BERNARD TREVES'S BOOTS (continued 6)

John descended the steps of the fort, took his bicycle, and, with due observance of ceremonies, passed through the great gate that had recently all but intimidated Mrs. Beecher Monmouth.

An hour later, John, still pedalling steadily, descended the winding road into Brooke. At the outskirts of the village he placed his bicycle against a gate, climbed into a field, and, by a detour, made his way to the back of Doctor Voules's house. In the darkness he walked softly forward under the shadow of the doctor's garden wall He had made only a few paces when a voice came to him out of the gloom.

"Who's that?" demanded the voice, in a guarded whisper.

"Treves," answered John. "Is that you, Watson?"

"Yes, sir," came the answer.

John drew himself to the top of the garden wall and looked down upon a corporal in uniform.

"Anything happened?" John asked.

"Yes," answered Watson; "three men came to the house after dark, stayed a little while, and went away again, sir."

As a matter of fact, half an hour earlier Doctor Voules and two tall young men had stealthily mounted the wall and entered the house by the back way. Corporal Watson had been concealed in the garden and witnessed this visit, and Voules's and his friends' departure in the same stealthy manner.

"They are evidently trying to give the impression that the house is uninhabited, sir," the corporal amplified.

John, who had climbed into the garden and was standing by him, gave a few further instructions as to Voules's abode, presently mounted his bicycle and rode away. Three quarters of an hour later, in a small clump of trees on the heather-clad cliff-top near Freshwater, he spoke to another soldier. This man, with three others, had been detailed to watch Cherriton's cottage.

"The captain's been in his cottage all the evening, sir," said the man to John, "and the big, fat man's been with him."

Having satisfied himself as to the whereabouts of Cherriton and Manners, John cycled on and entered the Freshwater Hotel. Here he put through a trunk-call to Newport. When he had been connected with a particular number he inquired into the telephone:

"Is that you, Gibb?"

"Yes, sir," came the answer.

"Do you know who is speaking?"

"It's Mr. Treves, isn't it?"

"Yes," John answered.

Having satisfied himself that he was in touch with the gloomy-looking waiter at the Newport Hotel, he put a discreet inquiry. He had parted with certain Treasury notes to the benefit of the gloomy waiter. The waiter, thereafter feeling himself a small but important wheel in a piece of vast machinery, made himself busy and active in John's service.

"Is anybody at home, Gibb?"

"She's not been out all day, sir, and went to bed immediately after dinner. She told her maid that she had a lot to do to-morrow, and asked to be called at eight."

These details were, for the moment, enough to satisfy John.

"You know where to ring me up, Gibb, if anything exceptional occurs."

John, having concluded his duties for that day, pedalled slowly back to the fort. The night was overcast, the air close, and as he led his bicycle up the long white road to the gates, he could hear the waves softly falling at the foot of the cliffs in the bay below him. No other sound broke the stillness, and when the outer sentinel suddenly barred his path and a challenge rang out on the close air, John was startled out of a mood of dreams.

He passed the second and the third sentries, a wicket in the great gate of the fort opened and admitted him, and, having reported himself to the Colonel, he went straight to his room. For the better part of that night his mind occupied itself with the momentous doings of the morrow. The cloud that had gathered itself about that end of the island was about to break. What would happen to himself and others on the morrow he could not forecast. But one thing he knew—the long, hidden contest between Voules and Dacent Smith would reach its culmination. Each man, with his pawns, had manoeuvred, moved, finessed and counter-moved. The subtlety of Dacent Smith had been pitted against the precision and military skill of von Kuhne. What was to be the end? John did not know, and at that moment his mind was only secondarily occupied with the point; he was thinking, not of to-morrow, but of yesterday, of his interview with Elaine, of his abrupt separation from her, of his apparent brutality and harshness.

He wondered at himself, that he, a capable, alert and non-sentimental young man, an individual who had withstood the seductive blandishments of Mrs. Beecher Monmouth, he wondered to find himself deeply and passionately in love with a girl whose knowledge of artifice was of the slightest. Elaine's genuine trust in him, her belief in his integrity, her delight in the improvement in his character, all helped to enchain John's deepest affections.

As he lay now in the quiet and darkness of his room, he felt he dared not let his mind dwell upon the future. He had tricked and duped Elaine, and some day she would be bound to find him out.

What would happen then? What would happen when she learned the truth?

"There is nothing for it," John pronounced suddenly and emphatically. "I must tell her myself—I must confess the whole thing from the beginning."

Having arrived at this decision, he saw himself making the confession, though he could not see what her attitude would be. He could visualise, always standing between them as an impassable and sinister barrier, the man whose identity he had borne for so many months. Bernard Treves—his alter ego, his doppel-gänger—had become what he had probably been from the first—his evil genius. From the very first he had disliked Treves; he had later grown to despise him. The man was contemptible beyond words.

At this point John took himself resolutely in hand—or, rather, he thought he took himself resolutely in hand. What really happened was that he put away thoughts of Elaine, hiding them courageously and tenderly in the deeps of his mind, for the sole reason that to think of her, to think of the hopeless situation between them, meant nothing but misery and bitterness.

At eight o'clock, when John appeared in the little mess-room, Colonel Hobin was alone at breakfast, at the head of the table.

