III
The following morning Sonia set herself to escape from a village whose name was unknown to her to a destination on which she was not yet decided, with the aid of three pounds in English money and an entire ignorance of the German language.
During the night three or four dominant ideas had crystallized in her mind: she must get away from Webster; she could hardly face the rest of the party and their inevitable questions; it was necessary to wait somewhere within the fare-radius of her money while she telegraphed for more. During breakfast she summoned the landlord and repeated "Bayreuth. Train. Me," with many gesticulations, until he left off scratching his head and harnessed a country cart to drive her to a station five miles away.
After that there was no difficulty in reaching Bayreuth, where she was made welcome at her former hotel. She telegraphed home for money and only left at the end of two days, when instead of the money she received a wire from Sir Adolf Erckmann asking if she were still in Bayreuth and where he was to meet her. The manager of the hotel paid her fare to Nürnberg, where she invented friends to send her home, and in the meantime telegraphed again to her father.
This time she gave Innspruck as her next address: from Bayreuth she had gone north through the midst of mobilizing troops and fleeing visitors, and it became clear that, if she waited long, her only chance of escape would be to turn south on her own tracks and cross through Austria into Italy. The manager of the Nürnberg hotel proved another friend, and with the money lent her by him she made her way over the frontier and resigned herself to waiting in Innspruck till her unaccountable father vouchsafed some reply to her telegrams.
She was still at her hotel when war was declared. The city police called and demanded a passport which she did not possess; they inspected her luggage and removed all books and papers; finally she was ordered to report herself twice daily at the Town Hall, to remain in her hotel from eight at night till ten next morning and in no circumstances—on pain of death—to venture outside the city boundaries. It was too early as yet to say whether more stringent measures would be necessary: when her story had been checked, it might be possible to release her if no discrepancy were discovered in it: if she had any responsible friends or relations in Innspruck or the surrounding country, much time and trouble might be saved by getting them to attest her identity and bona fides. The interview was conducted with every mark of courtesy. With a sinking heart Sonia settled down to wait—in a hostile country, without money or friends, till the end of an endless war.
Her treatment for the first day or two was sympathetic. The hotel manager explained that he had no quarrel with the English, who were among his best customers: it would indeed be a tragedy if they and the Austrians met and killed each other in battle: possibly if England confined herself to a naval war.... He grew less suave when it became known that troops were being poured across the Channel into France, and in her morning and evening walks to the Town Hall Sonia found herself greeted with menacing and contemptuous murmurs.
At the end of the week the public spirit had changed to a note of jubilant exultation. Her waiter, under the eyes of the manager and unchecked by word or sign, would hand her copies of the "Kölnische Zeitung" or "Neue Freie Presse" at luncheon, with a triumphant finger to the heavy headlines and a word or two of translation thrown out between the courses.
"Paris one week—one," he would say, "zen Calais, zen London. London in dree week. Belgrade next week. And zen Warsaw. Warsaw in one months from now. See, it is all here, all. Yes. Ze war will be all over in one months."
Sonia attempted no reply. For ten days she spoke no word save to repeat her name night and morning to an officer of police and after the first week only ventured outside the hotel to report herself at the Town Hall. She was waiting her turn one afternoon in the now familiar queue when the Chief of Police summoned her into his room and presented her with a letter: the envelope had been opened and bore some initials and a date in blue pencil on the flap:
"Dear Miss Dainton,"—it ran—"I wonder if you remember me and the visit I gave myself the pleasure of paying you and your father when I was over from the States a year or two back? I am in this city for a day or two on business in connection with some oil-wells in which my firm is interested. I thought—and I sincerely hope I was not mistaken—that I caught sight of you as I drove from the depot to the Imperial (where I am staying). I am sending this by hand to every hotel in the town on the off chance of finding you. If it really was you, I trust you will grant me permission to call on you, and perhaps you will give me the pleasure of your company at luncheon or dinner before I go on into Italy.—Believe me to be, dear Miss Dainton, very truly yours,
Jas. Morris."
Sonia read the letter under the vigilant scrutiny of the Chief of Police. The stilted phrasing was as unfamiliar as the name, but the neat, precise writing, small and regular as a monkish manuscript, was the writing of O'Rane.
"You are acquainted with this Mr. Morris?" asked the Chief of Police.
"I—I've met him once," stammered Sonia, "some years ago.
"He knows you? Well enough to identify you? I have asked him to attend here this afternoon. Be good enough to be seated."
