BERNARD TREVES'S BOOTS

A NOVEL OF THE SECRET SERVICE

BY

LAURENCE CLARKE

AUTHOR OF "A PRINCE OF INDIA," ETC.

HODDER AND STOUGHTON LIMITED
LONDON
1920

DEDICATION

To Sir Emsley Carr, who suggested
that I should write this book, and
to whom I am much indebted for
valuable first-hand incidents which
figure in these pages.

January, 1920.

CHAPTER I

"Are you sure your name is Manton?"

Captain Gilbert looked keenly across the table. The light in the little room was not good, and the expression on the Captain's face was one of intense interest and bewilderment.

"Quite sure, sir—John Manton," answered the man standing at the further side of the table.

Manton was one of a number of recruits who had that day presented themselves at the Ryde Recruiting Office—a tall, well-poised man of twenty-six, dark-haired, blue-eyed, firm-lipped and vigorous-looking, despite the fact that his countenance was somewhat pale. He wore a well-brushed blue serge suit, noticeably the worse for wear. His bowler hat, too, had seen long service.

Captain Gilbert, still looking at him, drew forth a sheet of paper, and took up his pen.

"John Manton," he wrote, then his eyes lifted, and he looked once more and with a peculiar expression into the tall young recruit's face. For a moment he paused. "Manton," he said, "I should like to see you privately after the office closes."

The young man steadily returned his gaze.

"Very good, sir," he said, with an air of docility. "At what time shall I come?"

"At eight o'clock," returned Gilbert. "Wait for me outside." His eyes followed the other as he turned and left the building, but the moment the door had closed Captain Gilbert plunged once again into his work.

"Next," he called to the line of men seated on the far side of the room; and the man at the end of the line rose and advanced towards the table.

Manton in the meantime paced the streets until eight o'clock, then turned his steps towards the recruiting office.

"I wonder what he wants," thought the young man.

Possibly Gilbert guessed he had been in the army before, and wished to question him upon that point.

"Whatever he wants," thought Manton, somewhat wearily, "does not much matter. If he refuses to take me, and manages to find out everything, I can enlist somewhere else."

As the clock struck eight Captain Gilbert, with an air of haste, closed his desk, left the office and came striding along the street.

"Ah!" exclaimed the Captain, catching sight of Manton, "we'll come up here to the left; it's quieter."

He led the way as he spoke towards a deserted side street. It was already almost dark, and the dimmed street lamps had been lit. They had proceeded some distance together in silence, when Gilbert halted suddenly, and laid his hand on Manton's shoulder.

"Treves," he said, "so you had the grit to do it, after all?"

Manton turned and stared in wonderment.

"Do what, sir?" But he suddenly felt his fingers seized in a cordial grip.

"Gad," went on Gilbert, "that'll make a man of you—eh?"

"I'm afraid I don't understand a word of what you are saying, sir!"

"You don't understand a word! Why, of course you don't! I like you for it—and I'll be frank, I thought I never could like you. Somehow," he went on, looking into Manton's face, "you are the same and yet different, but I'd know you anywhere, despite this shabby old suit and your battered bowler. You knew me, too, when you came into the office."

Manton, still bewildered beyond measure, shook his head slowly.

"I have never seen you in my life before, sir!"

"No, of course not," laughed Gilbert, who was jovial and good-natured. He slipped his arm through Manton's. "Come along now, and we'll talk about it!" Something in the situation of the moment seemed to exhilarate him. "So you've decided to make good after all? Well, all I can say is—I'm delighted. For your own sake, for the old Colonel's sake, for everybody's sake!"

Again he paused and looked into his companion's face.

"I'll admit, Treves, I didn't think you had it in you. I thought——"

Manton freed his arm from the other's grasp.

"I am sorry, sir," he said, "but you are evidently making a grievous mistake. My name is Manton——"

"I don't care what your name is," retorted Gilbert, irritated a little by what he believed to be the other's unnecessary reserve. "You can get rid of your name and call yourself Manton or Jones or Smith or Robinson or anything you like for all I care! But I know you to be Bernard Treves, and——"

But this time a note of firmness appeared in Manton's voice.

"My name is not Treves, sir!"

Gilbert shrugged his shoulders.

