innocent and infectious smile, and under the most trying of circumstances he was always cheerful. With this smiling cheeriness of manner Sinclair possessed, as is often the case, a fair share of astuteness.

"It smells good in here," he said, putting his head into "Crumbs's" warm atmosphere.

"Crumbs," who was kneading dough at his board, turned about.

"Don't mind me," said Sinclair cheerfully. He stepped into the bakehouse and held a good-humoured conversation with "Crumbs." He spent a quarter of an hour in cheery garrulity, and when he went away, "Crumbs," from the darkness of his lair, watched him stride across the asphalt yard towards the officers' quarters. The man's eyes narrowed as he recalled that Sinclair had been peering at him out of John's quarters a little while earlier. When his work was finished that night "Crumbs" cleaned himself and had a chat with Ewins, who was smoking a pipe on the step of the old railway carriage that formed both men's quarters in the upper fort.

"Who's this new captain we got?" Private Sims asked.

"Don't know," answered Ewins. "He's done his bit, seemingly." He was referring to Sinclair's Mons ribbon and the D.S.O.

"We seem to be getting a lot of changes lately," pursued "Crumbs." He had removed the flour from his eyelashes and moustache, and his lean, sallow, discontented face and glassy, strange-looking eyes struck Ewins as particularly unpleasant. Sims was generous in handing cake and so forth whenever chance occurred, but he was not liked in the fort. The other men could not get the hang of him, and when he rose presently and shambled away into the fort buildings, Ewins, who was expecting every minute to be called by Sinclair, was not sorry.

For an hour or two that evening "Crumbs" pottered about. He gossiped in the kitchen, had a talk with the sergeant controlling the leave-book, found his way into the mess-room, and complained to Parkson, who was adjutant, on the quality of the flour being supplied from outside. After that the Colonel met him in the corridor, where he had no right to be, near Sinclair's bedroom. And, as the Colonel was the one man in the fort, outside Sinclair, who knew the truth about him, he questioned "Crumbs" somewhat sharply.

"What are you doing here, Sims?"

"I have just been in, sir, to complain about the flour to the adjutant. I wasn't thinking," he went on, with a perfect semblance of an absent-minded air, "I wasn't thinking, and I came here instead of going along to the right——"

"You ought to know the run of the fort by this time," said the Colonel, and passed on.

It was an hour later that Sims, who had made a shattering discovery, sat in his cubicle of the railway compartment, with the door locked, and penned a rapid letter. He wrote fluently, in the manner of a man whose education has been thorough and efficient. His lips twitched slightly as his pen sped over the paper. There was a tense expression upon his sallow face, and he pulled nervously at his long, drooping moustache.

At the head of the letter he put no address.

"Dear Doctor," he wrote, "our plans are threatened. The new officer here, Lieutenant Treves, has been watching me closely for the past week. He has cross-examined Ewins about the guns, and evidently knows something. To-day a second officer has arrived, a Captain Sinclair. I doubt him also. They both suspect me. But my important news is that to-night I secured my first opportunity of going through Treves's belongings. I was able to open his dispatch-box, and among other papers of no importance, I discovered a letter from Cherriton, with whom he has apparently some association. The letter was signed by Cherriton, which clearly showed me that Treves is playing both for and against us. I have suspected him for days. I implore you, doctor, to probe this matter. If you hear no more from me you will know that things have gone wrong. I beg of you to act drastically and immediately.—S."

When "Crumbs" had finished this letter he read it carefully through and avoided blotting it, so that there could be no trace of its existence. When the letter had dried he placed it in an envelope and addressed it to "Dr. Voules, Rollo Meads, Brooke."

It was the custom at Heatherpoint for the fort letters to be sent to Freshwater post office every night at seven precisely in a locked bag. "Crumbs," with his letter in his pocket, hovered about the orderly-room until the bugle began to blow seven. He then hurriedly followed the orderly into the mess-room, where the adjutant nightly locked the bag with his key. Lieutenant Parkson was in the act of locking the bag when "Crumbs" shambled into the little room with an apology. He handed his letter to Parkson, who dropped it in and locked the bag.

CHAPTER XVI

John decided to walk into Freshwater, and then take the train to Newport. As he made his way along the road from Heatherpoint, carrying a small handbag, a red bicycle came towards him.

"Are you going to the fort?" he asked the telegraph boy.

"Yes, sir."

"Anything for Treves?"

The boy nodded.

"Lieutenant Treves, sir."

A minute later John had torn open an envelope containing a telegram, which ran:

Come to me at the Gordon Hotel, Newport. Shall be there this evening. ELAINE.

Elaine's wire came to him as an utter surprise, a surprise that was tinctured with pleasure. He had never forgotten her since their first, and only meeting. He had indeed thought of her a hundred times, recalling her as she stood in the little room in Camden Town. Without doubt she was the most beautiful woman he had ever seen.

During the past weeks every moment of his time had been occupied, and there had been no possibility of carrying out his promise to visit her.

As he walked he drew out her telegram and read it carefully through, possibly for the sixth time. The wording brought to him a measure of comfort; he felt, somehow, that she was not in so distressed a state of mind as when he had received her former wire to Bernard Treves.

"I shall see her within an hour," thought John, as he stepped into a train at Freshwater. But as the train drew nearer to Newport his high spirits evaporated; he began to argue that Elaine Treves was outside his sphere of work. Dacent Smith had impressed upon him the intense seriousness of the German menace on the South Coast; no private considerations, John told himself, held precedence of the duty that lay before him. Elaine Treves was a victim of the innocent deception he had been obliged to practise. But it was not his fault that she was an extremely beautiful woman, and that she believed him to be her husband.

At the Gordon Hotel, a small quiet, specklessly clean building, John entered the hall, and found Elaine herself descending the stairs. For a moment the girl did not notice him, and John was free to observe the daintiness of her costume, the slender dignity of her figure, and the quite astonishing beauty of her grey, long-lashed eyes. The note of pathos that had been apparent when he first met her was now not so marked. She struck him as serious, but not depressed.

Elaine had descended the stairs to the vestibule before her eyes met his.

"Oh, Bernard," she exclaimed, and instantly took his hand in her gloved fingers. "But you can't have come in answer to my wire?" she went on.

