BERNARD TREVES'S BOOTS (continued 5)

"You wish to see Lieutenant Parkson?"

"Yes, please." Her heart was still beating swiftly. She had not foreseen that the gates would be clanged ruthlessly shut behind her.

The sergeant turned on his heel.

"Will you come this way, madame?"

He began to ascend steep ladder-like steps laid against the face of the cliff. Mrs. Beecher Monmouth followed the grim khaki-clad figure.

"Please, not quite so fast," she entreated, and paused for breath.

Three hundred feet below her, looking almost straight down, she could see the blue waters of the Solent shining in the sunlight. Tiny white-crested waves fell languidly into the little bay, with its jutting pier that before the war had been thronged with holiday-makers, but which was now empty and deserted. Beyond the pier, three miles away, on the mainland promontory the tower of the Ponsonby Lighthouse gleamed beautiful and white.

"What a lovely view, sergeant."

"Yes, madame."

"But in winter it must be very cold up here."

"Yes, madame."

He was standing eight or ten steps above her, eyeing a tangle of barbed wire which covered a green hill slope, with indifferent eyes. He did not approve of visitors to the fort, especially ladies. What did ladies want climbing ladders and nosing about in places where they were not wanted; they were never allowed to see anything important. And as for the so-called view, they could get a better one at the Shakespeare Monument a little farther along the downs. This was Sergeant Ewins's opinion as he conducted Lieutenant Parkson's visitor up the steep steps to the little well-hidden mess-room at the cliff top, and even Mrs. Beecher Monmouth's unparalleled beauty and charm failed to win a smile from him. Parkson, who had been on duty until that minute, came running towards them as they entered the small asphalted courtyard. Mrs. Beecher Monmouth, her eyes shining, her breath coming quickly with the exertion of the ascent, clasped his hand in hers.

Parkson dismissed Ewins and apologised briskly for not being able to receive her at the fort gates.

"I was on duty till this minute. Our colonel's a bit of a martinet."

"Is he not popular?" asked Mrs. Beecher Monmouth in the low intimate—we two are alone in all the world—voice she knew so well how to use.

Parkson opened his eyes wide.

"Good Lord, yes; he's most awfully popular. He is just, you see, and the men always appreciate that."

He led his visitor into the single story building, and along a passage toward the little mess-room. Here Mrs. Beecher Monmouth seated herself in the only armchair—a cheap wicker article—and surveyed the room with smiling, but intensely receptive eyes. In a flash she took in the bare boarded floor, the trestle table, the colonel's cigar box on the mantelshelf, the Admiralty chart of the Solent which covered the end wall and lastly, the old piano, which was the worst treated instrument in the Isle of Wight.

Parkson bustled about at the tea-table, and Mrs. Beecher Monmouth presently turned her attention upon him.

"Will anyone come in and disturb us if I help you to make the table a little more presentable?" she asked.

"I'm afraid they will," Parkson answered. "But I managed to choose a time when only one officer is likely to come in."

"Is he old and grumpy, or young and nice-looking like you?" Mrs. Beecher Monmouth looked at him with raillery in her fine eyes. She was helping herself to marmalade, and was making the best of the thickness of the bread and butter, and the strong tea Parkson had poured out for her.

"Oh, he's a dashed sight better looking than I am," admitted Parkson modestly; "his name is Sinclair, an old regular officer."

"I am sure I shall not like him," said Mrs. Beecher Monmouth.

It was fully a quarter of an hour before Sinclair made his appearance, and then the tea was nearly cold. He came in, and was introduced to Mrs. Beecher Monmouth. Looking at his lean, handsome face and audacious eyes she could have sworn that she had seen him somewhere before. As a matter of fact, his appearance was vaguely familiar to her because one of Sinclair's earlier duties that year had been to watch her at little dinner parties at the Savoy, Carlton and Ritz Hotels.

"I think we have met before," probed Mrs. Beecher Monmouth, furrowing her brows, and fixing her gaze on Sinclair's face.

"I am afraid I have not had that pleasure," replied Sinclair, who could act the part of smiling fatuity to perfection. He was thinking how well she looked in her widow's weeds, and how extraordinary cheerful was her manner, considering the tragedy that had recently befallen her.

Parkson and Mrs. Beecher Monmouth soon left the mess-room, and immediately they were gone Sinclair rose from the table, hurried to his room, and wrote a code telegram to Dacent Smith.

Mrs. Beecher Monmouth is here. What action shall I take?

Two hours later his Chief's answer came.

Take no action. Treves handling the matter.

While Sinclair was writing his telegram Mrs. Beecher Monmouth had accompanied Parkson out into the asphalted yard. Only certain limited areas of the fort were open to friends of the officers. "I am afraid it is very feminine of me," exclaimed Mrs. Monmouth as they passed the bakehouse door, "but I should so love to peep inside."

"By all means," responded Parkson, showing himself indulgent to feminine curiosity.

She tripped across the yard, and peered into the half darkness of the bakehouse. She was carrying out her instructions, which were to find out what had become of Sims, but even the astuteness of Dacent Smith himself at this moment would have failed to detect guile in the girlish innocence of her expression as she looked into the face of the red-haired Scotch baker who had succeeded Sims. She examined the great tray of newly-baked loaves, uttered feminine exclamations of astonishment and admiration at all she saw, and finally smiled sweetly into the face of the dour Scotch corporal.

"I suppose you have been here ages and ages, Mr. Lyle?"

"No, madam, it's no more than a month since I came."

Parkson, who had listened good-humouredly, awaited her at the door, and as they crossed the asphalt together Mrs. Monmouth questioned him as to the baker who had preceded Lyle. She put her questions deftly, in a manner that would arouse no suspicion.

"Oh, no, Sims isn't at the front." He looked at her for a moment with fleeting doubt in his gaze, and decided to say no more about Sims. But Mrs. Monmouth's keen eyes interpreted his expression of reserve. He knew something. She smiled inwardly. What he knew she, too, would know.

"I am afraid we must stop here," Parkson suddenly said, "I am not allowed to take anyone beyond this barbed wire."

"Do you never allow visitors to go there?"

"Never," answered Parkson emphatically.

Mrs. Beecher Monmouth turned her resplendent countenance upon him. There was a vivid colour in her cheeks; the rich curve of her lips glowed scarlet.

"How wonderful it all is—and, I suppose," she went on, looking at him with what he and any other man would have believed to be admiration, "you are watching and waiting, all day and all night—waiting for the enemy?"

"Something of the sort," answered Parkson wearily. "You never know; he may come any time."

"Do you expect him?"

They were at the top of the steps which led to the lower fort, the superb panorama of Alum Bay, the Ponsonby Lighthouse and the English coast lay at their feet.

"I can't say that we expect him any longer," answered Parkson, naturally, "but we live in hope!"

"I suppose the fort is very strong?"

"I expect it's capable of doing its bit," Parkson answered judicially.

"I suppose you have made it much stronger in the last few months—since the Germans began to do badly on the Western front?"

Parkson looked at her quickly, and she broke into a little musical laugh.

"How silly I am!" she exclaimed. "I am talking just like a man. That comes of living with a Member of Parliament."

This was the only reference she had made to her husband, but she made it in a tone which was intended to convey to Parkson that Mr. Beecher Monmouth was completely and irrevocably dead, and that being a young and vital woman, she, on her part, could not be expected to mourn his loss eternally.

They descended the steps together, and, in pretty timidity, she laid her fingers upon his arm. In Parkson's short career of gallantry he had never felt so much a man of the world as at that moment.

When the steep descent had been made, and they were upon the level of the lower fort, Mrs. Beecher Monmouth expressed much interest in the view that was to be obtained from that level. But Parkson shook his head, and explained that no visitors whatever were admitted to the lower fort.

Failing in that project, Mrs. Beecher Monmouth turned her eyes upon the tall barred gate which cut her off from the world outside. Parkson explained to her with a masterful smile, that, until he gave the word, she was a prisoner in the fort.

"You can test it, if you like," he said; "all you have to do is to walk to the gate and try to get out."

It was nearly six o'clock, and Parkson was due upon duty at seven.

"Look here," he said, "I have just time to show you out of the fort the other way, across the links. I'm afraid you'll have to go up the steps again."

Mrs. Beecher Monmouth, however, showed herself quite willing to make an ascent to the upper level. She was interested and delighted in everything she saw.

At the top of the cliff, with the short green turf underfoot, old Lieutenant-Commander Greaves met them, and saluted, and went to his eyrie, his glass-covered look-out with its great swivel telescope.

"What a delightful old naval officer!"

"He is," returned Parkson, "and as keen as mustard."

His companion put a few deft questions; it was as though she put out invisible tentacles, groping for matter that could be valuable.

Before they reached the confines of the fort Parkson led her to the cliff edge, to the exact spot wherefrom Manton had looked down upon Sims busy upon the sands. Far below them lay the quiet little bay—there was scarcely a ripple upon the blue sunlit water, and the waves rolled and fell languidly with a musical cadence.

Mrs. Beecher Monmouth seated herself beside Parkson and admired the view. She was clever enough not to force the pace; he was already entangled in her meshes, but he was not yet completely helpless. Aforetime she had conquered and wrought the undoing of men far subtler than Parkson.

"What a lovely, lovely bay, Mr. Parkson!"