Sonia walked uncertainly to a chair and sat with thumping heart while the Chief of Police went on with his writing. Five, ten and fifteen minutes passed: there was no sign of O'Rane, and she felt herself growing desperate under the suspense. Then the door opened, and he was ushered in.
"Guess you're the Chief of Police," he hazarded, stretching out his hand and not noticing the corner in which Sonia was sitting. "Pleased to meet you, sir. I got your note. What's your trouble anyway?"
The Chief of Police presented him with his own letter and put a question in German.
"Say, I don't use German," O'Rane answered. "French is the best I can manage. Why, that's uncommon like my fist! What way d'you come to have it?"
It was explained that Miss Dainton was under police supervision and that any letters were liable to be opened and read.
"Gee! What's she been doing?" asked O'Rane. "Oh, I forgot! This blamed war. Yes. I reckon she's a prisoner. And I wanted her to dine with me."
"Miss Dainton is in the room," said the Chief of Police, and O'Rane turned with a start of surprise. "It was hoped you might be able to verify the particulars she has given about herself."
Sonia rose from her chair and came forward, with a feeling that every movement was betraying her and that the Chief of Police saw through the whole piece of play-acting and only waited an opportunity to break in and expose the masquerading American. O'Rane eyed her with superb deliberation.
"It's Miss Dainton, sure," he said, with a bow. "Pleased to meet you, Miss Dainton. Now, sir, what's the piece I'm to say?"
The Chief of Police extracted a foolscap sheet from his table-drawer.
"Perhaps you can check the lady's statements," he said. "We only keep her till someone gives us guarantees of her good faith."
O'Rane was affected with sudden scruples.
"Guess you'd better find someone that knows her a bit better," he suggested. "I met her folk often enough, but I've not seen her for years."
His hand moved towards his hat as though the last word had been said, but the more he strove to avoid responsibility the more it was pressed upon him.
"Quite formal questions," the Chief of Police kept repeating; but O'Rane continued to excuse himself.
"See here," he explained. "It's God knows how many years since I met her. I wrote that letter 'cos I've known her father since I was a boy and I wanted to do the civil to his daughter. This war's an international proposition, and we Americans aren't backing either side. If you let her go on my evidence, maybe you'll regret it and start getting off protests to my Government. And, if you keep her here, I shall be up against her folk and all the everlasting State Departments of Great Britain. Guess I'd sooner be quit of the proposition right now."
"We will take all responsibility," urged the Chief of Police; and O'Rane began to yield with a bad grace. "They are just formal questions...."
For five minutes O'Rane reluctantly allowed a minimum of uncompromising information to be corkscrewed out of him. Sonia's Christian name, surname and address were confirmed, but he knew nothing of her age and the reason for her presence in Austria. On the subject of her parents he was slightly more communicative, but Sir Roger Dainton, Baronet (or Knight—O'Rane knew little of these dime distinctions among, the British aristocracy) was only known to fame as the director of a company which his firm had the honour to supply with Carinthian oil. That was all he could say, and more than he cared to take the responsibility of saying. He was, of course, happy to be of assistance to either party, provided the strict neutrality of his country were maintained, and would hold himself at the disposal of Miss Dainton or of the police authorities until his departure for Italy the following day. Perhaps in return the Chief of Police would tell him if any difficulties were to be anticipated in crossing the frontier....
The next morning a clerk from the police head-quarters called at the Imperial Hotel. O'Rane was seated in shirtsleeves in his private room, with a green cigar jutting out of his mouth and the table in front of him littered with specifications and oil-prices. The clerk announced that there seemed no reason to detain Miss Dainton any longer, but she had exhausted her money and could hardly travel back to England without assistance.
"Guess that young woman regards me as a pocket-size providence," observed O'Rane impatiently. "I'm not through with my mail yet. What's the damage anyway? No, figure it out in dollars, I've no use for your everlasting krones. Or see here, you freeze on to these bills and fix things at the hotel, and, if Miss Dainton can get her baggage to the depot by four o'clock, I'll take her slick through to Genoa and put her on a packet there. It's no great way out of my road. I guess your Chief will fix her papers for her. That all? Then I'll finish off my mail."
At a quarter to four he met Sonia at the station and greeted her with the words, "Guess you don't give a row of beans how soon you're quit of this township, Miss Dainton."
As they crossed the frontier he threw his cigar out of the window and began filling a pipe.
"Now, young lady, perhaps you'll explain yourself," he said.