"No," said John; "I came on other business."

"You are not angry with me?"

"No; why should I be angry?" asked John.

"Because I wired to you," said Elaine. "Let us go upstairs, Bernard. The sitting-room's empty; we can talk there."

She led him up to a little, parlour-like apartment, with a gay carpet, and a circular table in the middle of the room. Here she closed the door and stood with her back to it, looking up into John's face. Her eyes searched his closely. Her splendid beauty, the wistful expression of her face, a certain shy girlishness, all appealed to John's feelings. He found it difficult to sustain the searching gaze lifted to his.

Suddenly Elaine drew in a deep breath.

"Bernard," she whispered, "you are different."

John turned away.

"Yes," he answered, quietly, "I suppose I am a little different."

"Ever since the last time I saw you I have felt it," went on Elaine. "I have thought much of our last meeting," she added.

"So have I," John answered lamely, not knowing exactly how to handle the situation. They were seated now on opposite sides of the hearth, and Elaine was taking the hatpins out of her hat with pretty feminine gestures that held John's attention.

"I was only going a lonely walk," she explained, "when I met you, but I won't go now; we'll have tea here together. You will notice," she went on, placing her hat on her knee and piercing it with her long hatpins, "that I have not scolded you for failing to write to me."

"I am sorry," said John, "but I have been tremendously occupied."

"I guessed," said Elaine, "that you were at home with your father. I am so glad of that, Bernard; I used to feel," she went on, hesitatingly, "that you were not treating him well, and that his indignation against you was—was—" she hesitated a moment—"well—justified."

John had been observing her closely.

"Why did you wire for me, Elaine?" he said, using her name for the first time.

Elaine looked at him, and then away. The colour rose to her cheeks, a delicate colour that enhanced her beauty.

"I don't know," she said. "I got a little frightened, I think. You see, your friend, Captain Cherriton, began to call on me rather regularly."

John pricked up his ears.

"Did he cross-examine you about me?"

Elaine shook her head.

"He scarcely mentioned you."

"Oh, I see," said John, suddenly enlightened; "he came to force his unpleasant attentions upon you. Is that it?"

Elaine was silent a moment. She was thinking how well John carried himself. The husband she had known, neurotic and nerveless and irritable, now appeared before her clear-eyed, calm and more manly than she had ever believed him to be. She felt herself drawn to him, as she had felt herself attracted on that last meeting in London. Her nature was quick and ready to forgive.

"I had to forbid him the house in the end, Bernard."

John sat suddenly erect.

"Was he impudent to you?"

The sudden lowering of his brows and tension of his figure caught Elaine's interest.

"Then you do mind, Bernard?" she asked quietly.

"Of course I mind, when you are insulted," he returned. "Or, rather, I ought to mind."

For, like a blow, the thought suddenly struck him that he himself was treating her with gross injustice. It was one thing to deceive, in a good cause, Colonel Treves; it was another thing to deceive this young and beautiful girl, who was another man's wife. And he, John Manton, was standing in that other man's shoes.

John's situation at that moment was as delicate as any situation in which he had yet found himself. It was an easy matter to confront Manwitz and Cherriton, and even Mrs. Beecher Monmouth, in the character of Bernard Treves. It was not so easy to present himself in that character before Bernard Treves's wife. The thought that had occurred to him at their first meeting came again into his mind; at any moment he might make a false step. An unlucky turn of phrase, a lack of knowledge of some incident in their mutual past, might instantly betray him. For Elaine Treves, despite her striking beauty and her intense femininity, was quite keenly alive and intelligent.

They took tea in the hotel, and after the meal John suggested a walk in the town. Elaine readily assented, and together they explored the quaint side streets of Newport. If matters had been different, if John had accompanied her in his own character, and had not had to act a part that was extraordinarily difficult, he would have been in the highest of spirits.

Already he had remarked upon Elaine's air of distinction. She knew how to dress, how to put on her hat, how to make herself in all respects a delightful picture of girlish attraction. John knew nothing of feminine economics, or he would have been aware that her fashionably smart costume and that pretty hat she wore had cost almost nothing at all, and had been mostly the work of her own hands.

During the walk they stopped and looked into a quaint curiosity shop. John admired a set of old Chippendale chairs and a pair of inlaid duelling pistols. He and Elaine were standing close together as he spoke, and he felt her slender, gloved hand laid delicately on his arm.

"Bernard!"

"What is it?" asked John.

She was looking up into his face, a pleased expression in her fine grey eyes.

"Your taste seems to have changed utterly."

"Oh, I don't know," said John. "I—I—perhaps my taste has matured——"

"You used to hate all old things."

John was looking down into her face, that appeared to him now as the most beautiful in the world. He made no answer to her remark, and Elaine went on:

"You look at things so differently, Bernard."

"In what way?" John asked.

"I don't know," answered she. "I have a sort of queer feeling, Bernard, that you are yourself, and yet there is something that has occurred to make you different."

John felt that the discussion was drifting in an awkward direction.

"Do you know what I think?" he remarked.

"What do you think?" asked Elaine, as they walked together.

"I think I ought to do something to make up for all the bad times—er—I have given you in the past."

She was silent, walking along gazing before her.

"They were bad times, some of them, Bernard," she returned, quietly. She moved a little nearer to him as they walked. "But I have always felt," she went on, "that it was not really you. I feel that—that the unfortunate habit you had contracted, the—the——"

"I understand," John intervened.

"I believe now," went on Elaine, "it was not really you. You were not responsible, and I always hoped that some time, when you had conquered yourself, you would become different."

She paused a moment, and John felt her arm slip through his. It was strange, but his pulse-beat quickened at this quiet manifestation of her growing feeling towards him. He felt that, somehow or other, she was being drawn towards him, that she was, as it were, shielding herself under his protection. And yet, all the time, the situation was an impossible one. He had no right to permit advances of this sort; the deception he was practising upon her was utterly and completely cruel. What would have happened, he asked himself, if he had suddenly faced her and had said: "I am not your husband, I am not Bernard Treves—but John Manton? The man you believe me to be—your husband—is a drug-sodden and hysterical degenerate, a soldier who has been guilty of treachery to his country."