Parkson admitted the beauty of the bay. He told her that it was within the area of the fort, and that it was not accessible to the public, and that there was only one way of approaching it by a narrow path descending the chalk cliff. Then quite insidiously and with incredible dexterity she led him round to talk of Sims. Months later, when Parkson recalled that conversation, he was totally unable to account for the manner in which she had achieved a return to this subject. Sims, the lank, cadaverous and bead-eyed Sims—who was really Steinbaum and a German spy—what had this man to do with the beauty and splendour of the sunlit evening? Why should his existence interest the tragically bereaved young widow, the society woman, who Parkson truly believed had fallen in love with himself? "Heart taken at the rebound," the young man quoted in fatuous gratification. He felt delighted to think that old Greaves had seen him in company of this lovely widow. He wanted the ancient naval officer to think him a dog, and when he and Mrs. Beecher Monmouth rose and passed between attentive sentries out of the fort into the downs, Parkson helped the lovely widow up certain steps, out through certain areas of barbed wire, by taking her arm in his. He wondered if old Greaves, in his glass look-out, was watching them—old Greaves saw pretty much everything that went on in the upper fort. But on this occasion it was not Greaves, but Captain Sinclair who watched him—watched every movement they made from Greaves' glass-encompassed tower.

"What do you think of that friend of Parkson's, Commander?" asked Sinclair, as Parkson and his guest passed finally out of the fort.

"She's the best-looking woman I've seen here since the war began," responded Greaves. "When I was a young man," he went on wickedly, drawing at his pipe, "I always went in for widows. There is always so much more to 'em."

"In this case," Sinclair answered, "the widow seems to be bearing her sorrow pretty lightly!"

"Old husbands are soon forgotten by young wives," observed Greaves philosophically. "When I was in Minorca, in the old Benbow, in '72 or '73," he began, and told Sinclair with never-ending gusto one of his somewhat highly-spiced stories of youthful adventures of his midship days.

In the meantime Parkson conducted Mrs. Beecher Monmouth down to her waiting motor-car. They descended the steep hillside, and Parkson still helped her on every occasion. The hired Ford car had been turned in the narrow road. Parkson, with a glance at his watch, helped her into the vehicle, daringly stepped in beside her, and placed the dust-cover over both their knees.

"I can have a five minutes' drive with you and get back by seven," he announced.

"But I didn't invite you, Mr. Parkson."

"Your eyes invited me," he returned audaciously, and under the dust-cover he slid his fingers towards hers.

There ensued a palpitating moment, then Mrs. Beecher Monmouth turned her radiantly beautiful face slightly towards him; under long, curved lashes she gave him a sidelong glance. Then, so that the chauffeur should not overhear, she whispered, framing the words with her lips:

"You bad, bad, naughty officer!"

But she did not remove her hand, which was now enclosed in his.

Parkson thought it a lucky chance that she had discarded her gloves. Parkson, in fact, was green enough to trust her absolutely. He was, indeed, the veriest babe in her hands. Her face was full towards him now. She was smiling, exhibiting her splendid teeth, and looking deep into his eyes. Her black hat and widow's weeds added only to the brilliancy of her complexion, to the scarlet richness of her fine lips. There was something in her gaze, in the warm intensity of her regard, its lingering softness, that utterly swept away Parkson's self-possession. He leaned toward her and dropped his voice.

"If it wasn't for the sentries there on the hill-top," he murmured, "I'd kiss you now!"

"Bad boy," she said with her lips.

She had a way of talking with her lips and uttering no sound that concentrated attention on her sensuous charms.

Parkson's five minutes in the car seemed to him five minutes of heaven. He was completely and utterly enamoured—and as to the future, the future seemed to blaze before him in radiant and glorious romance. He wondered how far he could go—he had never seen a woman like her. Beautiful, feminine, coy, loving.... What a blind idiot, thought he, Beecher Monmouth must have been to shoot himself.

"When shall we meet again?" he whispered, as he alighted from the car at the end of the fort road.

"I'm afraid I shall have to meet you again soon, you naughty boy!"

She put out her supple white hand, adorned only with a wedding ring. Parkson seized her fingers and impressed a fervent kiss upon them.

As the car swept away, Mrs. Beecher Monmouth turned and waved a little handkerchief in farewell.

CHAPTER XXVII

When Mrs. Monmouth reached the hotel in Newport, something over an hour after bidding Parkson farewell, Cecily awaited her in the little sitting-room.

"Are you ready, madame, to dress for dinner?" asked the maid.

"Yes, Cecily, and I shall dine here to-night."

She went into the bedroom, and Cecily disrobed her. During this ceremony the girl hesitated once or twice on the point of speaking, then refrained.

"Well, what is it, Cecily? What is it you want to say?"

"It is something important, madame, that has occurred."

Mrs. Beecher Monmouth turned and opened her eyes in interrogation.

"What, for instance?" she demanded.

Cecily, who was at the wardrobe, took out her mistress's evening skirt.

"To-day, madame, when you were away, I made acquaintance of one of the men at Heatherpoint Fort——"

"Ah!" ejaculated Mrs. Beecher Monmouth, suddenly interested; "so soon—that was clever of you."

"He told me, in regard to Sims, madame, he merely left the fort——"

Mrs. Beecher Monmouth nodded indifferently; she was disappointed.

"Is that all you learned, Cecily?"

"No, madame. I learned also that Lieutenant Treves, who was supposed by us to be staying with his father, was, however, at that time acting as one of the officers at Heatherpoint."

This was the first Mrs. Beecher Monmouth had heard of John's presence at the fort. She was at first inclined to disbelieve it. Then, when Cecily proved circumstantially that the statement was true, Mrs. Beecher Monmouth felt inclined to dismiss the matter as of no moment. If Treves had been at Heatherpoint, he was there evidently with the knowledge of von Kuhne, and possibly was acting in von Kuhne's interests, and, for her part, she was not in the least inclined to doubt John—he was one of her admirers. A more resourceful and more attractive man than Parkson, and, nevertheless, equally a victim of her charms. She flattered herself she could do a great deal with Bernard Treves. As for his attempting to deceive her, that seemed out of the question. She pointed out to Cecily that Treves's stay at Heatherpoint Fort did not mean that the young man had betrayed the German secret service, which was rewarding him so handsomely.

Cecily, however, had a further and more serious statement to make.

"When I am suspicious, madame," she said, "I am thinking not so much of Mr. Treves's visit to the fort——"

She was at Mrs. Beecher Monmouth's back now, hooking her dress, and a silence fell.

"Well?" demanded her mistress shortly.

"I am thinking, madame," went on Cecily, "of the night of Mr. Beecher Monmouth's death."

She paused again, but her mistress made no remark, and Cecily went on:

"On that night, madame, when I had folded away your things, I took a skirt into the housekeeper's room to brush. While I brushed it I talked with Mr. Duckett, the butler, who was also there. There was no ring at the front-door bell, madame—and yet when I returned to your bedroom there was a light there."

"You left it on before you went down, Cecily!"

"No, madame, I turned it off. I was very surprised to see the light, as I knew you were out, madame, and I—I——"

Mrs. Beecher Monmouth turned and scrutinised the maid's sallow face and bead-like eyes.

"You looked through the keyhole!" she said.

"Yes, madame."

"And saw my husband, who had come back unexpectedly."

"No, madame; I saw Mr. Treves. Mr. Beecher Monmouth had not come home then; and Mr. Treves, madame, was standing near your dressing-table with a small box in his hands."

Mrs. Beecher Monmouth flashed an intense glance upon her.

"What sort of box?"

"A black box, madame, the one you kept among your furs."

Mrs. Beecher Monmouth's hand suddenly leapt out and gripped Cecily's wrist. Her voice grew low, little more than a hissing whisper.

"What are you saying, Cecily? What was Mr. Treves doing?"

"I don't know, madame."

Cecily twisted her arm, attempting to free it.

"Please, madame, you are hurting my wrist!"

Mrs. Beecher Monmouth thrust forth her face—her brilliant eyes had grown hard as agate.

"Why did you never tell me this before?"

"I thought, madame, you knew he was there."

Mrs. Beecher Monmouth relaxed her grip; she stepped back a pace or two and threw up her head.

"God in heaven, what a fool you are!"

"It was natural I should think that," protested Cecily, recoiling a step or two.

"Natural! You idiot!"

"He came in with your key, madame."

Mrs. Beecher Monmouth stared in utter amazement.

"My key?"

"Yes, madame; I saw him fling something under the table, and found afterwards it was your key. He must have taken it from your bag, madame, when he visited you in the afternoon."

Mrs. Beecher Monmouth suddenly twisted on her heel and began to pace the room. The truth had smitten her like a blow. Wild thoughts surged through her brain. All these long months she had believed herself tricking and duping Bernard Treves—her business in life was to trick, dupe, and mould men to her own ends, to the ends of the Fatherland, to the imposition of its monstrous Kultur upon the world—and now this man, this handsome, drug-sodden weakling had out-manoeuvred her! She had spun a web for him, had toyed with him, expended her charm upon him, and all the time he had been secretly and darkly laughing in his sleeve. Instead of a friend and a tool, he had been an astute and daring enemy!

Enemy—that was the word. An enemy of infinite danger to herself, to von Kuhne, to Cherriton, to Manwitz—to them all. An enemy to the Fatherland! An enemy to the great, crushing blow that was about to fall upon those arrogant and high-stomached English!

Her concealed letters, that meant everything, that exposed everything, had been found—not by her husband—but by this cool and steel-nerved, subtle-witted enemy—this young man who now, from that evidence, could piece together all her life-history.

As this thought flashed into her mind, she saw her own immediate jeopardy. She lacked nothing of courage; and, being a woman, it was not her own physical peril, nor the wrecking of von Kuhne's plan, that struck her deep—it was not this, but her own vanity that was stricken. She had made many advances to Bernard Treves—she had given much. And, as she thought of the past, a murderous and implacable hate blossomed in her mind against John. An instinct to seize something and rend it to shreds grappled her. She longed to slap Cecily—first on one side of her sallow face and then on the other. She would have liked to take Cecily's arm and twist it until the woman yelled with pain.

