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.