His thoughts switched back to the necessity of turning the conversation. He could feel the warmth of her arm resting upon his own.

"Let us talk of cheerful things," he said. "For instance, that is a very pretty hat you have on."

"Do you like it? I made it myself."

"Yes, I like it," responded John, appearing to look at it with the critical eye of a husband. "Of course," he said, "it is quite easy for a hat to look well where you are concerned."

Elaine was frankly pleased.

"Why are you flattering me, Bernard?"

"That wasn't flattery. If I set out to flatter you, I should talk in quite a different way to that."

"Do you know," she went on quickly, "when I met you in the hotel my heart was beating terribly. I was afraid you might be angry!"

"How could I be angry?"

"I don't know," she said; "but sometimes, Bernard, you used to be so dreadfully angry at the things I did."

Somehow the recollection of these things appeared to sweep over her, for she drew her hand away from John's arm.

"I thought we were going to talk of cheerful things," John reminded her. He began to draw her attention to the quaintness of the streets, and managed, until their return to the hotel, to keep her mind fully occupied with trivialities.

When they reached the little sitting-room at the hotel, he rang the bell and ordered dinner to be prepared for two at seven o'clock.

"May we have it here in the sitting-room?" he asked the waiter.

"Certainly, sir," answered the man.

Elaine, whose air of constraint had quite vanished again, went to her room, took off her hat, and put on an afternoon blouse. When she returned to the sitting-room John noticed her little attempt to dress herself for the evening.

"I thought you'd like to see me in something smarter for dinner," she said. "Do you like it, Bernard?"

"It could not be better," said John. Inwardly he was saying: "I like everything about you; I like your fine, dark hair; I like your frank, beautiful eyes, and your honesty and your simplicity, and the fact that you are a girl and yet a woman. What I do dislike, however, is the fact that you have a waster of a husband, and that I have no right to be here this minute standing in that waster's shoes."

They sat down together at the round table in the middle of the hotel' parlour. The waiter, a gloomy individual, in tired-looking dress clothes and in a white shirt that should have been washed a week earlier, lit four pink-shaded candles, served the soup, and went away. Soup was followed by fish and an excellent entrée. John, looking over the top of the pink-shaded candles, saw a brightness in Elaine's eyes. He had been talking gaily keeping the conversation away from anything personal, and telling her anecdotes that made her laugh. And all the time, although he was not aware of the fact, he was drawing her towards him, fanning the flame of love that the real Bernard Treves had never kindled. She was experiencing new feelings towards this man whom she believed to be her husband. The shifty look in his eyes that she had disliked in the past had vanished. The Bernard Treves who sat before her looked frankly and keenly into her face. He was not in the least intimate; he was, indeed, somewhat aloof, but this very quality of aloofness puzzled and attracted her.

By the time dinner was cleared away and the cloth removed, Elaine was completely at her ease. Her old fear of offending her husband had totally vanished. She could not understand her own feelings and began to take herself to task for having been hard with him in the past. When Bernard Treves had persisted in his habit of heavy drinking and drug-taking, she had been obliged to make a stand. She had done everything she could to win him to better ways. But when to these habits he had added violence and other cruelties towards herself, she had informed him that until he made some effort to control himself she could not live with him as his wife. It was characteristic of her, as it is sometimes characteristic of gentle people, that firmness lay beneath an unaggressive exterior. She had kept her word. But to-night, for the first time, she began to doubt the justice of what she had done. She told herself that she had been hard on Bernard Treves, that she ought to have clung to him, however low he sank.

CHAPTER XVII

John, who had deposited himself on a chair at the hearth, lit a cigarette, and was consuming it with a good deal of satisfaction. He had never in his life partaken of an evening meal that had given him so much satisfaction; even the funereal and shabby waiter seemed to him a creature of delight, and the little room in the hotel—he would always remember it as an apartment brightened by the eyes of Elaine Treves. It was not usual for John Manton to be led away, but to-night, for some minutes, he let his senses toy with impossibilities. He permitted himself to forget the existence of Bernard Treves. And when the waiter left the room, and Elaine rose and came towards him, he made no effort to avoid her approach, as he had done once or twice earlier in the evening. She stood beside his chair and laid her hand on his shoulder. John looked up and saw that her face had grown serious.

"I want to make a confession to you, Bernard."

"Let it be a cheerful confession," smiled John.

"I was mistaken, after all."

"It's easy to make mistakes," returned John.

"I ought not to have sent you away from me," said Elaine.

John thought a moment, then observed quietly:

"Perhaps I deserved to be sent away."

"Do you remember, Bernard, when you came to Camden Town after you had seen your father?"

John, naturally, did not recollect.

"I do not recall it very clearly," he said.

"When you—you——" She broke off, and again, as she had done in the street, she moved a little away from him. A wave of aversion towards him appeared to sweep over her. "When," she went on, "I told you that we could not be together again until—until——"

"Until I could behave myself," John put in.

Elaine nodded slightly in assent.

"I thought that I was doing right, and when you said you'd never forgive me I still held out. I wonder, Bernard, if you will forgive me?"

"Of course I'll forgive you," returned Manton, magnanimously. He would have forgiven her anything. He could not believe her capable of anything which would need forgiveness. She came to him again and stood before him, looking down.

John, out of politeness, that she should not be standing when he was seated, stood up, and suddenly he felt Elaine's hand in his.

"Bernard," she whispered, "you care for me still——"

"I care for you more than ever I did," said John. He tried valiantly to slip his hand from hers.

"You love me, I mean?"

Elaine's face was upturned; there was a wistful expression in her fine, grey eyes, and there was something more than wistfulness. John could see it shining there. Inwardly he was conscientiously cursing the Fates that had placed him in this impossible position—and yet outwardly he was glad. He was thrilled and happy that this situation had arisen. Then his thoughts took a turn, and his spirits sank. The love he saw shining in her eyes was not for him, but for Bernard Treves. He put away her hand and moved back in his chair.

"You do love me, Bernard?" she whispered again.

"Yes," John answered. He was convinced that there was no other thing for him to say.

"And you'll forgive me for sending you away?"

John nodded.

Elaine went on again: "It was wrong not to let you stay with me. I had no right to do it; after all, a wife has no right to act as I did."