But as these things were not permissible, she sat down and wrote a fiery and vitriolic letter to General von Kuhne. She cared nothing now for von Kuhne's authority; they were all in danger. This pleasant, amiable young Englishman had obviously acted against them from the very first. They believed him to be a drug-taker and a discredited English officer with a grievance. And all the time he had been something utterly different.

She wrote this news to von Kuhne, and poured her contempt upon him. She knew these things would hit the chief of the German service between the eyes, and she revelled in the thought. And all the time her intense and passionate nature dwelt upon the thing that must befall Bernard Treves. How much information Treves had conveyed to his department she did not know; but this she knew, that von Kuhne and his myrmidons would effectually stop his mouth. The dark corps of espionage would add another death, another extinction to its secret crimes.

When Mrs. Beecher Monmouth had finished the letter, she closed it, addressed it to Godfrey Manners, Esq., and handed it to Cecily.

"You will take this to Mr. Manners now, and ask him to deliver it to Doctor Voules first thing to-morrow. The doctor is in London to-day, but he will return in the morning. Tell Mr. Manners that the letter is of the utmost importance."

"Very good, madame."

Mrs. Beecher Monmouth detained her a few minutes, questioning her as to Treves's visit on the night of Beecher Monmouth's death; then permitted her to go.

When the maid had departed, Mrs. Beecher Monmouth stood before the little mirror on the hotel dressing-table. "Tricked, duped and fooled!" she murmured.

Then, catching sight of the pearl and emerald pendant John had given her, she snatched it violently from her breast and hurled it into the hearth. It would have given her infinite pleasure at that moment to have murdered John by slow and excruciating torture. Her thoughts were still seething, when the dejected hotel waiter knocked at her door and announced in plaintive tones that dinner awaited her.

CHAPTER XXVIII

Next morning, at twelve o'clock, Doctor Voules sat at the big oak table in his dining-room at Brooke. He had arrived from London in the morning, and was busy consuming a heavy lunch.

The brightness of the day before had vanished; a heavy driving rain was falling. From the single window of the apartment the doctor could obtain a view of drenched foliage in his garden. And, sharp to the left, as one stood at the window, a view of the sea, grey and restless beneath a leaden sky, was visible.

The doctor ate stolidly, grinding his food in heavy, powerful jaws. The only other occupant of the room was Captain Cherriton, who lounged in a chair at the hearth and read a morning newspaper assiduously. Beside him, on the floor, lay four or five other morning news-sheets.

For many minutes, save the drive of the rain and the chink of Voules's knife and fork, no sound broke the stillness of the room. Then Voules turned his chair, took out a cigar and lit it.

"The barometer is falling, Rathenau," he said in his grating, imperious voice—quite another voice from that which he assumed as the bland Doctor Voules.

"It is going down steadily, Excellenz," answered Cherriton.

"Good," returned the elder man. "We must have unsettled weather for the twenty-eighth—eh, Rathenau?"

"It is much to be desired, Excellenz."

The twenty-eighth—it was always the twenty-eighth with General von Kuhne. With machine-like precision his forceful mind returned again and again to that date—the date which was to mark the consummation of his work. The blow, the subtle, heavy blow at England's heart—the blow planned, schemed for, and ordered; the great destruction that had originated in his martial and ruthless mind.

"Things go well, eh?"

"Quite well, Excellenz," Cherriton answered promptly, for as yet he had not found courage to mention to the general his suspicion of Treves. He was not yet positive that Treves had betrayed them, and, in the meantime, he had resolved to say nothing. Rather would he wait and watch, seeking for tangible proof of duplicity on Treves's part.

These thoughts were passing through his mind when a knock came at the door, and Conrad entered to clear away the luncheon things. In his hand he carried a salver upon which lay a single letter, addressed to Doctor Voules, and without a stamp.

The doctor took up the letter.

"Herr Manwitz brought it from Newport, Excellenz," said the servant in German.

"Tell Herr Manwitz I will see him presently, and remain out of the room until I ring for you."

General von Kuhne had recognised Mrs. Beecher Monmouth's handwriting. He began to read almost casually; then, suddenly, his interest intensified, and as he read the lines of his heavy face grew hard, firm and implacable. His colour rose; he eased his collar about his throat and bit heavily upon his long cigar.

Cherriton, noticing his agitation, noticing the blazing wrath that illuminated his face, watched him with anxious eyes.

Suddenly von Kuhne sprang to his feet.

"Stand up!" he bellowed, looking at the younger man with an expression of utter ferocity. "You blind, thick-witted fool!"

Captain Cherriton's pallid features were flushed, an angry light lit in his eye. He opened his mouth and was about to speak, but von Kuhne swept the words out of his mouth with a savage gesture.

"Speak no words to me, you —— but read that letter!"

He thrust Mrs. Beecher Monmouth's closely-written sheets into the younger man's hands.

"Read that!" he roared, "and see to what pass you have brought us!"

Cherriton began to read, and as he read the colour left his face. Von Kuhne hurried to the bell and jangled it savagely. Conrad precipitated himself into the room in a state of nervous agitation. He was used to authority, but he had never yet known a bell to ring with such violence.

Doctor Voules's face turned towards him did nothing to dissipate his alarm.

"Tell Herr Manwitz to come here this instant," roared Voules.

"Very good, Excellenz." He paused a moment, then added: "Mr. Bernard Treves is here, Excellenz. Shall I also tell him to enter?"

Doctor Voules drew in a deep breath. He turned slowly and looked into Cherriton's eyes.

The stillness that ensued was intense and portentous. The glance that passed between Voules and Cherriton was one of infinite meaning. Voules's expression of ferocity moderated; he turned his eyes again to the intimidated Conrad standing in the doorway.

"How long has Mr. Treves been here?"

"A few minutes only, Herr Excellenz. He came in after Herr Manwitz."

"Very good, Conrad! You will take particular care Mr. Treves does not leave the house, and you will in the meantime send Herr Manwitz to me."

"Very good, Excellenz."

"You understand my order in regard to Herr Treves?"

"Yes, Excellenz. He is not to leave the house."

General von Kuhne nodded and turned on his heel. As the door closed upon Conrad, his implacable eyes once more sought Cherriton.

"The letter you hold," he began, making a stiff gesture towards Mrs. Beecher Monmouth's missive, which Cherriton was still studying—"the letter you hold in your hand convicts this man completely. His treachery to us, his espionage"—he paused a moment—"may bring upon us the utmost disaster. In failing to discover his duplicity you have shown yourself no less than a sheep-headed fool!"

"Herr Excellenz!" protested Baron von Rathenau, drawing himself up, a flush of colour animating his dull pallor.

"I am your superior officer!" countered von Kuhne. "It is, fortunately, my privilege to speak plain words to you; it is equally my privilege to command your obedience. You have failed in regard to this young man, Bernard Treves. From the first hour of his contact with Manwitz he has clearly tricked you both!"

"May I venture to remind you, Excellenz, that he tricked you also?"

Von Kuhne lifted his fierce and truculent gaze.

Cherriton was neither intimidated nor silenced.

"He tricked you, Herr Excellenz, the day of his first visit here. You announced to me then that you were satisfied. You observed upon his wrists the punctured marks which proved him, as you said, Excellenz, to be addicted to the injection of drugs."

Von Kuhne waved these objections aside.

"I based my opinion upon his dossier provided for me by you and Manwitz." He began to pace the floor, with his hands behind his back, his head thrust forward in deep thought. "This affair, Rathenau," he said at length, "this discovery grows more and more sinister. It is clear to anyone not utterly a fool that every step of yours and Manwitz has been dogged for many weeks past. What this young man knows of our plans we shall never learn; what he has confided to his authorities we can only guess. One thing, however, is certain: whether he knows much or little, his activities must cease." He paused and looked full into the younger man's face. "Do you gather my meaning?"

Cherriton bowed.

"I understand, Excellenz."

Von Kuhne continued to pace the carpet.

"I shall rely upon you for effective measures."

At that moment a knock fell upon the door, and Conrad ushered Herr Manwitz into the room, and closed the door upon him. The big, fat man, with his swarthy, pouched cheeks, his bristling black moustache and iron-grey hair, bowed deferentially to von Kuhne.

"You desired to see me, Excellenz?"

Von Kuhne walked to the table, took up Mrs. Beecher Monmouth's letter, and handed it to him.

"Read that!" he said curtly. He spoke in German, and used the commanding tone of an exalted German officer speaking to a subordinate. Manwitz read the letter from end to end, and as he read the colour receded from his cheeks, his heart-beat quickened in growing apprehension. As the import of the letter grew plain to him, his apprehension amounted almost to terror. The thought that Treves was a member of the English secret service filled him with infinite dread. He had never in his most suspicious moments conceived such a thing as possible. Treves, the neurotic, the weak-minded drug-taker! The man who had shown cowardice in the face of the enemy, and had narrowly escaped court-martial! Was it possible that this good-looking, feeble fool had been at one and the same time a steady-nerved, watchful member of the English Intelligence Department? Even now, as he read Mrs. Beecher Monmouth's plain words, he could not credit them. Nevertheless he was afraid—mortally afraid—for his own skin. The Tower of London and a firing squad had always loomed at the back of Manwitz' mind as a thing of infinite menace. The English were so peremptory in these matters—no talk, no fuss; merely a firing squad and oblivion! He possessed none of Cherriton's cold and brutal courage. And the thought that his own name was written in the tablets of the English secret service, the knowledge that his every movement may have been watched by a skilful English spy, sent a tremor through him that was visible both to von Kuhne and Cherriton.

"You discovered this man!" said von Kuhne, thrusting out his chin and fixing his cold gaze upon Manwitz.