"Well, Treves," he said, "if your predictions are right, this is going to be the day of our lives!"

"I think I am right, sir," John answered.

"We shall see," answered the Colonel. "Pass the marmalade, please."

John passed the marmalade. He noticed the Colonel's hand was steady—none of the nervous irritability that characterised him usually was apparent—and the old soldier's eyes had taken on a new masterful expression of command—the countenance of a good captain on the bridge in face of a great oncoming storm.

CHAPTER XXXII

The portentous day, the twenty-eighth of the month, passed at Heatherpoint Fort with no untoward incident whatever. There was a difference, however; there existed an atmosphere of tense expectancy. Something was afoot, for doubled sentries held all points of vantage along the cliff-tops, doubled sentries guarded the fort gates, and the barbed wire entanglements at certain other places. All leave had been stopped, and at midday, when Lieutenant William Parkson asked for leave for very urgent personal reasons, he was astonished to find that the Colonel had grown totally immovable.

"If you would let me go from eight o'clock till ten, sir, I should be satisfied. I assure you, sir, it is most important."

It was indeed important in Parkson's eyes. But though rebellion surged in him there was no possible means of getting out of the fort that night without the Colonel's pass. Only one person, in fact, left Heatherpoint Fort that evening. This person happened to be John Manton. General Whiston uttered final words of advice as the young man took his departure.

"If you are successful, Treves," he said, "you will be probably back here before the dust-up begins."

"I hope so," said John. He saluted and clattered down the flight of steps to the main gate.

It was still light as he cycled swiftly away along the white road. A smile curled the corner of his mouth. The work he was upon was exactly to his liking; there was something in it of danger, and something of finesse. When John had cycled for half an hour he looked at his watch.

"Parkson's appointment with her," he said, "was for seven o'clock. I wonder how she intended to handle him?"

He mused upon Parkson, and admitted that the young man would be as wax in Mrs. Beecher Monmouth's adroit fingers. He recalled Mrs. Beecher Monmouth's long, black record, her superlative daring, the manner in which she had expended her great personal gifts and keen intelligence in the service of the enemy. He thought of the Malta—of the two hundred fine lives sacrificed upon her information. And at the thought his lips tightened, his smile vanished, and the face that Dacent Smith always knew as good-humoured and pleasant to look upon, grew hard and forbidding.

Darkness had fallen by the time John turned off the Newport road towards Brooke. He did not light his lamp, however, but this time rode straight through the village and alighted at Dr. Voules's house. The doctor's residence was completely dark. No light shone from any of the windows. John advanced to the door and placed his fingers on the bell. He rang twice, but no answer came to him, no sound of footfall reached him from the interior of the house. Then, noticing that the door was slightly ajar, as if left purposely, he entered the hall, and in complete darkness walked along towards the room at the end of the passage, which he remembered as Voules's dining-room. He had advanced but ten paces when a door opened quietly in the darkness, and a low voice came to him.

"Is that you, Billy?"

John was silent for a moment. He had braced himself for an intensely violent scene. Now, in a flash, he realised that there were new and exciting possibilities. Nevertheless, caution animated his entire conduct.

In regard to Mrs. Beecher Monmouth he did not know that she had discovered his association with Dacent Smith; he was not aware of the lady's sentiments of bitter antagonism, of virulent hatred towards himself. He was to learn these things later. But at the moment he felt there was little danger of stepping into a trap. The beautiful woman whispering to him from the darkness awaited William Parkson, not Bernard Treves or John Manton.

"Is that you, Billy?"

Her voice came to him again in a tense whisper.

"Yes," answered John in a tone low as her own. She drew wider the door of Voules's dining-room.

"I told you to come straight in, Billy. Why did you ring the bell?" she admonished him, lifting her voice to a more ordinary tone.

"Oh, I don't know; I forgot," answered John.

"Come in——" Her hand groped forward and took his. She drew him into the heavily-curtained darkness of the dining-room and closed the door.

"We mustn't light up till eight o'clock, Billy," she whispered.

"Why not?"

"It's a fad of mine."

Then she put her face close to his; she let her smooth, firm hand glide about his shoulder as she drew his face down. She kissed him firmly on the lips.

If John had been easy to deceive, that kiss would have deceived him. He would have believed absolutely and implicitly that its fervour and passion were genuine.

"I thought," she whispered, her cheek close to his, "that you would not be afraid of the darkness."

"Oh, I won't be afraid," responded John in her ear. He could have laughed—the situation was throbbing with exhilarating possibilities.

"I was afraid you would be late, or wouldn't be able to come."

"You knew I'd come," said John.

He groped his way towards the hearth, holding her hand in his.

"Won't you sit down?" he asked.

"You sit down." She forced him into Dr. Voules's comfortable chair, then seated herself on its arm, and slowly smoothed his hair with her hand. She lowered her face and pressed it to his. Her rounded cheek was firm, cool and satin smooth.

"You can stay with me quite, quite a long time," she whispered.

"Thanks," mumbled John; "that's awfully good of you." He squeezed her hand. He could understand what would have happened to Parkson at that moment—Parkson already enamoured, flattered to think of a woman of her social position and extraordinary beauty flinging herself at his head.

"Will they miss you at the fort to-night, little Billy?"

"I don't know that they'll miss me particularly," said John.