"Why think of it and worry about it now?" said John, attempting to strike an ordinary tone of voice.

"But I want to make everything straight between us, Bernard."

John led her to a chair, and she seated herself. He tried to turn the conversation, but this time he failed. Elaine felt a growing desire to wipe away all misunderstandings between them.

"I have still my confession to make, Bernard."

"What is it?" inquired John cheerily.

There was a silence for a moment—a silence that John felt to be momentous, that rendered him uncomfortable. Then Elaine's words came to him, uttered in a low tone.

"I never loved you till to-night, Bernard!"

John was conscious of a sudden and exultant thrill.

"Is that all your confession?" he asked.

Elaine nodded. Her hand was in his. John lifted it to his lips. Then recollection came to him; he drew himself erect, standing away from her.

"It's getting late, Elaine," he said. "I ought to be going." There was something vibrant and new in his voice that caused her heart to beat violently. "You see," John went on, somewhat clumsily, "I have important work to do to-morrow."

But Elaine had not loosed her grip of his hand. She suddenly hid her face on his shoulder; he could feel her arms about him. For a minute, what was to John an awkward silence, subsisted between them, then Elaine spoke again:

"Why should you go, Bernard?" she whispered. "I was cruel to you, but I did not wish to be cruel."

"You are never cruel," protested John. "Don't think of it any more."

His situation in that moment was the hardest that Fate could have possibly imposed upon him. Here was the finest woman he had ever met—young, beautiful and ardent, with her arms about his neck, whispering love to him. She was speaking to him as a wife to a husband whom she loves, and all the time he was not that husband. And, to complicate matters, he felt now that the love she was prepared to offer was not offered to the other—to Bernard Treves—but to himself alone.

"Bernard," she murmured, "at the back of my heart, through all those black days, I whispered always that some time I should be happy."

"I am sure you'll be happy," said John. "It will not be my fault if you are not." He drew in a deep breath. "But to-night—I must go; I—I am very busy; I have many things to do to-night. Confidential work." He lifted her hand, bent and kissed her slender white fingers. "Some day I'll explain."

A minute later he was gone.

* * * * *

The gloomy-looking waiter, who had served dinner the night before, informed John that the only way to arrive at Brooke was by hired pony-trap or by bicycle. Choosing the latter method, John, early in the morning, hired a bicycle, visited the hotel, and said good-bye to Elaine.

"You'll come back to me this evening, Bernard?" whispered she as she kissed him good-bye.

"This evening," said John. "I had no right to let her kiss me," he continued inwardly, "but, after all, it's part of the deception, part of the character I am obliged to play." Nevertheless, he felt uneasy as he rode the winding and hilly path to Brooke. The night before he had played his part valiantly and well, but he felt that in regard to Elaine tremendous difficulties were ahead.

It was eleven o'clock when John reached the road which led to the empty, forlorn line of shore at Brooke. He could see the sea ahead of him, a grand expanse of blue ocean. He passed quaint Brooke church on his left hand, and suddenly slowed up near a large solid-looking dwelling, overgrown with creepers. Here was Rollo Meads, with a strip of garden in front. As John neared the dwelling he noticed a gardener at work. Something in the quiet and homely exterior of the house made him for a moment think he had made a mistake, but as his hand fell upon the gate the gardener lifted his face, and John recognised the pallid countenance and close-set eyes of Conrad, the manservant who had first admitted him to Manwitz's house in St. George's Square.

Conrad informed him that Dr. Voules was in and was awaiting him.

"Now," thought John, as he followed Conrad to the front door, "matters may begin to move again." Dacent Smith had for some time been groping towards the identity of Dr. Voules, and John realised that in being permitted to undertake the work he was now upon he was being trusted and favoured by his Chief. He resolved, in his interview with the doctor, to exercise the most extreme caution, and to play the part of Bernard Treves with the closest simulation.

There was silence as John stepped into the hall of Rollo Meads. The servant preceded him along the passage, knocked on a door, then entered, and vanished, leaving John alone. Conrad emerged a minute later, and summoned John towards him.

"Will you please go in, sir."

A moment later John found himself in a good-sized morning-room, with two windows overlooking a lawn and a garden. The room was heavily furnished with a long oak table in the middle, and half a dozen massive dining-room chairs surrounding it. At the head of the table Doctor "Voules" was seated. He wore a markedly English-looking tweed suit, but his thick neck, his circular head, and heavy jaws showed him to be not quite the amiable retired doctor he pretended to be. Seated on Voules's right hand were two men, deeply sun-tanned. One of the men wore a blond beard, and looked frankly and honestly at John. The other was a fair-haired man, with a supercilious-looking expression. John put both down at once as naval officers. Standing at the fire-place, in uniform, was Captain Cherriton. The air of the room was heavily impregnated with the smell of cigar smoke. Cherriton was smoking a cigarette, but Doctor Voules held in his powerful mouth a long, black cigar. He flashed a keen scrutiny upon John as the young man stepped into the room and closed the door behind him.

"You are Mr. Treves, eh?"

John assured him that he was.

"You will take a seat," said Voules, pointing to a vacant chair upon his left hand. "These are two friends of mine," he said, indicating the blond-bearded man and the supercilious younger man, "Mr. Sharpe and Mr. Rogers."

"I am pleased to meet you," said John, making a swift mental summary of each man's appearance.

"I am glad to make your acquaintance," responded the blond-bearded man, and his accent was so thoroughly German that it would have betrayed him anywhere. The other man appeared to speak no English at all, for he merely nodded.

"Sit down, Cherriton," commanded Voules, and Cherriton, who was lounging at the hearth, came and seated himself at John's side.

"I am in the thick of it," thought John. He wondered what was to occur, what attitude Voules would take towards himself, whether Voules would regard him as of consequence, and of possible use, or would he fail to trust him.

"You are no longer in the army?" Voules inquired, looking into John's face with cold grey eyes. It was his custom to examine personally such men as were brought to him; he had infinite belief in his own powers of judgment, and in many ways he possessed a shrewd and penetrating mind. His infinite confidence in himself, however, sometimes led him into mistakes. He believed, as he looked at John, that he was examining a weakling, and a drug-taker. Cherriton had supplied all information as to Bernard Treves's unstable character and habits, and though Voules was a little surprised to find the young man healthy and vigorous looking, he was deceived by the manner in which John avoided his eyes; he was still more deceived when John, cleverly resting his elbow on the table, permitted his sleeve to fall back so that Voules could see pinpricks on his wrist, the sort of wound that is left by a hypodermic syringe used for administering morphia and cocaine.