"That I admit," answered Manwitz; "but I am prepared to swear that he was indeed what I thought him to be. I took the utmost care, Excellenz, and it was long before I trusted him. His information, Excellenz, enabled us to sink the Polidor."

"That is quite true, Excellenz," Cherriton said, suddenly puzzled.

"And in regard to his habits," went on Manwitz, "I have seen him many times under the influence of drugs, with all the symptoms, Excellenz, which I was careful to study—dilation of the pupils, irritability, fear of imaginary enemies——"

Von Kuhne waved his hand, but Manwitz persisted.

"Excellenz, he must have changed greatly, if he is, indeed, the man mentioned here!"

"You fool!" von Kuhne thrust at him; "of course he is the same man! We are speaking of Treves, and no other!"

"He must have changed, Excellenz!" protested Manwitz. "Treves, as I knew him, would never have had the nerve to act against us. I impressed upon him, Excellenz, what the punishment for treachery would be, and he values his own skin above all things in the world."

"Perhaps almost as much as you value yours!" added von Kuhne, with a sneer of contempt. "I have to warn you, Manwitz, I shall expect you to act decisively and without reservation! The Fatherland requires that this man who has betrayed us shall expiate his treachery! Do you get my meaning?"

"Yes, Excellenz."

"You will understand," he said, looking from one to the other, "that I am speaking officially and in my capacity as director of intelligence. You will obey me"—his eyes turned towards Cherriton—"as though we were upon the sacred soil of the Fatherland!"

He was standing at the table, resting one hand on the cloth. He spoke as a judge pronouncing a sentence, and in the eyes of von Rathenau and Manwitz he was, indeed, this. They took orders from him as inferior officers receiving orders from a general of division. "The removal of this man is an act of mere military justice. My orders are that you, Manwitz, and you, Baron von Rathenau, administer this just sentence!" He was passing what amounted to sentence of death on Bernard Treves. In doing this he felt no qualm, no sensitive doubt whatever. If he had occupied an English town in his true character as a German general in command, he would have put to death a hundred persons for not a tithe of the crime that John had committed against him. In sentencing John to death, in appointing Cherriton and Manwitz his executioners, he was carrying out what to him was a just, even a moderate law. He had been brought up to slaughter; he had been taught from boyhood to crush the Fatherland's enemies. To intimidate by frightfulness was the highest German ideal. He was a typical military German—that is, a typical cold-blooded murderer. He crossed to the bell now and jangled it again—this time not quite so sharply.

"My orders," he said to Cherriton, over his shoulder, "are to be carried out as expeditiously as possible. I leave the method in your hands." He turned his eyes upon Manwitz. "I shall expect you to co-operate in the work, Manwitz!"

At that moment Conrad presented himself in the door-way.

"Tell Mr. Treves to come in," said von Kuhne.

Two minutes later John entered the room. His erect figure, his clear eye, instantly caught von Kuhne's attention; every one of the German's suspicions was in that moment doubly confirmed. For a moment von Kuhne felt inclined to draw his pistol and shoot Manton down where he stood, but by a powerful effort he assumed his suave "Doctor Voules" manner.

"Come in, Mr. Treves," he said. "We have seen very little of you of late."

John came into the room and shook hands with Manwitz. He had not seen him for some time. Manwitz's hand was cold and flabby to the touch. John felt the atmosphere tense and electrical; he knew in some subtle way that Voules' smoothness of tone was a veneer to hide other and deeper feelings. The eyes of the three Germans seemed to watch him with unusual closeness. He instantly jumped to the conclusion that Cherriton had been conveying his suspicions to von Kuhne. The thought that Mrs. Beecher Monmouth's suspicions had been aroused was the last thing that would have entered his head.

He stayed for some minutes talking upon general topics. He had come in answer to a summons from von Kuhne, and was surprised that the German had given him no definite instructions. On behalf of Dacent Smith, John had already gathered a good deal of data about the approaching operations. He knew more than a little of the great blow Germany was preparing, and he felt a little puzzled that von Kuhne appeared to have upon this occasion nothing for him to do.

"You must come again," said the German; "we will have a further talk." He glanced at Cherriton. Cherriton understood the meaning of the look.

"Which way are you going, Treves?"

"Oh! I shall cycle back to Freshwater," John answered. "I promised my father I'd stay a night with him."

"That's exactly my way back," answered Cherriton.

"It is my way also," added Manwitz, "but I'm afraid you'll have to leave me behind, as I have no cycle."

The upshot was that a few minutes later, in a pause between two heavy downfalls of rain, John and Cherriton set out and cycled away together from Voules's residence.

John and Cherriton cycled side by side. It was John's plan to spend the night with Treves's father. He was fond of the old soldier, and in deceiving him was merely carrying out his chosen part. He was playing a dangerous game in his country's interests. And the first man to applaud his actions would have been the fine old soldier, whose own son had proved so utter a disappointment. Therefore John felt no compunction in the deception.

He knew that infinite caution was required of him, and that the shrewd eyes of Captain Cherriton were always upon him. He knew that at any moment "Voules," or Cherriton or Mrs. Beecher Monmouth might stumble upon the knowledge of his true identity. In that case not only would his utility to Dacent Smith come to an abrupt end, but his own chances of escape from his enemies' ruthlessness would be hardly worth contemplating. He was surprised to find that, as he and Cherriton rode side by side, the tall German talked more volubly and affably than usual. He seemed to have forgotten his suspicions of John, his peculiar attitude in Doctor Voules's room had vanished. He questioned John cheerfully as to his recent movements, and, when John evaded his questions a little too obviously, he rallied his companion, suggesting that he was a gay dog, that he was neglecting his wife and bestowing his attentions elsewhere.

John looked at him keenly upon the mention of Elaine's name, but he could read nothing on the German's pallid, heavy-boned face. Nevertheless, as he rode, and as they drew near to Freshwater, John became aware that his companion had been pumping him with a good deal of subtlety. He was trying to find out something—what that something was John could not guess.

They rode up a long hill together and came in sight of the sea. The view was magnificent, despite the lowering clouds and the rain, which had begun to fall again. Upon their right hand, sloping towards the sea and the white cliffs, lay a wide expanse of down, broken by small coppices and clumps of gorse. There was an old grey stone farm-house, with farm buildings, in the distance and in the middle of the down, near a clump of trees, were two single-storied labourers' cottages.

Cherriton drew John's attention to these buildings.

"I want you to come and have a look at that little place, Treves," he said, in a casual tone.

"What is its particular interest?" asked John.

"It has a particular interest for me," Cherriton answered, "because I have rented it furnished for six months. It is a delightful little place, and just the sort of bachelor abode to suit me." He turned his light blue eyes and looked with what might have been called frankness into John's face. "I hope you'll give me the pleasure of being my guest there one of these days soon. Doctor Voules is lending me Conrad for servant, and I shall be able to make you fairly comfortable."

"Thanks," said John; "I shall be pleased to come."

"Why not come and have a look at it now?" continued Cherriton. "We can't ride across the heather, but there is a path, and we can push our bicycles."

"Thanks all the same," said John, "but I am afraid I cannot spare the time."

"I can give you a very decent peg of whisky," said Cherriton, quietly.

John, playing the part of Bernard Treves, smiled.

"I am afraid I must keep off the whisky, as I am going to see my father," he answered adroitly.

After that Cherriton pressed him no more. Presently, however, he slackened his pace.

"This is where I get off," he said. He dismounted, and John also alighted. "Why not come in until the rain is over?"

"I don't mind the rain," said John.

Cherriton turned and pushed his bicycle through the gap in the stone wall. He was still scheming with all his thoughts to get John into the secluded cottage. A new thought came to him.

"By the way," he said, "has your friend Manwitz been able to give you any of the tablets you used to be so anxious about?" He paused a moment, looking John steadily in the eyes, "or have you managed to break the habit?"

John detected something in his tone which caused him to move warily.

"I have had nothing from him for some time; and, as for breaking that sort of habit, it isn't so easy. What made you ask that?"

"Merely the fact," answered Cherriton, cunningly, "that I think I can give you what you want."

John had already detected that the other had a strong reason for getting him into the cottage, and, though at first he had made up his mind to accept no invitation, he now saw that he was liable to fall into a trap. For if he declined to come to the cottage for the tablets, which were a mania with Treves, he would without doubt deepen Cherriton's suspicions. Therefore, acting the part of Treves, he broke into a laugh.

"Well, if you put it like that," he said, "I suppose I must come."

Five minutes later he followed Cherriton through a gate in a low stone wall, crossed the patch of ground before the cottage, and entered the single-storied building. The house was silent and deserted. John discovered that the place, formerly two workmen's cottages, had been knocked into one, and furnished for the purpose of letting.

The room in which John stood was low, and a gate-legged table occupied the middle of the apartment. There was an old-fashioned fireplace, three or four chintz-covered chairs, and chintz curtains. From the window John could obtain a distant view of a grey sea and a leaden sky.

"It's not over cheerful in here, is it?" said Cherriton. "I think we had better have a fire." He put a match to the fire, then took whisky and glasses from the cupboard. "One peg won't hurt you," he remarked, pouring out a drink for John. "While you are drinking, I'll look for the tablets."

He stayed in the room for some minutes after that. John noticed that he poured himself a stiff dose of whisky, and drank it down with only a moderate addition of water. He gave John the impression of a man who is strung up to a high pitch of tension. He was restless and walked the floor, explaining to John that he intended to spend the rest of the summer and the autumn there.

"I have a good deal of writing to do," he said, "and Dr. Voules wants me to be near him. It's not a bad little place this, is it?"

"Not at all," said John.