"Oh, but you're so—so important there. Did you find it difficult to get away, Billy mine?"

"Not so very," John answered; "all the same, I haven't much time—I've only managed to get two hours' leave."

She drew in her breath sharply, then suddenly flung out both arms and drew him towards her.

"Oh, Billy, Billy!" she protested.

John instantly made mental note that she had in her mind a certain time during which she intended to detain him there.

"Then you can't love me," she breathed ardently. "You said you'd stay—a long time."

"Three-quarters of an hour is every minute I can stay," John said.

"Oh, but it won't matter if you're just a tiny, tiny bit late—just once in a lifetime! You don't know how difficult it is for me, Billy. I have risked everything for you! I should be ruined utterly if it was discovered that I gave you this tête-à-tête here at this time of night.... You must stay, Billy, until I'm ready to let you go; it will make it easier for me."

"I don't see that," protested John. "You can slip away——"

"No, no; don't ask questions—don't say that! If you only knew how difficult it was. You won't bother me with questions, will you dear, dear Billy? And you'll be nice to me and let me get you something to drink. You bad boy," she said, after a moment's pause, "I don't believe you realise the honour I am conferring on you!"

"Oh I do—I am fully aware of it," answered John. She had risen from the arm of the chair, and had gone to the window. John heard the creak of the window blind as she drew it up upon the semi-darkness of the garden. For an instant he was startled, wondering if her movement portended some sort of signal.

As the blind ascended the complete darkness of the room sped away. He could now make out the rich shadows of her hair, and something of the outline of her fine features. Her hands in contrast with the black widow's weeds, looked unusually white.

"I thought you were fond of the darkness?" questioned John.

"I am, silly Billy." John guessed that she was wasting a coquettish smile upon the encumbering gloom.

She had gone to the sideboard, which was in shadow at the far end of the room and returning now to the middle table, placed upon it glasses, a soda syphon, and a whisky bottle.

"I must give you just a little peg!"

John heard the gurgle of liquid, and the "squirt" of a syphon. A moment later Mrs. Beecher Monmouth came across the room, put a glass in his hand, and lightly kissed his ear.

"I wish it was a little lighter," she whispered in a cooing fashion that was peculiar with her, "then I could see my pretty boy's face."

"If you did see your pretty boy's face," thought John, "you'd get the shock of your life!"

He took the whisky glass from her fingers. Silence lay between them for a moment, then Mrs. Beecher Monmouth spoke again.

"Drink," she whispered urgently.

John, who had been holding his glass in his left hand, shifted it to his right.

"Well, here's to you," he said, lifting the glass.

"Have you drunk it?"

"What else do you think?" inquired John, and laughed.

As a matter of fact he had not drunk it, for before raising the glass he had dexterously poured its contents upon the carpet. Her trick was too obvious. Parkson, blinded, enamoured by love, might have fallen into the trap, but he, John, knew his antagonist in this singular duel which was taking place in the semi-darkness. He came well armed with a knowledge of her character.

Minutes passed, during which Mrs. Beecher Monmouth held him enchained, as she believed, by her finished coquetry.

John, who had been probing about in his mind, hoping that she might divulge something useful, rose at last and stretched his legs.

Mrs. Beecher Monmouth was again at the window. He noticed that several times during the last quarter of an hour she had drifted there, as if with some intent and watchful purpose.

"Why do you keep going to the window?" he asked, suddenly and abruptly.

"I like to look out at the night."

"There's nothing much to see," returned John. "It's clouded over again, and the air is close enough to stifle one!"

"Yes," answered she.

In the gloom John saw her put up her hands to her throat. "It is enough to stifle one," she breathed, slowly and intensely.

Then John knew that big things were afoot, that she was waiting, strung up tensely to more than concert pitch. He put up his hand, pushed up the catch of the window, and opened it quietly upon the sultry night. A faint wind stirred, rustling the leaves. There was silence for a minute, then Mrs. Beecher Monmouth seemed to remember the role she was playing, slid her fingers into his and looked up into his face.

"Billy," she whispered.

And at that moment a sudden thunderous and heavily-resonant boom rent the stillness of the night.

John knew it in an instant as the detonation of a heavy gun. The door of the room creaked under the heavy vibration, the casements of the window rattled, and a red smear of light blazed against the low clouds and vanished.

Mrs. Beecher Monmouth had turned her face to the window. For an instant John saw it, tense and ecstatic in the glare of light—then darkness fell again.

And suddenly Mrs. Beecher Monmouth stood away in the dark room. The passionate sibilance of her whisper smote John's ears, like that of a snake.

"At last! At last! ... Oh, you can go now, Billy, Mr. Parkson. Yes—go, or stay! It matters not!"

"But it does matter," said John, "a deuce of a lot!"

And as he spoke the room was shaken with the detonation of a heavy gun—was again lit up with a red light. A second and a third gun was fired—one sound mingling with the other in tremendous crashing reverberation. And at each report a red glow filled the room, searching out the darkness in its most distant corners.

Mrs. Beecher Monmouth had turned towards John—in the leaping red light, amid the roar of artillery, her eyes pinioned themselves upon his. She drew nearer—peering, as it were, with all her senses, her hands clenched.