Voules's sharp eyes instantly fell upon this tangible evidence of the drug habit. He was quite satisfied with the evidence of his own eyes.

"You are no longer in the army?" he repeated.

"Well, as a matter of fact," John said, after a moment's hesitation, "my father has used his influence, and I am to be restored to my commission."

Voules's eyes widened a little.

"Indeed," he remarked. He appeared to consider this change in John's circumstances for a moment, then he put out a hand and laid his heavy fingers on John's sleeve. "You have told this news, eh——" he paused a moment; "you have told this news to Alice?"

For a second John hesitated; he did not realise who Alice was; then he remembered her as Mrs. Beecher Monmouth.

"No," answered John, "I have not told her yet, but I intend to write and tell her to-night."

"Ah," said Voules, "you think she will be pleased?" The intensity of his gaze increased. John saw quite plainly a doubt in his eyes. "You think she will be pleased?"

"I am sure of it," said John.

"And why?"

"Because I can be of more use, doctor."

"We have a very high opinion of the lady in question," said Voules; "we have every reason to trust her."

"I hope you will have every reason to trust me," John said.

Voules looked at him silently for a minute.

"I hope so," he announced. "We shall make it worth your while to serve us." He paused for a moment, and glanced at Cherriton. "Cherriton has already told you," he said, "that when the Day arrives, when the success that is bound to come, has been given to us, we shall not forget our friends in England." He suddenly turned away from John, and looked at the blond-bearded man on his right. His voice seemed to deepen in tone, and he began suddenly and rapidly to speak in German. "What is your opinion of our young English friend here?" he rapped to the blond-bearded man.

"I cannot judge of him, Excellence."

Voules went on still in German:

"Manwitz and Rathenau have each testified to his usefulness; he is also in the hands of a lady who can well supervise his doings."

The blond man fingered his blond beard, sliding it through his hands.

"Excellence, let me say, may I not suggest a certain reserve in our conversation, in the circumstances."

Voules laughed for the first time. John noticed that his teeth were strong and well kept, and that his laugh was not at all pleasant.

"Our Englander," he said, "understands not one word of German. We may speak freely, Muller. Is it not so, Rathenau?" He turned quickly to Cherriton.

"Yes, Excellence," answered Cherriton, with his contemptuous curl of the lip. "Not one English officer in a thousand knows half a dozen words of German; our friend is no exception."

"He is well controlled by the particular lady mentioned?" inquired Voules.

Cherriton smiled.

"Quite, Excellence; even if she cared for him in the way he believes she does, she would still watch him like a cat."

"True," said Voules; then again turned to John and spoke in English. "My apologies to you, Mr. Treves," he said, "for speaking in German, but my friends here speak no English."

"I don't mind in the least," answered John. He did not in the least, and as he had understood every word it made no difference.

"In regard to your reinstatement in the army," went on Voules, "I offer you my felicitations. You will be able to help us even more than in the past, and I may hardly say that the reward will be in proportion to the work done. If you are stationed in London we can find work for you in London. If, on the other hand, you are returned to your regiment, then you can also help us. The treatment you have received at the hands of the army, Cherriton tells me, is abominable. You are quite honourably acquitted of allegiance to your nationality. I tell you this, that you may have no inner qualms; in serving us you serve the cause of Kultur. Is that not so, Cherriton?"

"Yes, Herr Excellence."

"Kultur," thought John; "Kultur, that stabs in the dark, that murders children and women; that calls might right. Kultur that takes a man sodden with drugs and turns him into a traitor to his country; then, having made him commit crimes against his fellow-countrymen, has the audacity to tell him that he is acting the part of a man of honour! Some day," thought John, a sudden blaze of fury burning through him, "you, Voules, will be taught a very different culture from that." Aloud John said nothing, but merely sat nervously in his chair, fidgeting with his collar, and clasping and unclasping his hands upon the table—an excellent imitation of the real Treves.

"Is there anything you would wish to say?" inquired Voules.

John looked guardedly at the two men who sat opposite.

"Please go to the window," commanded Voules.

The two men rose obediently and crossed the room. John dropped his voice.

"I understood," he said to Voules, "that I was to receive"—he stopped, looked into Voules's face, then turned his eyes away.

"Rathenau," Voules commanded, "ring the bell."

Cherriton rang the bell, and a moment later Conrad entered the room.

"The packet, Conrad, for Mr. Treves."

Conrad went out and returned a moment later, carrying a small white packet. He handed it to Voules, and Voules passed it to John.

"Thank you—thank you!" exclaimed John, taking it quickly. He knew the packet contained cocaine, and he slipped it carefully into his pocket.

"You will report to us wherever you are?" inquired Voules.

"Wherever I am," answered John.

"Great matters are pending," responded the doctor; "soon you will be of use to us. In regard to finance," he added, after a moment's pause, "you will write to our Captain Cherriton." He rose and gripped John's hand. "You will have no cause to regret your association with us, I can assure you of that."

"Perhaps you'll have some cause to regret your association with me," thought John, as he looked into the heavy jowled face.

Five minutes later he was out in the road, bidding good-bye to Captain Cherriton, who waved a careless farewell to him.

"We shall meet soon again," said the captain.

John nodded, leapt on to his bicycle, and rode briskly down the road.

CHAPTER XVIII

On the following evening, at eight o'clock, John Manton presented himself at Dacent Smith's apartment in Jermyn Street. He had hurried to London in answer to a wire, telling him to report himself personally. Elaine, who had made the journey with him, had gone on to her rooms in Camden Town. The door of Dacent Smith's suite of rooms was opened by Grew, who conducted John immediately to the great man's apartment. As always, when John visited his Chief's abode, the speckless cleanliness of the stairs, the glitter of varnish and brass reminded him somewhat of the interior of a battleship.