Cherriton went out of the room into a bedroom with two windows, one of which looked over a deserted-looking yard, with a covered well at the further end. He stood at the window, gazing out into this yard, with puckered brows, for several minutes. Then he began to open and shut drawers in the dressing-table, making a considerable noise.

He came into the sitting-room a few minutes later and apologised to John, saying that he must have made a mistake about the tablets.

"I can find no sign of them," he said, "but you must come again, and I promise to have some for you."

John, who had been watching him closely, suddenly rose from his chair and confronted him.

"Look here, Cherriton," he demanded, "what's your game?"

Cherriton's face took on a stony expression

"What game?" he demanded.

"Why are you so deucedly restless?"

Cherriton broke into a laugh.

"It's your imagination. I am not in the least restless; I am only worried that I have dragged you here for nothing. Have another whisky?"

"No, thanks," said John, this time firmly. "I must be pushing along." He happened to be looking into Cherriton's face as he said this, and something took place on the other's face that startled him—a flame of something like ferocity lit up in the German's eyes, then instantly vanished. After that, however, he made no further attempt to detain John. He came to the end of the little cottage garden as John went away, and watched him as he mounted his bicycle and rode away towards Freshwater. Then he returned to the cottage, closed the door behind him, and, dropping into a chair, took out Mrs. Beecher Monmouth's letter and read it carefully from end to end.

He was still in his chair at the hearth half an hour later when Manwitz knocked at the door, and came in.

"Come in, Manwitz, come in!" said Cherriton, rising. Manwitz had halted in the doorway, and was slowly drawing off his mackintosh. There was a mute expression in his eyes. Cherriton, reading his expression, pointed to a chair at the opposite side of the hearth.

"Sit down, Manwitz; nothing has happened yet; our friend is spending the night with his father, but he has arranged to come over here to see me to-morrow."

Manwitz took a handkerchief from his inner pocket, and mopped his brow.

"It is terrible, Herr Baron! His Excellenz affirms that he has been watching us from the beginning, but in that case how can he explain the sinking of the Polidor?"

"The time for explanations has gone, Manwitz. Treves's discoveries, whatever they are, must not be permitted to check the great work his Excellenz has put his hand to."

For some minutes after that there was silence between the two men; then Manwitz spoke, easing his collar about his fat throat:

"His Excellenz impressed upon me, Herr Baron, the business of Mr. Treves is of the utmost urgency."

"That is understood," Cherriton answered grimly. "But His Excellenz has no wish that I should play the fool and expose myself to unnecessary danger. His Excellenz can rely entirely upon my discretion—and our united capacity to carry out his command, eh, Manwitz?"

Manwitz smiled and nodded, but entirely without enjoyment. Cherriton's coolness in face of the terrible duty that lay before them filled him with both terror and envy.

CHAPTER XXIX

At six o'clock that same evening Colonel Treves issued from the front door of his fine Tudor residence at Freshwater, and made his way down the drive. The weather had cleared, there was a golden light in the west, and the Colonel, wearing a tweed suit, walked briskly towards the lodge-keeper's cottage. He told himself that he had come there entirely upon business—merely to give the man certain personal orders. The truth of the matter was, however, that he could no longer stay in the house. He was expecting his son; he was looking forward to meeting his boy Bernard with a keener and happier interest than he had felt for many years. During recent months all his old love for his only offspring had returned. He was an old man, and the son who for many years had disappointed him had now grown to be a real Treves, and a man of honour. A smile flitted across his fine, kindly face. He believed that he had at last discovered the reason of Bernard's altered behaviour. The boy who had been tragically cashiered from the army, who had, indeed, been almost proved guilty of cowardice in the face of the enemy, had righted himself; and not only had he won the confidence of his superiors, but he had been entrusted with delicate and difficult duties.

When Colonel Treves reached the lodge-keeper's single-storied abode, he held the man in conversation for some minutes, but his eyes turned incessantly towards the sloping road that led past his gate. When at last he saw a khaki-clad figure on a bicycle, he turned to his elderly employée:

"Adams," he said, "is that Mr. Bernard coming along?"

"Yes, sir," answered the man, after a minute or two's scrutiny.

When John reached the drive, the Colonel was at the gate to meet him.

"Well, Bernard, boy, so there you are," he exclaimed, gripping the young man's hand. "I just happened to be doing a little business here with Adams, and caught sight of you. Come in, boy, come in. How do you think Mr. Bernard's looking, Adams?" he said, turning to the old servant.

"He's looking fine, sir," answered the man. "I've seldom seen him looking so well."

"Leave your bicycle with Adams," said the Colonel; "you can take me up to the house. I am not quite so brisk as I used to be." And he slipped his arm through John's and went up the drive, talking happily and cheerfully as he went. John had always felt drawn towards him; it was impossible for him not to feel admiration and pity for this splendid old fellow. He experienced a sense of pleasure that his visit could give the old man such genuine delight.

"Now, Bernard, boy," said the Colonel, "I have a word to say to you before we go in the house. I have a surprise waiting for you there, but before we go in I want to ask you one thing?"

"What is it?" John asked quietly.

"It's this, Bernard, boy; you haven't been trusting me. You haven't relied upon me as a son should rely on his father."

"In what way, sir?"

"You'll find that out, Bernard, boy, when we get indoors," said the Colonel enigmatically.

John questioned him closely, but he could learn nothing, and presently Gates, the old butler, drew open the door, greeted John with a smile, and took his hat and gloves.

"Your suit-case arrived this morning, sir," he informed John. "I have taken it to your room."

"It's the south room, Bernard, boy," intervened the Colonel; "it's the first time you've had the honour of sleeping in the room that used to be your mother's. But this is a special reunion, Bernard. I had to do something to mark the occasion."

He took John's arm again, and together they ascended to the library, the room in which John had first made his acquaintance. There was something on the Colonel's mind which gave him pleasure, and filled him with an air of humorous mystery.

"When you've seen who's in the library, Bernard," he said, as they drew near the green baize-covered door, "you'll understand what I mean about trusting me better in the future."

He drew open the door.

"Come in, Bernard, boy; come in."

John followed him into the big, handsome apartment, with its mullioned windows and its fine view of the sea. There was some one standing by the hearth with back to the fire-place, and John suddenly caught his breath and stood still. Elaine Treves was there, smiling at him, and as he entered the room she came forward, holding out both hands in greeting.

"Bernard," she exclaimed, a light of happiness radiating her gentle beauty; "you didn't expect to find me here, did you?"

John's surprise was complete. Thoughts of Elaine had been with him during the greater part of his ride, but he remembered Treves's secret in regard to his wife, the fact that he had always kept his marriage from his father's knowledge. He was therefore astonished to find Elaine installed under her father-in-law's roof. She looked very much at home, and John wondered consumedly how she had managed to come there. He also foresaw new difficulties for himself; nevertheless he was delighted to see her, her freshness, her beauty, her winning confidence in himself all tended to please him. It took him very few minutes to observe that her presence brightened Colonel Treves's home amazingly. It was obvious to John that she had already won her way into the old fellow's heart, and as Elaine reached up and shyly kissed him, the Colonel smiled upon them both with an air of infinite benevolence.

"Now," exclaimed Colonel Treves, rallying John half an hour later, when Elaine had gone to dress for dinner. "Now do you see why I asked you to trust me?"

"I think I do," said John, somewhat awkwardly.

"Here, you young rascal, you go and marry a charming girl, who would bring credit and honour to my family, and you hide her away from me, pretending all the time that I am the strict and cruel father. That shows how greatly you misunderstood me, Bernard boy. Why, if I had chosen a wife for you myself, I couldn't have made as good a choice as you made in marrying Elaine. She's been here three days, Bernard, and already I feel towards her as to my own daughter. I always feared you would make a fool of yourself in marrying." He paused and looked at John with his dim eyes. "Sometimes, Bernard boy," he said, with a touch of wistfulness in his tone, "I cannot understand the change that has come over you, the improvement. But it's the good blood coming out, eh—the Treves blood. I always hold that blood tells, and in your case my conviction has been proved more than right. Now, Bernard, how long can you stay with me this time?"

"Only to-night, sir, I am sorry to say."

"Come, come," protested the old Colonel, "I'd expected a week at least." As he spoke the door opened, and Elaine entered the room dressed for dinner. For the first time John saw her in evening apparel. Her dress was of an inexpensive pale yellow material, muslin or silk, John did not know which, and did not care. Her dark hair was beautifully coiffeured, her cheeks glowed with colour, and there was a light of happiness in her eyes.

Colonel Treves glanced at the clock on his desk.

"Why, it's nearly seven!" he exclaimed. "I had no idea it was so late. I must run away and change. You'll want to get out of those puttees, Bernard," he said, glancing at John.

"Thank you," said John. "I am in the south room, sir?"

The Colonel nodded, and John, wondering exactly where the south room might be, went out of the library. He walked along the corridor, and chanced upon a house-maid.

"Which is my room, please?" he said.

The housemaid preceded him along the passage, and opened a door, switched on the electric light.

John thanked her, and found himself in an imposing bedroom, beautifully furnished in the French style. His suit-case had been unstrapped and was upon a stand at the foot of the bed. Laid neatly out upon the bed itself were his clothes for the evening. A fine apartment, thought John, and at that moment a knock fell upon the door.

"Come in," he called. The door opened quietly, and Elaine stepped into the room. She advanced across the room in the most natural manner in the world. There was a light in her fine grey eyes, and she was visibly and quite frankly delighted to be alone with John. John, for his part, saw in a flash the awkwardness of the position chance had imposed upon him. In his sudden surprise in finding Elaine under Colonel Treves's roof he had overlooked a tête-à-tête of this kind. He had indeed hardly had time to think of the matter at all.

"Bernard, are you really pleased to see me?"