Their faces were close together when a red glare revealed his features in every lineament. He was smiling, looking down upon her with easy nonchalance. Even in the fleeting light John caught the swift distortion of her features. She made a movement in the darkness——

In Mrs. Beecher Monmouth's entire life of daring adventure, in all her vicissitudinous career, never had such a blow stricken her as that moment. She had expected to see the good-humoured and somewhat stupid countenance of Parkson, and instead, she had seen John. She had been outwitted by the enemy whom of all others she hated most. From the very first this pleasant looking, resourceful, cool young man had outmanoeuvred her. What had happened to Parkson, and how John had managed to substitute himself for that enmeshed young man, she could not guess. She was conscious only that in the darkness her mortal enemy had received her caresses, and laughed in his sleeve.

Her tryst had been with Lieutenant Parkson, and by a manoeuvre that was a mystery to her this other had substituted himself....

John heard her move softly in the darkness, and draw in a low, sibilant breath. He was taking no chances, however, and had already stepped cautiously behind the big dining table. Here he paused for a moment, listening, then swiftly struck a match. In the orange glow of the light he saw Mrs. Monmouth's face of undeniable beauty contorted with fury. As the match flared and John put out his hand to light the lamp which was on the table, she made a strong effort to control her features. She was a woman who seldom remained long at a disadvantage. Every move in the whole gamut of feminine emotion seemed to be at her command. There had been a momentary stillness; now the roar of heavy artillery thundered again and again. The red glow from the window filled the room.

A false expression of smiling irony crossed Mrs. Monmouth's features.

"So, Mr. Treves, you have been exercising your cleverness again!"

"What I did was all in the day's work," John began; then he stepped swiftly towards the end of the table and barred the way to a certain chair upon which her long black coat had been thrown.

"No, don't go to your coat," he politely admonished her. "I am afraid I don't trust you!" He knew that ladies of Mrs. Beecher Monmouth's temperament and activities are apt to carry lethal weapons, and are not scrupulous in the use of the same. She had already made an attempt upon him with what he shrewdly and correctly guessed to be drugged whisky.

"How subtle and resourceful you are!" laughed Mrs. Monmouth. She turned and strolled with an air of indifference towards the window.

John was wondering what her next move would be. He had already made up his mind as to his own next move, when Mrs. Beecher Monmouth strode to the table, and, in a flashing change of mood, smote it sharply.

"You think yourself extraordinarily clever, Mr. Treves!"

"Oh! not at all!" protested John. He really did not think himself clever, but he was satisfied with the present position as he found it. He had taken her coat, and was holding it over his arm. There was no weapon in its pockets.

A roar of artillery again filled the room. Mrs. Beecher Monmouth's eyes blazed in exaltation and excitement.

"Do you hear those guns?"

"I can hear scarcely anything else!"

Beecher Monmouth's widow paused, looking him over, excoriating him with her fine eyes; then went on slowly and intensely.

"Well, Mr. Treves, perhaps it will surprise you and your friends to know that we have outwitted you from the beginning."

"I don't quite get your meaning," said John.

She lifted her head and laughed aloud in his face. Her mask was off. She let herself go. She swept her arm toward the darkness of the night, then looked at him with the eyes of a fiend. "Those guns you hear now mean that we are making our great attack." Her voice rose shrilly; her scarlet lips writhed. She was truly possessed at that moment. "For all your espionage and cunning we shall be able to make our way into Portsmouth. We shall deliver a blow from which you will not easily recover. Your ships——"

John moved to the end of the table and motioned towards the door.

"Thank you," said he, "that is very interesting, no doubt, but I think it is time we were going."

The fury beyond the table paid no heed. With both hands on its surface she thrust her chin towards him and spat out her words.

"Every fort on this coast has been silenced by our finesse!"

John, listening to the roar of the guns, was unperturbed.

"That was a pretty heavy one," he remarked, as the room reverberated again to the renewed crash of artillery.

"Our guns, you fool!" Mrs. Beecher Monmouth lifted her voice to a scream. "Our guns—German guns!"

John stared at her. He had never seen anything like the tornado of passion that was sweeping through her. He listened, enthralled, against his will. Nevertheless, he was master of the scene. She hated him—loathed him—because he had tricked her. She had expended charm, she had enveloped him in the sunshine of her beauty to no end. Her vanity was outraged. He had enjoyed her caresses and laughed in his sleeve.

"The boom——"

"What about the boom?" John asked.

"From Ponsonby Lighthouse to Windsor Fort the boom is not down to-night. Think of that. Your searchlights—where are they? Dark—dark—every one of them." She dropped her voice suddenly in a measured, triumphant whisper, "and our Unter-see boats are creeping in."

Even now she was beautiful, but there was something animal-like in the distortion of her mouth.

"Where, precisely, are your U-boats creeping into?" inquired John calmly.

"Into—into Portsmouth." She mouthed the name of the great harbour.

"You thought to outwit us, and we outwit you!"

John bowed. "I have only your word for it."

She paid no heed and went on. "So you see, Mr. Treves, what you get in wasting your time on me—a woman!"

His obstinate coolness maddened her, and in a wild gust of rage she crashed her fist on the table.

"You fool! You fool! You sheep's head!" she announced, elegantly. She paused a moment, breathing heavily, then sweeping round the table, snatched her coat from his arm and strode towards the door.

"There is no hurry, Mrs. Beecher Monmouth——"

She halted and gave him a glance that would have turned Parkson to stone.