His superior's own room was orderly as usual, and Dacent Smith himself, who occupied a deep leather-covered chair at the hearth, rose and greeted him with a cordial handshake. The elder man was in evening clothes; he was, as always, plump, ruddy-cheeked, bright-eyed, and cheery in manner. His politeness struck John in marked contrast to the gruffness of Doctor Voules. These two men, Voules and Dacent Smith, heads of two great secret armies, were conducting a duel for supremacy. They were totally different in character and calibre, and John (perhaps he was prejudiced in the matter) was prepared at any odds to back Dacent Smith to win.

"Help yourself to a cigarette, Treves."

John took a cigarette, and seated himself in a chair opposite his Chief. For a moment there was silence, then Dacent Smith, who had been watching the ascending smoke, looked at the younger man with the faintly humorous light that sometimes animated his vivid eyes.

"I am glad to see you alive, Treves. You have had one of the narrowest of escapes."

John expressed his surprise.

"I wasn't aware of any narrow escape, sir."

"Perhaps not," said Dacent Smith, "but yesterday morning, when you went to Voules's house, you literally walked into the lions' den. Fortunately, however, you were successful in preserving a whole skin."

"I had no sense of anything adventurous happening during that visit," John returned, full of curiosity.

"I'll tell you exactly just what did happen," Dacent Smith continued. He rose, went to his desk, and drew a letter from one of the drawers. "Read that letter," he said, "and see what your chances would have been if it had arrived at Voules's house before you did."

"Who wrote it?" asked John, looking at the single initial "S" at the end of the sheet.

"Your amiable friend, Crumbs," answered Dacent Smith. "He discovered Cherriton's letter in your dispatch case."

John lifted his eyebrows in intense surprise.

"I had no idea that letter was discovered, sir. I took every precaution against discovery, and should have destroyed it, but it appeared to me a specimen of Cherriton's handwriting might be useful to you in the future."

"It will be useful when we come to stop his activities," answered Dacent Smith. "In the meantime its discovery by Sims very nearly resulted in your career coming to a sudden end. You can imagine the situation, Treves," he went on, "if that letter had arrived at Brooke when you were in Voules's house. For their own sakes, Voules and the others would never have dared to let you go. However, the letter never reached Voules, for Sinclair had it out of the locked bag at the fort five minutes after Sims deposited it there."

"It's a lucky thing for me," John said, handing back the letter to his Chief, "that Sinclair acted the way he did."

"Devilish lucky, Treves." Dacent Smith rose, placed the letter in a drawer in his desk and returned to his seat at the hearth.

"Now, Treves, as to Voules. Who is he?"

"He is some one in authority," answered John. "There is no doubt of that whatever."

"What is his appearance?"

"He is a heavily-built, bullet-headed man, between fifty and sixty. I should judge him to be used to exercising autocratic authority over others. When I reached Rollo Meads there were also present in the house two Germans, who gave me the impression of being naval officers. The fourth member of the party was Captain Cherriton, whose real name is Rathenau, as I discovered owing to the fact that they spoke German, which Cherriton believes I don't understand."

John continued and detailed fully his interview with Voules. He described his receipt of the cocaine tabloids from Conrad and his exhibition of the bogus five little wounds on his wrist, which had convinced Voules that he was a victim of the drug habit. When he had concluded Dacent Smith's lips tightened.

"You acted very shrewdly, Treves. I will see that Voules and his little party are kept under observation. From your description, I can tell you exactly who Voules is, Treves," he said. "We have suspected his identity for some time. Until two months ago Voules was General von Kuhne, in command of a corps of the Fifteenth Army. He is a Badenser, born and reared in Constance. Our investigation department informs me that he is credited by the enemy with great ability. In character he is instinctively aggressive; a fighter imbued through and through with the offensive spirit. It is to General von Kuhne that we owe our present awkward predicament on the South Coast. Outwardly nothing is wrong, but our department knows that Germany is preparing a heavy blow. We are contending against something new, big, and masterful; something that has been arranged and planned for months. How far General von Kuhne's plans have matured I do not yet know. We are so far, Treves, only groping towards knowledge. My reports tell me that at least eight forts on the South Coast are being subtly tampered with in one way or another. You have seen yourself the masterly manner in which Sims managed to work his will at Heatherpoint.

"Sims's dossier," he went on, "reached me in full only to-night, and is a further instance of an effective German trick. Sims's real name is Steinbaum. He is a Hamburg Jew, who emigrated to America in 1912. We cannot trace him from then until 1915, when, with the German naval attaché at Washington, Captain Boy Ed, he made an attempt to blow up the Pittsburg bridge works. He escaped the American police, and vanished. The next step in his career was when he landed at Liverpool from America. He was already a German spy, and enlisted in our army under the name of Sims, a baker by trade."

"I suppose," inquired John, "the idea of arresting Voules and his immediate confederates is outside our plan?"

Dacent Smith nodded. He put his finger-tips together, and remained thoughtfully silent for several minutes.

"No; it would not do," he said, as though desirous of convincing John of the correctness of his judgment "If I were to lay Voules, and a dozen of the others whom we know, suddenly by the heels, we should damage our chances, possibly irretrievably. You see, if we did that, we should be removing our special avenues of information. By arresting the spies we know, we should lose the great mass of information we manage to glean from them, and at the same time should be obliged to continue the fight against other agents whom we do not know. Do you follow me?"

John nodded. "I confess it never occurred to me in that light, but I can see the force of your argument."

"We always stand to learn something from Mrs. Beecher Monmouth, by secretly reading all her letters," continued Dacent Smith, "but if we arrest her we lose that advantage. Then, again, their present scheme in the South may be so far advanced that it will work to fruition by itself, even if we remove a dozen individuals. General von Kuhne is, of course, the keystone of the whole business, and when the time comes we shall get him——" he paused a moment, and looked quizzically into John's face—"or he will get us!"

"He will have to rise pretty early in the morning to get you," thought John, genuinely impressed by his reasoning. Nevertheless, he inwardly admitted that Kuhne was an antagonist well fitted to measure swords even with Dacent Smith. Always, in these short interviews he obtained with his Chief, John felt himself drawn anew to the head of his department. Manton had no doubt whatever of Dacent Smith's ability, his intelligence was keen as a sword-blade, and swift as that same blade in the hands of a brilliant fencer. For all that, it seemed strange to John, as he sat in the well-furnished, neatly-ordered, bachelor apartment, to think that this quiet, well-groomed, middle-aged gentleman was the head and heart, the chief nerve centre, in fact, of the greatest defensive force in the country.