"Delighted," John answered, wondering what other word he could use, for, as a matter of truth, he was delighted and appalled at the same time. He felt that the situation involving him would require the utmost finesse, if he meant to escape satisfactorily. His own nerves were strung up to a high pitch of tension, and it came as a surprise to him that Elaine should act as though their presence together in that stately sleeping apartment was the most natural event in the world.

"Do you like my dress, Bernard?"

She came towards the glittering dressing-table and turned slowly for his inspection. Her attitude, her confidence were exquisitely attractive to John. Her wifely anxiety to win her husband's approval was the prettiest thing he had ever seen. And once again the splendid rich duskiness of her hair, the gentle glow of her cheeks, the fine contours of her well-turned lips, and the fairness of her skin won his admiration. But it was not this, it was in no sense her radiant and girlish beauty that had evoked John's feelings. Mrs. Beecher Monmouth possessed beauty, but she lacked utterly the frankness and generous natural trust, the appealing femininity, in fact, which is always potent in the winning of a man's love. For it was love, and love only that John felt for this girl who was Bernard Treves's wife, who was nothing to him, and could never be anything.

To ease the situation he told her lightly that her dress suited her to perfection.

"You said when we first met, Bernard, that this primrose colour suited me best, so I put it on to-night."

"Only to please me?" asked John.

Elaine nodded.

"Of course I like to please your father, too, Bernard," she went on. "I think he is wonderful; just the beau ideal of a fine, upright soldier. I cannot understand how you could ever have doubted his generosity."

"I didn't doubt him," John answered. "I only misunderstood him, and acted like a fool."

"But in regard to our marriage. If you had told him months ago, I am sure he would have been just as pleased as he is now. Why didn't you, Bernard?"

"I don't know," John answered. "But I am sure he would have been pleased if I had been sensible enough to trust him."

Elaine seated herself upon an ottoman, an old-fashioned circular piece of furniture which decorated the middle of the apartment. For a minute she let her eyes wander over the refined luxury of the room, then said quietly and thoughtfully:

"So this used to be your mother's room, Bernard?"

John drew in his breath slowly. "Yes," he answered, and, as he spoke, he felt suddenly and acutely the falsity of his position. He was upon dangerous ground, and he felt again intense dislike at having to deceive this woman, who was everything in the world to him.

"I think it was so dear of your father," resumed Elaine thoughtfully, "to let us have this room." John cast a swift look in her direction. "He could not have paid us a greater compliment," Elaine went on.

She was entirely absorbed in her thoughts. To her it was the most natural thing in life that the Colonel should honour his son and his son's wife by allotting to them this fine apartment. In doing so he was tacitly informing the young couple that Elaine in her turn was to be the lady of the house. But so far as John was concerned, Elaine's quiet acceptance of himself and of this fact filled him with consternation. He felt himself enmeshed and hopelessly bewildered. This was not his room only, but Elaine's. It had not entered his mind to look into the wardrobe; he had not even noticed the pair of ladies' gloves which lay upon the dressing-table. But now as he turned away, so that Elaine might not read his glance, his eyes fell upon her gloves for the first time. A moment of acute crisis had arisen. Nevertheless he still fenced, peeking a way out of the situation.

"I cannot understand," he said, "how you managed to get into touch with my father after all."

Elaine laughed brightly.

"I have been wondering when you would ask that, Bernard. It was all owing to the old butler, Mr. Gates. He came to 65, Bowles Avenue. It seems that you gave that address once at the Savoy Hotel in case Mr. Dacent Smith sent for you suddenly. Gates went to the Savoy to find you, to give you a message from your father, and the Savoy people gave him my address. I answered the door to Gates myself, and in the course of his inquiries about you, I told him who I was. He had never heard of me before and was very much surprised. Naturally, when he came back here, he told your father."

"I see," said John, "and my father invited you here?"

Elaine nodded.

"Not only invited me, but he has been absolutely charming to me."

"I don't see anything very extraordinary in that," returned John.

"Oh, but I might have been the most horrid sort of creature. He knew nothing whatever about me."

"He only needed to look at you," John answered, "to see that—that I had made an ideal marriage."

"I have made him tell me everything about your boyhood, Bernard."

John winced. He had no wish to discuss a boyhood that was naturally a blank to him.

"I believe I know more about your schoolboy days than you do yourself," smiled Elaine.

"I shouldn't wonder," said John with a smile.

Despite himself, against caution and his better judgment, he was beginning to enjoy the scene. He was still at the dressing-table, and in the depths of the mirror he could see behind him Elaine's reflection, a delicate and beautiful picture, seated on the ottoman behind him, looking at him with admiring and loving eyes, believing in him, and trusting him.

"Bernard!" Her tone was low and intimate.

"Yes."

"Come and sit beside me."

"Oh, I don't know whether I can," said John; "I've—I've got a letter to write." He was quick at inventing excuses.

"You can't care much for me, Bernard, if you bother to write a letter, after not seeing me for so long." She rose and came towards him. He felt foolish and awkward when she took his hand in hers, led him to the ottoman and seated him beside her. "Tell me what you have been doing all these long days."

"Oh, all sorts of things," John answered.

"Did you ever think of me?"

"Often," John answered, truthfully.

"Have you been loving me? Look into my eyes and say it, Bernard."

John turned his face towards hers. He saw love in her eyes; love that was offered to himself alone; and as he sustained the radiant tenderness of her gaze a wild impulse came to him to cast discretion to the winds. He hovered on the verge of telling her frankly and bluntly that he was not her husband. Nevertheless he longed to tell her that she was the one woman in all the world for him, that she had won his deepest love, and that he was prepared to break down all barriers, to risk everything if——. Then suddenly he caught himself up. His lips were sealed. As an honourable man, even if he admitted his true identity, he must not utter his love.

"Why are you looking at me so strangely, Bernard?" There was a puzzled and anxious light in her eyes.

"Was I?"

"You suddenly drew your brows together and looked at me so furiously that I thought I must have offended you."

"You could never offend me."

"I don't think you love me after all." She was holding his hand in hers, looking wistfully up into his face. "Do you?"

John slid his fingers away from her touch and rose. He began to pace the floor uneasily. As always, he was seeking a way out, racking his brains for a solution. But there was only one method of escape, and that lay in sudden and ignominious flight.

"Look here, Elaine!" he said, suddenly and brutally. "It has occurred to me that I ought to go away again to-night, immediately after dinner!"

She rose and looked at him with startled eyes. John went on, clumsily:

"Something important has turned up!"

"Oh, but, Bernard, that would be too cruel. I have hardly seen you!" She came to him quickly and laid her hands on his shoulders. There was entreaty in her fine eyes, upraised to his. "You'll stay just to-night," she implored, wistfully, "just for my sake."

John put her away from him almost roughly; his voice was hoarse and low.

"It's impossible, Elaine!"

She stood for a moment regarding him with steady gaze. A long, tense silence lay between them. Then she spoke, quietly, and with a dignity that somehow wrung John's heart.

"Then all your protestations of love for me mean nothing at all!"

"They mean everything," said John, in the same low tone.

"And yet you repulse me as if you hated me?"

"I don't mean to act cruelly."

"If you had any regard for me at all, you'd stay. It isn't the first time, Bernard, that you—you've humiliated me!"

John looked into her face that had grown suddenly tragic. He saw in a moment how completely justified she was in her attitude. He had protested his love for her only a few minutes earlier, and had then snatched at something that must have seemed to her the thinnest of excuses for hurrying away—for leaving her.

"If you loved me really, Bernard, you'd stay." Her voice was very low. "However, I have suffered the humiliation of your refusal. I shall not make the same mistake again." She turned and walked slowly towards the door. John saw that she could scarcely restrain her tears; her head was uplifted—she was superb in her dignity. For the life of him John could not refrain from striding a few paces towards her.

"Elaine!" he implored, in a voice that rang with emotion. "Don't misjudge me. And as for humiliating you, I'd do anything in the world rather than do that! Look here, Elaine, you think I don't love you?"

She turned quietly and looked at him.

"I have every proof of it! In London you refused to stay with me; it is the same here. Your words say one thing—your actions another!"

"You will be able to make some excuse to your father for not occupying the same room with me——"

In that moment, with her face pale, her head erect, a strange light in her eyes, she was more than ever beautiful. In John's eyes she was the fairest and finest-looking woman that ever breathed. Something made him put out his hand and grip her fingers.

"Elaine!"

She strove with surprising strength to release herself.

"No, Bernard, don't!"

Then John's elaborate and well-sustained defences fell. He forgot everything in a sudden wild rush of passion.

"I don't love you, Elaine?" he cried.

"You never loved me——" she began. And in that moment John's arms swept about her. He forgot everything—the world faded. He and the fairest of women—the woman of his love—were together, and he was kissing her as he had never kissed any woman.... Elaine's weak protests faded; astonishment swept over her, and gave place to a wonderful and radiant happiness.

"My God!" breathed John; "if you only knew how much I loved you!"

"Bernard—Bernard—Bernard!" she whispered. Then, to her infinite astonishment, John wrenched himself free; he put his hands to his brows, and fell back several paces, like a man who has received a stunning blow between the eyes.

"Elaine," he said, with clenched fists, his face suddenly pale, his eyes wild—"forget that I held you in my arms! Forget what I said! Forget everything!" His voice rose almost to a shout.

A moment later he had rushed out of the room, and had drawn the door behind him.

CHAPTER XXX

Almost as John closed the door of the south room Gates began to strike, in rising and rhythmic cadences, the great dinner-gong that stood in the hall. The elderly butler turned as John halted at his side.

"Is that the dressing-bell, Gates?" he asked.

"No, Mr. Bernard, the dressing-bell went at the usual time, sir."