"What do you mean?" she demanded.

"I mean that our interview is not at an end!"

The menace of her eyes glittered upon him. If her strength of body had been equal to it at that moment, she would have leapt forward and strangled him with her bare hands. Knowledge of her own peril, of the Nemesis that was sweeping upon her, had not yet entered her disordered mind.

John made—in pursuance of his prearranged plan of action—no effort to stay her as she went towards the door. But as Mrs. Beecher Monmouth paused and cast a final look at him, a sudden doubt crept into her eyes. For John had gone to the window. He appeared no longer to be occupied with her. His back was towards her, and presently he lifted a whistle to his lips and blew two short, shrill blasts.

A transformation passed over Mrs. Beecher Monmouth's face that was startling. The colour flowed from her cheeks. Her lips seemed suddenly to become bloodless.

"Why do you do that?"

John turned upon her slowly. There was no pity in his eyes.

"When I did it," he answered, grimly, "I was thinking of the Malta, and two hundred fine fellows who died at your hands. I am thinking now of other things—of the Polidor and her scores of non-combatant passengers who were drowned by your machinations.... You have had a long run for your money, but at last——"

He stopped—a sound came to him, a tramp of heavy booted men advancing in the passage. Some one pushed open the door, and a corporal—a tall, grim-looking fellow—appeared on the threshold.

"Is that you, Davis?"

"Yes, sir!"

John spoke over Mrs. Beecher Monmouth's head to the man beyond.

"This is the lady, Davis!"

"Very good, sir!"

"You will take her at once. Put her in a car and drive her to Newport to-night. I have already communicated with the Chief Constable, who has made arrangements to receive her."

He turned his eyes once more, and for the last time in life, on the beautiful woman in the doorway.

CHAPTER XXXIII

"Hallo—what's that?"

A red glare of light saturated the low hanging clouds and suddenly vanished. Close, windless air vibrated under the detonation of heavy artillery. A Sergeant, who had been concealed in the shelter of a stone wall which ran round Captain Cherriton's cottage, turned to the man at his side.

"What d'you reckon it is, Nobby?"

"It must be night practice."

"Not it," answered the Sergeant, "that's the 'nine-inch' at Heatherpoint, with a full charge!"

As the words left his lips a second crashing roar reverberated from the fort. Then, almost before Sergeant Watson could further comment upon the fact, a sound like rapid beating of a tom-tom came to them. Busy, drum-like notes, some deep and long-drawn, as if coming from the bowels of the earth, some sharp, short, and angry, took up the refrain.

"Hallo!" exclaimed Watson, amazed, "they're all at it. There's something up."

He stared at the sky, thence out to sea.

"Hallo, where's all our searchlights?" exclaimed Nobby.

"That's just what I was going to ask you," Watson answered; then instantly dropped down behind the wall, pulling his companion with him. Watson had seen a figure approaching from the road. The stranger wore mufti and a soft felt hat, and as he came stumbling and hurrying through the grass, leaping artillery flashes momentarily lifted him into view, and again plunged him into utter darkness.

Watson, with Nobby and two other men, had, under John's directions, kept a three-days' watch on Cherriton's cottage. At the present moment Cherriton himself was alone in the low, single-storied building which, from two workmen's dwellings, had been converted into an artistic residence.

Watson waited. And presently, in the silence between the roll of drumfire at the western end of the island, he could hear the fall of footsteps, and presently, through the screen of bushes, and in the light of gunfire he made out the figure of a tall young man, whose face for a moment looked familiar to him, then caused him to pull Nobby by the arm.

"Who is it, Nobby?" he asked.

The new-comer had reached Cherriton's gate and was hurrying into the little garden.

"Why, it's Lieutenant Treves!"

"What's he doing out of uniform?"

"I don't know," answered Nobby. "It's him right enough. Look again."

"He looks as if he'd had the fright of his life—I've never seen him look like that."

"Nor me, neither," answered Nobby, eyeing the figure hurrying towards Cherriton's door.

Both men watched the visitor disappear into the cottage, then discussed the matter in low tones. There was something that puzzled them about Treves's visit to Captain Cherriton—there was something that to Sergeant Watson's intelligent mind seemed altogether wrong about that visit, and yet he could not tell what.

Cherriton had been at the back window of his cottage peering out since the heavy gunfire began, and a look of triumph animated his pallid, hollow-cheeked countenance. He was startled at length by a low, feverish rapping at the cottage door. He paused a moment in thought before answering, then shifted a Mauser pistol from his hip pocket to the left hand pocket of his coat. He was a left-handed man, a fact which at certain moments of crisis was apt to redound to his advantage. With a due amount of caution he drew open the door, and the man from the threshold strode in upon him.

As Cherriton's eyes fell upon the stranger in the candle light the lines of his mouth altered.

"Why, it's you, Treves—this is a surprise!" he exclaimed. He gripped the young man's hand and drew him forward into the room.

Bernard Treves, pale, haggard, swept the room with his restless glance. His likeness to John Manton was striking even now.

"Have you got anybody here?" he asked quickly.

"No."

"Where's Manners?"

"He isn't here," answered Cherriton.

"Where is he?" Treves came forward and laid a hand on the other's arm. "I must see Manners."

"Why?"

