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.