John looked at him in surprise. He had heard nothing. During that scene in the room upstairs, when he had lost possession of himself, the sound of the bell had passed unheard. John felt no wonder at that; even now his thoughts whirled through his brain. His temperament was naturally cool, equable, and determined. Never in his life could he recollect having completely forgotten himself, as he had forgotten himself with Elaine a few minutes earlier. The power of love, indeed, had reduced him to the common standard. His nerve, his self-possession, his swift power of decision—all the gifts, in fact, that commended him to Dacent Smith, had deserted him in a flash. For a brief moment—for a space of a moment—he had forgotten everything, save the fact that he loved a woman.

He stood now thinking of these things, and was amazed at the blind passion that had seized him. He began to condemn himself bitterly and savagely. His deception of Elaine stood before him as a monstrous thing. The thought that he occupied another's man shoes, and had thus led her to pour out a love which she would have otherwise concealed, struck him as a criminal proceeding upon his part. He was obliged to confess to himself that he had dallied with the situation, that he had not acted firmly enough. On the other hand—a small voice whispered this—his deception of Elaine was not his fault; he had not wittingly deceived her. He had, indeed, acted all through as an honourable man. This last thought gave him a certain amount of comfort as he crossed the great hall and entered the drawing-room. Colonel Treves was the sole occupant of the room, and was standing with his back to the white marble fire-place, his hand resting on the stick he used as support. John noticed that in evening clothes the old man looked more imposing and distinguished than ever. The Colonel drew out his watch.

"Where's Elaine?"

John explained that he had left Elaine upstairs a few moments ago, and presently Elaine, a little pale, came into the drawing-room. No glance passed between her and John. With a courtly air, Colonel Treves advanced towards her and crooked his elbow.

"May I have the honour?" he said.

Elaine slipped her arm into his. In her pale primrose dress, with her well-coiffeured dark hair emphasising the whiteness of her neck, she looked scarcely more than a child. John noticed with admiration that her head was held erect. She smiled and talked graciously to the Colonel as he led her into the dining-room and placed her upon his right hand. For John there was no smile.

Just as the south room and the drawing-room were strange to John, so also was the dining-room. He seated himself opposite Elaine at the head of a long gleaming white table. Gates moved from place to place softly and noiselessly. Colonel Treves, who was happier than he had been for years, made a perfect host. His happiness intensified John's own loneliness. A sensation of being a pariah came upon him; he felt that he would have given ten years of his life to be actually sitting there in the flesh as the real son of the fine old man who headed the table.

As to Elaine, and his relations with Elaine, he dared not let his mind dwell upon that subject. He was attempting to indicate by his attitude his complete contrition for what had occurred. He tried to catch Elaine's eye. She looked at him, but there was something enigmatical in her expression that he was unable to understand. Her good breeding was such that to the outward eye—to the Colonel's eye, in fact—their relationship was exactly as it had been before, and yet John knew that a barrier had risen between them.

Elaine maintained her air of stately reserve during the rest of the evening, and at ten o'clock, when she rose to go to her room, the Colonel politely conducted her to the door. As he closed it upon her he turned and looked towards John.

"You are a lucky man, Bernard!" he exclaimed.

He came slowly across the room, using his stick, as was his general habit.

"I hope some day, my boy," he said, "when this place is yours, Elaine will reign here as graciously and be as well beloved as your dear mother was."

"I am sure she will, sir," answered John quietly.

The old man slid his arm through his.

"You shall take me up to the library. We can smoke there, and make ourselves comfortable."

In the library that night John heard much of Colonel Treves's past history, much of the family history, of the man whose identity he was wearing, and the more he heard of Bernard Treves the more he realised what a complete and utter waster that young man was. Often of late he had thought of Treves in the nursing home, and wondered what were the conditions of his detention there. Dacent Smith was always reticent upon that point. The sinking of the Polidor through the agency of Treves had been a black and irredeemable crime. A time was bound to come when the young man must answer for that piece of black treachery against his country. Looking at the matter in the most charitable light, John regarded Treves, as evidently Dacent Smith regarded him, that is, as a feeble, will-less creature, whose reason had been unseated, at any rate temporarily, by the drugs which were a mania with him.

The fact that Manwitz and Cherriton had plied him with these drugs showed only the bold unscrupulousness of the German methods. The German Intelligence Department had used Bernard Treves, and had moulded him to its purpose as though he had been of wax. And had not Dacent Smith brilliantly substituted John for Treves, untold disasters would have ensued.

"Bernard!" The Colonel's voice startled John out of his thought. "Bernard, I have seen Gosport lately."

John wondered who Gosport might be.

"Yes," went on the Colonel. "I was hasty with you, but I have made everything right. I have made up my mind to leave everything to you after all. What do you say to that?"

"It is very generous of you, sir," John answered. He knew that it was utterly impossible that a penny of the Colonel's possessions should ever be his.

"No, no, it is only right," responded the Colonel. "You have married well. You have rehabilitated yourself in every way, and I find you more what a Treves should be every time we meet." He suddenly gripped John's hand in his. "You have given me great happiness, Bernard, and one of the reasons I made haste to change my will is that the doctor has given me rather a bad report of myself. I don't think you'll have to put up with me for very long, Bernard!"

"Don't say that, sir!" answered John, quickly and impulsively.

"I fear it is the truth," said the Colonel; "but I can face the next world with a far better grace than I could have done a year ago."

He was thinking of the fine old house and the properties which a year ago might have fallen into the hands of a worthless son. Now, as by a miracle, that son had become a man—a man of honour—and a Treves. The two things were synonymous in the Colonel's eyes, and the future, whatever it might be, however soon darkness might come, held for him no terrors.

It was after eleven that night when the Colonel went to his room.

"I'll sit up and write a few letters at your desk, if I may, father," said John, after escorting the elder man to the door of his bedroom.

He went back to the library, shut himself in, and dropped into a chair at the hearth. What Elaine was doing, what were her thoughts, he could not guess. He wondered if she was waiting for him, expecting him to come and ask for forgiveness. Perhaps some time in the dim future, when the whole truth was told, she might forgive; but for the present he knew that nothing he could do would right him in her eyes.

He sat in the arm-chair, dozing and thinking, until dawn came.

When the breakfast gong rang next morning Elaine descended and found the Colonel alone at the table. The old man looked disturbed, but in no way depressed.

"You will have to content yourself with me, Elaine," he said, "now that Bernard has deserted us again. He left me a note saying that important business has arisen, and ran away before I was down. But of course," added the old man as an afterthought, "you know all about it."

Elaine inclined her head, and said nothing. Colonel Treves put out his hand and laid it on her slender fingers.

"When the war is over, you and my boy Bernard will live here together, and be as happy as crickets."

"It is very, very dear of you to say so, father." Sudden tears glistened in her eyes. She clasped the Colonel's old, frail fingers in hers. In that moment it seemed to her that he was the only friend she possessed in the world.

So far as John was concerned, Elaine dared not let herself think. The strange scene in the south room had burnt itself into her brain. John's tremendous anxiety to get away from her, together with the undoubted fact that he loved her, was bewildering beyond solution. The thought that her husband had reverted to the drug habit had long been discarded. None of the symptoms that had marked him in the early days of their marriage were present—he was as another man in her eyes. She loved him—she was afraid, and she was bewildered. Every post that came found her anxiously awaiting a letter from John. But none came; two eventless days passed. But upon the evening of the second day after John's departure a dramatic mischance that had been impending—that had, indeed, been inevitable from the beginning—occurred.

Elaine had made her way alone into the grounds. Her mood was one that called for solitude, and in the quiet of the long, fir-treed avenue, the drive which led from the mansion to the road, she found the seclusion she needed. The evening was clear, and through tree-stems the ocean, glassily blue and empty of shipping, spread to the far horizon. The scene was calm, reposeful—everything, in fact, a troubled spirit could require.

Presently, however, the entrance gate at the end of the drive was pushed open. A young man in a green felt hat and wearing stiff Sunday clothes came into the drive and walked slowly forward. Elaine, as the stranger drew near, noticed that he was a youth, little more than twenty, wearing a service-rendered badge. The young man wore his green hat slightly on one side—his complexion was fresh, his cheeks ruddy, and his general expression one of amiable stupidity.

Elaine glanced at him and was about to pass, thinking he carried a message to the house, when the visitor halted in his walk and sheepishly lifted his hat. As he halted he drew from his pocket a crumpled, rather grimy-looking envelope.

"Is that Colonel Treves's house, miss?"

"Yes," said Elaine.

"I've got a letter for there, miss," went on the young man; "it's addressed to Mrs. Treves."

"There is no Mrs. Treves," Elaine answered; then quickly remembering, she smiled the gracious smile that was always so attractive to John. "I'm Mrs. Bernard Treves."

The young man handed her the letter, and instantly Elaine's casual air vanished, for the address was in her husband's handwriting, and had been scrawled hurriedly in pencil.

She tore open the envelope and read the single sheet of notepaper within.

DEAR ELAINE, ran the note, I want you to give the bearer of this ten shillings. Then, if you can, and as soon as you can, you must raise ten pounds and let him bring it here to me. General Whiston and a person called Dacent Smith have been keeping me prisoner here. The suggestion is that I am non compos mentis. I don't know whether my father's in it or not, so on no account mention this letter to him. Whatever you do, don't fail me; I have been suffering the tortures of the damned here. The young man who brings this can get to me, and there is a nurse here who can help me to get away if I can get hold of ten pounds. Remember this, Elaine, you are my wife, and I hope you aren't siding with my father against me. I can't stand the torture of being here any longer, so I look to you to act quickly. You can act quickly enough when you want to. I am nearly off my head with being deprived of the medicine I used to take. The bearer of this would get into trouble if found out, so don't forget to treat him well.