Cherriton looked at him with sudden malice. He felt that this man who had tricked and betrayed them from the beginning, was still pursuing his deep game. However, they were playing now upon even terms. Mrs. Beecher Monmouth's information had opened wide his eyes. Moreover, a mandate had been issued. General von Kuhne had spoken....

A sickly smile crossed the visitor's pallid, handsome countenance. "It's no good trying to keep it quiet," he said; "but I must have cocaine. It's a matter of life and death with me. Look at my hands!"

He held out his hands which shook visibly.

"I don't mind saying it," he went on; "but I've been pretty nearly over the brink two or three times lately. Yesterday I tried every chemist's shop in Ryde and Newport, but I couldn't get anything."

He wiped his brow with a handkerchief. Cherriton was regarding him closely, puzzled at the change in him.

"You managed to get along without it for a long time," retorted Cherriton, looking at him coldly.

"I had to—there was nothing else for it. That damned nursing home——" Suddenly he put out his hand and laid it on the German's arm. "Where's Manners, for God's sake tell me—tell me? I must have some——"

Then he became aware of a narrowing of the other's gaze. "Why are you looking at me like that?"

The Captain laughed.

"Don't do it; it makes my blood run cold," Treves protested.

"I was thinking of your drug habit—how conveniently it comes and goes."

"Don't sneer at me, for God's sake," pleaded Treves. "I'm desperate." He walked the floor in a state of nervous tension, which would have been pitiable to witness, had there been in Cherriton any spirit of mercy. "It seems there's been a law passed forbidding chemists—you can't get cocaine anywhere," he jerked out, hopelessly.

Cherriton's dark gaze was again upon him.

"I can't give you cocaine, Treves," he said, "but if you come into my bedroom there, I'll give you something else."

Treves clutched his arm.

"What?"

"Morphia," answered Cherriton.

He led the way into a low-ceilinged bedroom at the end of the cottage, carrying the candle from the parlour table as he went. He placed the light on the dressing table near the window, took a key from his pocket, and opened a drawer in the only chest of drawers in the small room.

Treves, watching him with impatient eyes, moistened his lips and waited.

Cherriton searched in the drawer and drew out a syringe and a small bottle.

"Here," he said to Treves, "sit over on the chair near the dressing table."

Treves greedily eyed the syringe, and obediently seated himself with his back to the little mirror. The candle on the white dimity cloth of the dressing table threw its light full upon him. He watched Cherriton fill the syringe with morphia, and almost clutched it from his hand.

"Wait," said the German, holding him off, "you shall have it full."

"Thanks—thanks—thanks."

Treves watched him as a famished dog watches a bone.

"You don't know what I've suffered, Cherriton—that nursing home, St. Neot's, curse it—it's been hell!"

"You are so clever, Treves, I wonder you didn't get cocaine before?"

"My God, if you knew how I've tried."

Cherriton was standing about a yard away from Treves, with his big chin thrust forward. The expression of his face at that moment would have shot terror into his visitor's heart, if he had lifted his eyes. But Treves was busy. He was pulling back his sleeve, and in another instant he had dug the needle into the flesh of his forearm. His lips tightened as he forced the morphia into his blood. Then he slowly raised his head, a look of ecstatic happiness glowed in his eyes; he drew a deep sigh of contentment.

"A-h-h," he exclaimed.

And Cherriton, who had been standing still as a statue, still as death, moved. The veiled light in his eyes blazed into murder. With swiftness and stealth he whipped the Mauser from his pocket, aimed and fired. His shot passed through Treves's heart.... Before the reverberation had died, he fired into Treves's body a second time, and this time so near was he that the blaze scorched his victim's waistcoat. He had made assurance doubly sure, and his next quick move was to lean forward, blow out the candle, drop his pistol near the body, that had fallen heavily, and fling open the window.

Two minutes later he was speeding swiftly across the yard at the back of the cottage. As he ran a gun-flash from Heatherpoint lifted the darkness for a moment, and again he was enveloped in the surrounding gloom.

Before Sergeant Watson and his three men could reach the door of the cottage, Cherriton had vanished into a clump of trees.

"There's something wrong!" said Watson. "I'm going in." He took Nobby with him, hurried along the path, and knocked at Cherriton's portal.

No answer came. He thrust open the door and found the living-room in darkness; he struck a match, lit a candle from the mantelshelf, and held it aloft.

"Hallo, there's nobody here."

The door of the bedroom was open, and the draught—a puff of close air—from the open window beyond suddenly blew shut the front door with a crash.

Sergeant Watson was a man of steady nerve, but he did not like the crash, neither did he like the silence, the heavy, brooding silence. Nevertheless, he lifted his voice valiantly.

"Is there anybody there?" he called.

He could hear the curtain rings faintly rattling in the bedroom, but no answer came to him. Then with the candle in his hand and followed by Nobby, gripping his rifle, he went into Cherriton's bedroom. On the floor beyond the end of Cherriton's bed, near the dressing table, they could see a foot and the lower part of Treves's trouser leg.

"My God!" exclaimed Watson, hurrying forward with a fleeting glance at the open window.

The figure lying near the dressing table with a revolver near it, and a morphia syringe a little distance away, was huddled and motionless.