"Now," said Dacent Smith, when he concluded his observations, "is there anything at all troubling your mind, Treves, anything you'd like to get off your chest, for instance?"

John looked at him quickly, wondering if his keen eye had detected anything.

"Well," he confessed, "as a matter of fact, there is something that bothers me a good deal."

"Pass me another cigarette," said Dacent Smith, "and let me hear it."

John handed him another cigarette, and hesitated.

"Go on," urged his Chief.

"Well, I should like to report, sir," John said at length, "that my personal position has become—well, peculiarly difficult during the past few days."

"Do you find your work disappointing?"

"I am keener on my work than ever," John answered.

"What is it, then?"

"Well," confessed John, "to be precise, I find I am getting rather entangled with a lady." His tone was serious, and Dacent Smith took the statement gravely.

"Mrs. Beecher Monmouth, do you mean?"

John shook his head.

"Mrs. Beecher Monmouth is rather pressing whenever I meet her," he said, with a deprecating smile, "but she is not the lady in question."

"Who is the lady?"

John was silent; he found a strange diffidence in tackling this subject. It was a matter of some difficulty to state exactly what was the situation between himself and Elaine. Dacent Smith waited, and then tapped the arm of his chair with his finger, which was his only manner of showing impatience.

"Come, Treves, who is the lady?"

"Bernard Treves's wife, sir!"

"Oh! And wherein lies the particular awkwardness?"

"Yesterday she came down to the Gordon Hotel in Newport to see me, and stayed the night there."

"Was that awkward for you?"

"I'm afraid it was, sir. It seems," went on John, "that there was a disagreement between her and her husband, which ended in the lady refusing to live with him until he improved his habits."

"A very proper and spirited attitude to take," responded Dacent Smith.

"That is my opinion," said John, "but, unfortunately, she has decided to forgive her husband."

Dacent Smith suddenly sat erect.

"You don't mean she has made any untoward discovery?"

"Oh, no," said John, "she accepts me absolutely. And so far as I know she has never experienced the faintest doubt. But the awkwardness comes in through the fact that she has decided to forgive her husband and take him back again!"

Dacent Smith looked at the younger man for a minute, then whistled softly.

"By gad, Treves, yours is certainly a difficult path."

"I am glad you see it as I do, sir."

"Devilish difficult—and what's the lady like? Is she young and pretty?"

"She is about twenty-three years of age," said John, "and—and, well pretty doesn't quite describe her. She has dark hair and grey eyes. She is rather above the average in height. She——" John hesitated and stumbled. "I am no connoisseur in these matters, sir, but in my opinion she is an unusually beautiful girl."

Dacent Smith looked at him squarely.

"And that, no doubt, intensifies your difficulty, eh, Treves?"

"Well, my position last night," he said briefly, "was more than awkward." A sudden note of irritation found its way into John's voice; he could not have himself explained why he felt irritation. "The situation was wrong altogether. I felt I had no right to pass as Bernard Treves. It is one thing to deceive Treves's father in a good cause, or to deceive everybody else, but it is quite another matter to trick a young, good-looking woman the way I had to deceive Mrs. Treves. It doesn't seem to me to be playing the game, sir."

"You mean," inquired Dacent Smith, quietly, "the young lady made advances to you, she forgave you, and offered to live with you again as your wife, and you, being a man of honour, felt the situation keenly? Tell me, Treves," he went on, with a new interest in the matter, "what is she like? Her mental equipment, I mean?"

"She is very feminine, and by no means a fool," explained John. "I evaded her last night, but she came to London with me to-day, and is waiting for me this evening. She knows Cherriton and Manwitz. Cherriton, as a matter of fact, has been paying her undesirable attentions." John, who had been looking at the hearth-rug, suddenly lifted his face. "That's the whole situation, sir, and I don't feel that I can go on deceiving her."

For a long minute there was silence in the little room. Dacent Smith's little gilt clock on the mantelpiece chimed the half-hour.

"We're in deep waters here, Treves," he said slowly and seriously. "I can see only two ways out of it. One is that she should be restored to her undesirable husband."

"If," said John, "Treves is cured of his drug habit, I suppose that would be the right thing to do." Even as he spoke a feeling shot through him that was quite definitely antagonistic to this idea. He felt jealous and utterly resentful at the thought.

"He isn't cured, and shows no likelihood of being cured," answered Dacent Smith. "My last report is that he tried to break out of the nursing home, and very nearly got away. He is in the condition where he would give his very soul to get drugs. No," he said, shaking his head, "we'll leave Bernard Treves in his present isolation. In surrendering his personality to you he is making some slight restitution; he is unconsciously doing something for his country. We need waste no pity on him. So far as we are concerned, Treves does not count."

"What if Treves had actually managed to escape, sir?"

"In that case 'Voules' and the rest of them would be down on you like a ton of bricks, but we need not at present anticipate a calamity of that sort. Now in regard to Treves's wife, when you see her to-night, give her my compliments, and say I should like her to call here one afternoon this week. I think I can then ease the awkwardness of your position in regard to her. I have an idea at any rate."

Half an hour later John made his way out to Camden Town, and rang the bell of 65, Bowles Avenue. Elaine herself opened the door and offered him a smiling welcome.

CHAPTER XIX

In the soft illumination of the white and gold dining-salon of the Golden Pavilion Hotel John found himself completely at home. Two days had passed since his visit to Elaine, and he was again at work under the ægis of Dacent Smith. He had chosen a quiet table in the corner, had selected the dishes for his dinner, and was leaning back in his chair surveying the brilliant scene with an appreciative eye. The Golden Pavilion Hotel is famed alike for its refined and luxurious furnishings, its band, its cuisine, and its exclusiveness. The head waiter, who looked like an archbishop, advanced soundlessly over the rich carpet, and stood at John's elbow.

"I beg your pardon," said the man, in a low, smooth voice, "but the lady at the table beyond the second pillar, sir, would like to have a word with you."