Your affectionate husband,

BERNARD TREVES.

As Elaine slowly read this letter for a second time the colour fled from her cheeks. Her heart-beat quickened almost to suffocation—she could make nothing of it.

Her eyes travelled to the head of the missive and read:

"St. Neot's Nursing Home, Ambleside Road, Ryde."

"St. Neot's Nursing Home—St. Neot's Nursing Home." Under her breath she uttered the words in a dazed, stupefied fashion.

It seemed impossible that her husband, who had been with her only forty-eight hours before, could be incarcerated there. Then the strangeness of the letter! ... She read it again, shrinking instinctively from its tone. Here was her husband as she had known him from the beginning—querulous and domineering.

For a minute she wondered if there had been some extraordinary and unexplainable mistake, but she knew his handwriting. Nevertheless, with a great effort to steady herself, she looked into the face of the messenger.

"If you will come to the house," she said, "I shall be pleased to give you something for being so kind as to bring this to me."

"Thank you, miss."

"Are you one of the servants at St. Neot's Home?"

"No, miss. I work for the dairy that supplies them."

Again Elaine glanced at the crumpled letter in her fingers. There was no possibility of forgery—and yet how came it that Dacent Smith should wish to detain her husband? She recalled that the brilliant Chief of the secret service had had nothing but praise for Bernard.

Again she looked quickly into the young man's face.

"Have you seen Mr. Treves lately?"

"I saw him this morning, miss."

It seemed ridiculous to put the question, to dally still with the idea of forgery. Nevertheless, she put it.

"Could you describe Mr. Treves to me?"

"Yes, miss. He's a good-looking gentleman. Tall, dark hair——"

"Thank you," said Elaine, interrupting him—and her last doubt vanished.

Something had happened to Bernard since yesterday morning, since his departure from the house without saying good-bye to her. He had evidently been seized and incarcerated in the nursing home against his will. Yet, even now, as she strove to accept the fact, her instinct rebelled against it. The thing seemed so motiveless, so utterly outside the natural order of events; and Bernard must have been seized almost immediately after he left his father's house, for she noted that his letter was dated the day before.

She again questioned the young man.

"How long has Mr. Bernard Treves been at St. Neot's Nursing Home?"

"The first time I saw him there, miss, was about two months ago, when he asked me to get him something at a chemist's; but he must have been there more than a month before that. I should think, miss, he's been there going on for three months or thereabouts."

"Three months!"

"About that, miss."

Elaine looked at him with widened eyes. The thing was impossible and incredible. Nevertheless, she dared not let the matter rest where it was. She decided to act, and to act instantly. As yet no suspicion of the truth had dawned upon her.

CHAPTER XXXI

At the very hour when Elaine received the strange letter signed "Bernard Treves," a letter which awoke all her defensive feminine instincts, John occupied a chair in the little mess-room at Heatherpoint Fort. The occasion was one of deep and portentous significance. At the head of the table, where Mrs. Beecher Monmouth had so recently taken tea with Lieutenant Parkson, General Whiston was seated in state. His big, commanding figure bulked largely in the chair usually occupied by Colonel Hobin. Beneath the General's eyes was a map of the South Coast defences—an elaborate, minutely particularised map, which in a layman's eyes would have been almost undecipherable.

The General held a blue pencil over a particular section of the Solent; his eyes, however, were fixed upon the countenance of a naval captain who sat at his left hand, a little farther down the table. Opposite the naval captain was Colonel Hobin, and next to Hobin sat old Commander Greaves.

John occupied an insignificant position next to Greaves, and near the end of the table there was a vacant chair.

"Is there no possibility, Captain," inquired General Whiston, speaking to the naval officer, "of altering the mine-field in the time at our command?"

Before the naval officer lay a small Admiralty chart of the Solent clustered with a multitude of red crosses.

"Well," he said, deliberating upon the situation, "this is a pretty elaborate field, and it would take us quite two days to make an effective new arrangement. Of course, we could mine the free channels, but that prevents us coming in."

He went into technical details.

General Whiston cast a glance at John.

"You are quite sure your friends Voules and Company intend to strike on the twenty-eighth?"

"All the evidence I have been able to get points to that, sir," answered John promptly.

"The twenty-eighth is the day after to-morrow," put in Greaves.

"Mr. Dacent Smith," said John, "had an idea that the attack might be postponed, but he has now come round to my view."

As a matter of fact, John had that day amply convinced his chief that the German blow was to fall on the date originally prescribed. Since leaving Colonel Treves's house, and since his embarrassing interview with Elaine, John had made certain valuable discoveries, all of which pointed to the imminence of the German attack on the South Coast defences. With infinite subtlety von Kuhne had managed to institute nefarious schemes in a dozen different directions. The night of the twenty-eighth had been marked out in the German general's mind with the clockwork precision which was a second nature to him. And John believed that nothing would shake his resolution. Mrs. Beecher Monmouth's particular work of the early part of that night was to see that Lieutenant Parkson was not at his post. All her potent charms were to be expended to that end. That she would succeed in her task was, in von Kuhne's and the lady's own eyes, a foregone conclusion. As to Manwitz, he was to be mysteriously occupied with certain men of his Majesty's forces whose business it was to operate the boom between Ponsonby Lighthouse and Windsor Fort. Cherriton's particular duty upon the eventful night John had not been able to discover. The tall German still occupied the isolated cottage he had recently taken on the Downs near Freshwater. Since John's visit to the cottage he had not had further meeting with this particular formidable enemy.

In thinking of his visit to the cottage, however, John was conscious that the man's attitude upon that day had been singular in the extreme. What had been in Cherriton's mind he did not know, and he was, of course, totally unaware that sentence of extermination had been passed upon him. It is no stretch of imagination to say that in visiting the cottage he had, without knowing it, walked within the very shadow of the grave.

"Friend Cherriton is no mean antagonist," thought John, pondering upon the German's personality as he sat in the little mess-room.

Now that the great blow was so soon to fall, Dacent Smith—an unusual circumstance with him—had left his post in London and come to the Isle of Wight. General Whiston and Captain Throgmorton, who respectively commanded the counter military and naval measures, found the pleasant, keen-eyed Chief of Intelligence an invaluable ally. His intuitive knowledge of the German character proved to be of the utmost assistance. He had been studying Germany and the German secret service for twenty years, and what he did not know about Teutonic psychology, chicanery and guile, was not worth knowing.

Dacent Smith, however, never made the mistake of under-estimating his enemy. Von Kuhne's blow would, he conceded, be a well-wrought and scientifically delivered attack. There was one slight thing, however, which von Kuhne had possibly overlooked—he had possibly overlooked the important fact that the Isle of Wight is after all an island, and that in gathering his forces upon this particular portion of His Majesty's dominions he was isolating himself from chances of escape in case of failure.

Dacent Smith thought a good deal upon this subject during his first day at Heatherpoint Fort. But when he presently resumed his chair at the end of the table in the little mess-room, opposite General Whiston, his pleasantly good-humoured face showed nothing of the intense mental activity within.

General Whiston lifted his eyes as Dacent Smith took his seat.

"Well, have you found out anything else for us?"

"Nothing," answered Dacent Smith, "except further confirmation that von Kuhne will make his attempt the day after to-morrow. He has disposed his forces with a good deal of ingenuity. This end of the Isle of Wight is at present dotted with amiable Britishers who happen to be Germans!"

A curious smile flitted across the face of John's Chief.

"It must have been very gratifying," said he, "to Captain Cherriton, Manners, and von Kuhne to say 'British subject' to our good-looking policeman as they stepped on board the boat at Lymington. Manners, so I hear, was the only one of a dozen who came that way who showed the slightest trace of nervousness. I think we shall have to reckon, General," he concluded, "upon von Kuhne providing something pretty forceful and daring!"

The naval captain whose eyes were still occupied with the chart of the Solent, lifted his keen gaze. "Something in the nature of our own adventure at Zeebrugge and Ostend, do you think?"

Here he turned his red-starred chart face downwards. On its back were twenty or thirty neatly-pencilled lines.

"That," he said, pushing the chart towards Dacent Smith, "is my forecast of what is going to happen in this area during the next forty-eight hours. If your date is correct, I think my forecast will be pretty well right. What do you think, General?"

Throgmorton's incisive, clean-cut features turned towards Whiston.

"I think it's a devilish clever piece of work!" answered General Whiston, generously.

Dacent Smith's eyes lifted from the pencilled forecast. His vivid gaze rested for a minute in admiration on Throgmorton's handsome, well-wrought features.

"Some day, young man," thought he, "you will be ruler of the King's Navy."

He pushed back the chart towards the naval officer; then turned towards John.

"You can go, Treves," he said, "with the General's permission."

Whiston nodded.

John saluted and withdrew from the room.

As Manton passed out into the asphalted courtyard he met Chief Gunner Ewins.

"Well, Ewins," he said, "what about your wife's dangerous illness?"

"She wasn't ill at all, sir. I can't make it out—I've just got a letter from her to-day, saying she's as well as ever she was."

"Of course, she never sent the wire," explained John.

"Who could have sent it?" said Ewins, looking at John with puzzled eyes; "it's a silly sort of joke to play on anybody, sir."

"Very silly," John admitted. "It looked as if somebody wanted to get you out of the fort for a day or two. That's why the Colonel wouldn't grant you leave. He didn't think you were playing a trick on him. He thought some one was playing a trick on you. How are your guns, Ewins?"

"Nicely, sir, thank you," answered the chief gunner. "But I'm sorry we've missed our nine-inch practice this week."

"You won't miss much by that," John answered. "You'll shoot as well as ever when the time comes."

He knew how soon the time would come, though Ewins did not.