* * * * *

Three minutes later, Watson, Nobby and two other men stood in an open space on the downs, forty yards before Cherriton's cottage. Watson was busy rearing a tripod stand about five feet in height. When the tripod was ready Nobby handed him a lantern, which was dexterously screwed upon its apex. He struck a match, lit the lantern and flicked open a shutter.

"Stand back out of the line of light," he cried to one of his men.

Then with little scraping clicks of the lantern shutter, the single eye of light turned westward, he began to spell out a message.

Three times he gave his opening call before receiving an answer by signal lantern from behind the fort at Freshwater. Having achieved connection he patiently spelt out the following message:

"Report to officer in command Heatherpoint."

"Who are you?" came the answer.

"Watson, emergency light number 6."

"Yes, what is it?"

"Lieutenant Treves been murdered. Lying dead Heather Cottage."

The lantern at Freshwater took the message, and before signalling on said, "Repeat."

Watson, with a grim face, repeated the message and added:

"Shot by Captain Cherriton. Murderer escaped, running north by east."

CHAPTER XXXIV

John having disposed of Mrs. Beecher Monmouth returned to Heatherpoint Fort. Within the fort gates the ground quivered and vibrated. Far below him the Solent was alive with the sweeping beams of Throgmorton's cunning emergency lights. John could see flashes of fire from Ponsonby Point, from Scoles Head, and from a new secret battery beyond Windsor Fort. His time was emphatically not his own, he had received orders to leave the fort on a new mission. Within five minutes he had passed the rear defences and the barbed wire of the fort, and was out upon the downs. He sprinted forward over the short springing turf, and soon came to the cliff edge and the narrow path that descended the chalk to South Bay.

As he reached the cliff edge and looked down an amazing panorama smote his eyes. Dover lights—tremendous, blinding blue-white illuminations—floated upon the surface of the water shedding forth almost painful rays of light. The yellow of the sand in the little bay became a ghost-like floor in this radiance. Sinclair, he knew, was down there busy at his telephone, but it was not Sinclair nor the drama of the scene that occupied his thoughts; he was thinking not of them, but of a slip of paper Throgmorton had handed him bearing the message of his own death, and of Throgmorton's words, "Somebody was murdered."

"Yes," thought John, "somebody who was mistaken for me."

His mind projected itself upon the scene in Cherriton's cottage, and the thing he had suspected from the very first instant revealed itself fully. Bernard Treves had escaped in his second effort to free himself from his enforced detention at St. Neot's, and, of course, the first thing he had done was to search out the whereabouts of Cherriton and Manners in order to obtain the drugs that were a passion with him. He had gone to the cottage, Cherriton had received him, and had clearly shot him in cold blood....

John turned his mind away from the possibilities Treves's death had created for himself. After all, he was sorry. Treves's broken and enfeebled will had been too much for the young man to contend against. He had failed—death had come upon him suddenly and terribly, but perhaps, after all, it was for the best....

His thoughts turned to Colonel Treves.... As was to be expected, and inevitably the delicately beautiful vision of Elaine rose before him.... Her life of bondage was at an end.... Then John drew himself up and took himself severely to task. These thoughts were not for him. In this hour of drama, of tragedy, he must not let his thoughts dwell upon her. There were decencies, and he was a man of honour; nevertheless, in the depths of his heart, something moved, a dim obliterated ray of hope flickered into life....

To the music of the guns he continued his descent of the chalk path. Where the damp penetrated it was slippery beneath his feet, nevertheless he went quickly with steps that must have been noiseless. The path reached the beach some distance away from the scene of activity, of which Sinclair was the centre. And as John came within thirty or forty feet of the shore, he saw below him, at the bend of the path, a man crouching. The man was huddled in a sheltered corner, intent upon some occupation invisible to John, who halted and looked down upon him with some curiosity. The silent figure was in khaki, and his shoulder and half his cap were visible. He was deeply absorbed, and John was able to go forward and descend two or three turns of the path without being observed.

Presently, walking softly on the narrow path in the cliff's face, he came full into view of the stranger, whose presence was concealed by the projection of a cliff from the pitiless Dover flares.

The man was Captain Cherriton.

John was not in the least surprised to find his able and resourceful enemy crouching down working a flashlight towards a portion of the sea cut off from the fort lights.

Manton knew that the hour of destiny had arrived. The thought came to him that Cherriton's hands were stained with blood, that not an hour ago he had——

He moved forward a pace, his face grim and set. Cherriton, still crouching, heard him, and turned, but in the gloom of that sheltered place he did not see clearly. Quick as thought, however, he turned his electric torch and flashed it full upon John's face. In the circle of incandescent light he saw something that caused him to choke with horror—that something was the face and the living eyes of the man he had murdered an hour ago.

The sight was too much for him, the light fell from his fingers. John, guessing what had happened, resolved to give him no chance of discovery. With a shout he leapt forward and flung his arms about him.

Half in terror, half in growing knowledge that he had to deal with a living and determined enemy, Cherriton struggled like a maniac. Each man put forth his entire strength. John sought to get his hands round the German's throat. Together they rocked, bumped, and swayed, and, finally, together they fell, tumbling and thumping to the sand, fifteen feet below.

For a minute each man lay still, stunned by the impact of the fall. Then John, first to recover, creeping on hands and knees, approached Cherriton and fell upon him again.