John raised his head and glanced in the direction the man had indicated. He had already seen Mrs. Beecher Monmouth, and had made a special point of concealing the fact. He rose now, however, and moved across the room between crowded tables.

Mrs. Beecher Monmouth, seated with a party of friends, flashed a brilliant smile at him when he advanced.

"Oh, you poor lonely creature," she exclaimed, as she placed her jewelled fingers in his. "I saw you moping in your corner," she continued, when a waiter had brought an extra chair and John had accepted an invitation to dine with her party, "and took pity on you; don't you think that was nice of me?" She looked at him with a long, deep glance, conscious of her striking beauty. Her beauty was of the instantly arresting order. The fact that the art of coiffeur and cosmetic enabled her to heighten her charms was all in her favour where men were concerned. Quite, as it were, by accident, she now laid her fingers on John's sleeve.

"I must introduce you to my guests. My husband you already know."

John bowed slightly towards Mr. Beecher Monmouth, whose evening clothes intensified the sallowness of his complexion. John noted the parchment-like character of his skin, the tired look in his eyes, and the manipulation of his thin hair to create the effect of youthful plenty. He was an old man striving hopelessly to look young. Mrs. Beecher Monmouth turned her eyes from her husband towards the slender figure of a woman at her right-hand side.

"Lady Rachel," she said, "may I present Mr. Treves." John bowed again, and Lady Rachel Marvin smiled at him graciously. She was a woman of slender figure, with exceptionally large, long-lashed eyes. Her neck was long, slender and white, and she wore diamond ear-rings, which scintillated as she moved her head. Her age was probably thirty-five, and she was, in appearance, distinctly aristocratic. Her voice was thin and high-pitched, and she talked incessantly.

The third member of Mrs. Beecher Monmouth's party was a fat woman of fifty, the wealthy wife of a colonel in the gunners. Any woman assessing the jewels Mrs. Pomfret Bond wore would have known that she was wealthy, and that she was determined other people should know it. She was a foolish, vulgar woman, and John, looking at her, realised almost immediately that she would be as wax in the hands of Mrs. Beecher Monmouth. But it was to Lady Rachel Marvin that John turned his attention. "Did you know the Seventh Division has been moved from Aldershot?" she was inquiring, looking at Beecher Monmouth.

"No," said the elderly man, "we don't hear anything in Parliament, Lady Rachel."

"I heard it only quite by accident," babbled Lady Rachel. "You know my cousin, Derrick, is in the Coldstreams; you remember Derrick?" she said, turning her big eyes upon Mrs. Beecher Monmouth, "I have told you so much about him."

Mrs. Beecher Monmouth smiled brilliantly and nodded. Lady Rachel then went on to explain that it was Derrick who had told her of a new gun being tested at Woolwich. Derrick had been on the G.H.Q. Staff, "and," went on Lady Rachel, "he is almost as mysterious about it as his friend Commander Loyson is about the new cruiser—the Malta, which has just been put into commission at ——"

"Is there a new cruiser being commissioned at ——?" inquired John, sliding into the conversation. He was so apparently interested that Lady Rachel looked at him with a pleased expression on her somewhat foolish face.

"I am afraid, Mr. Treves, I ought not to chatter about it. But being behind the scenes, and knowing so many people one naturally picks up little bits of news here and there. It is quite easy to piece the bits together. I have not heard anything actually about the new cruiser," she said, "the Malta, I mean, but from things Commander Loyson said to Derrick, and from other things I have heard, I can assure you it is something wonderful."

John, listening to her chatter, wondered how much of this information she had, out of sheer vanity, passed on to Mrs. Beecher Monmouth.

Lady Rachel Marvin certainly knew a great number of people, and her social position gave her many chances to pick up exclusive information. Her silly, butterfly existence consisted in flitting from one drawing-room to another. Here she exchanged such gossip as she had been able to collect from her equally frivolous friends. As John listened to her he realised that such women as Lady Rachel are a real source of danger to the nation.

When dinner was at an end Lady Rachel went to speak to some friends at another table, and the minute she had gone Mrs. Beecher Monmouth turned her attention solely to John, ignoring Mrs. Pomfret Bond and the "Ogre."

"Naughty boy," said Mrs. Beecher Monmouth under her breath. "Why have you never been to see me?"

"I have been in the Isle of Wight visiting my father," answered John promptly.

"I know that," answered she; "therefore, and because you sent me those Russian cigarettes, I intend to forgive you! Now, you must come and see me soon," she went on, "there are many things I want to talk to you about."

"I should like to talk to you about quite a number of things," responded John in the same intimate tone.

"When can you come?" asked she.

"Any time you like."

"Not to-morrow, the 'Ogre' will be at home then," she said, in a voice too low for Mr. Beecher Monmouth to catch. "Don't you think he is looking very old and worn?"

John glanced at Beecher Monmouth's glazed countenance and tired eyes, and even at that moment the elderly politician was looking adoringly at his wife, admiring the richness of her hair, the fine contour of her shoulders, and the brilliance of her complexion. John felt almost sorry for the befooled and weary Member of Parliament, who had sold his old age and his happiness into the bondage of this woman.

"Come to tea the day after to-morrow," said Mrs. Beecher Monmouth, and John accepted the invitation with alacrity.

Two days later when he presented himself at five o'clock in the afternoon at Mrs. Beecher Monmouth's residence in Grosvenor Square, he was ushered immediately into the lady's boudoir.

He had seen that room only in the illumination of the pink-shaded electric light, now he saw it again in daylight, and found it even more luxurious than he had imagined—the white polar-bear rug, the brilliant-hued Chinese kakemonos hung on the wall behind Mrs. Beecher Monmouth's divan, the long gilt-framed mirrors, and gilt-legged chairs all conspired to create an atmosphere of sumptuous richness. Mrs. Beecher Monmouth in an afternoon gown which gave her almost a slender and distinguished appearance, was seated in a low arm-chair. Lady Rachel Marvin occupied the divan, and John, much as he disliked this foolish ox-eyed woman of fashion, was obliged to admit that she had disposed herself gracefully upon the cushions. The third guest was Mrs. Pomfret Bond, who was delighted to be in that society, and talked as much military gossip as she could to show that she, too, was in the swim.