"I'm done," breathed the German, "get off me...." There was a truce for some minutes after that, during which John sat with a Mauser in his hand, and recovered himself fully.

Cherriton, who had been lying on his back in the sand, turned.

"Who are you?" he asked, staring with strained eyes into John's face.

The mystery was beyond him. Were there two Bernard Treves? He had killed, or as he would have put it, he had legitimately executed Bernard Treves in the cottage less than two hours ago. So far all was clear to him. But this other man, this replica and simulacrum of Treves, who was he? He was Treves, and he was not Treves. He continued to stare and his mystification deepened. John, feeling that the moment for explanation had come, came to his aid.

"You are recalling that you killed me in your cottage less than two hours ago?"

"Yes," began Cherriton.

"All along," went on John, "you and your colleagues have been mistaken in me. I have played the part of Bernard Treves with some success, but my real name happens to be John Manton."

Dawn came, and with it victory for the defenders of the Solent. In the last moment von Kuhne's plans had gone astray. His submarines which had intended to cause havoc among the multitude of shipping at Portsmouth had indeed passed the boom, only to meet destruction beyond. Eight submarines went to the credit of the R.G.A. and the Navy that night; eighty German marines were captured on the little shore of South Bay. And now, in the fort mess-room that had known so much of drama during the last few months, Colonel Hobin occupied his chair at the head of the table. Beside him was seated Throgmorton, the Flag-Lieutenant. Commander Greaves and John Manton were also present, grouped at the end of the room, near the window whence the dawn crept in. At the far end of the room stood Ewins, something of a hero that morning, but the time for compliment had not yet arrived.

"Bring them in, Ewins," commanded Hobin.

Ewins saluted and clattered away.

Five minutes later he returned with a squad of men who waited in the little passage outside. And Ewins ushered into the mess-room Captain Cherriton, still in British uniform. With him was the tall German naval lieutenant John had some time ago seen at Voules's house at Brooke. The last prisoner to enter the room was Voules himself, the General von Kuhne who had so industriously instituted the attack which had met with disaster.

Colonel Hobin put a few questions.

"I am an officer of the German Navy," said the tall lieutenant. "I demand all the privileges of an honourable prisoner of war."

"Certainly," intervened Throgmorton, "in your case there is no question of the death penalty."

"I, too, am an officer," began Voules in his rasping voice.

"I am afraid the fact," said Colonel Hobin, "that you neglected the formality of wearing uniform in your attack upon us will tell somewhat severely against you. All I want this morning," he concluded, "is that you should each admit your identity."

The three Germans had no objection to this.

When the prisoners had been removed Hobin and then Throgmorton gripped John by the hand—in fact, everybody in the room shook hands in the grey of the dawn that morning.

"All the luck in the world was ours, Treves," said Throgmorton.

"My name is Manton," John reminded him.

"Of course, of course—I had quite forgotten that."

John's life story was only just beginning—the recovery of his own name marked an epoch. Summer went and autumn came; the sun of Peace rose over the horizon. Letters at first somewhat formal, but later growing in cordiality, passed between himself and Elaine. Then, at last, on a certain autumn day—a red-letter day for John—he received an epistle in Colonel Treves's shaking hand. "My dear boy," ran the Colonel's letter, "I want you to come and visit me. We have been friends a long time—you have played your part well and truly. That which my poor boy failed to do, you have done in his name. You have done credit to my house and to the name of Treves. I am well again now, and shall welcome you with all my heart."

John did not know how it was, but a film came before his eyes as he finished reading the old Colonel's letter. And on the Saturday following, when he drove up to the Colonel's house in a hired motor, from Freshwater, the sun was setting over the Solent and yellow leaves were falling in the long drive.

Gates drew open the front door of the mansion before John alighted and conducted him straight to the Colonel, in the library. The old man, who had been standing in the window expecting his arrival, came across the room and gripped his hand. He looked into John's face, then smiled. There was conviction in his voice.

"Yes," he said. "You're a Treves in everything except name."

There was much to talk about. In the first place the Colonel spoke of Elaine always as his daughter-in-law. She had completely won his heart.

"This gives me a new lease of life, my boy," he said to John. Then the smile that was so attractive in him lit up his face. "And when that lease is run out she shall have all that is mine just as she would have had if my boy had lived." The Colonel laid his hand on John's shoulder.

"John, my boy," he said, "your attention's wandering, it isn't me you want to hear talking, so I'll take myself off now."

He went out of the room, and John, walking to the window, looked for a moment upon the autumn scene outside. Then a sound came to him, and he turned to see Elaine, radiant yet doubtful, and strangely shy—looking like spring in autumn.

For a moment John was still; then he hurried across the room and took her hands in his.

"Elaine," he whispered, "is everything forgotten and forgiven?"

Elaine lifted her eyes to his. She was ten times more beautiful at that moment than the image he had treasured in his heart.

"There is nothing to forget, and nothing to forgive, John," she said quietly.

John drew in a deep breath.

"You love me, don't you?"

"You know I do."

Again John drew in a deep breath, this time of complete happiness.

"Thank goodness," he said—"so that's all right!" Then, without more ado, he swept her into his arms. "I'm going to make mad love to you until seven o'clock," he announced masterfully.

Printed in Great Britain by Wyman & Sons Ltd., London and Reading