"You needn't keep up that note with me," he said. "I'm delighted to find you have the grit to try to make some sort of reparation."

Manton moistened his lips.

"I still don't understand you," he said slowly. "But all I can do is to assure you I am not Treves. If you know some one who resembles me and whose name is Treves, perhaps you would look at me again. To my knowledge, sir, I have never met you in my life before."

As he spoke he took off his hat and turned his face fully towards the Captain.

For a moment there was silence.

"In this half-darkness," said Gilbert, "you look absolutely like Bernard Treves to me. You looked like him in the office. I could see that you had been in the army the minute you stood at my table." He paused, and for the first time a slight doubt crept over him. "The only thing that seems changed to me," he went on, "is your manner. Come, now, Treves, you know me well enough to confide in me; that's why I asked you to speak to me out of the office. Anything you care to say will go no further. I will accept it as unofficial, and if you intend to make good I'm prepared to be a good friend to you. But in the first place admit that you are Treves; it will make matters much easier."

For some moments Manton remained silent. Gilbert believed that at last he was about to admit his identity.

"I will tell you my history for the past three months, sir," said the young man.

"I shall respect your confidence," Gilbert answered.

"I am sorry to disappoint you, sir, but my name is really Manton, and, as you guessed when I came into the office, I have been in the army before. I was at Scarthoe Head, Battery A. I was a sergeant, and, being a public school man, was made book-keeper to the acting adjutant." He fell into silence again, and went on after a pause. "Something went wrong in regard to the delivery of stores to the fort. There was a hundred and forty-five pounds deficit in the accounts. I was held responsible, sir."

There was an intensity and a genuineness in the ring of the stranger's voice that gripped Gilbert's attention. He listened with the closest attention, and as Manton narrated in detail his life during the past six months, Gilbert's convictions faded and gradually vanished. It was impossible that the man could have invented the story, a story so easy of verification. It was some time, however, before he let Manton perceive his change of view; then he drew in a deep breath.

"Gad!" he exclaimed, "then you are not Treves after all!"

"No, sir."

"Go on with your story."

Manton obediently resumed his discourse, bringing his history down to that afternoon and his visit to the recruiting office.

"It's amazing!" exclaimed Gilbert. "I could have sworn—— But, after all," he went on, as if communing with himself, "there's something in your eyes that's different."

"My one ambition in life," concluded Manton, "is to repay that hundred and forty-five pounds. I wanted to do it for the honour of the battery. But when three months had passed and I found I couldn't manage it, I decided to enlist again."

Gilbert, when his first surprise had departed, began to feel an unusual interest in the young man, and as the two strolled back towards the Captain's hotel, he dropped his slight tone of authority, but was quite uncommunicative as to the mysterious and evidently delinquent Treves.

"If you could come to the office in the morning," he said at parting, "I think we can get round any difficulties there may be in regard to your re-enlistment. Do you mind if I make inquiries about you, merely as a matter of form?"

"Not in the least, sir."

A few minutes later Captain Gilbert put through a trunk call to Scarthoe Fort. The commandant of Battery A, who was known to Gilbert by name, happened to be on duty. Gilbert explained that a man giving the name of John Manton, lately of his battery, had that day attempted to re-enlist at Ryde.

"I'd like all the information you can give me about him," Gilbert asked.

"One of the best," came back the prompt answer from Scarthoe Fort. "Manton was a favourite here, and quite unofficially, although matters got a bit muddled, and the case went against him, none of us believed him guilty. A first-rate gunner and white clear through. I shall be glad to know that he's back in the army again."

Gilbert rang off, and all that night the amazing resemblance between his friend Treves and Manton occupied his thoughts. As a result of this preoccupation, and some time during the small hours, a startling idea came to him, first as a nebulous, vague possibility, then as an entirely practicable and simple solution of a difficulty. The thought was this: why should not the singular resemblance between Treves and Manton be turned to good account? Manton had said he wanted more than anything in the world to repay the money due to the battery. Treves, on his part, wanted—— Gilbert broke off here, but his thoughts continued to pursue the new, startling idea that had come to him.

"Gad!" he exclaimed, as the morning broke, "I believe the plan would achieve miracles. If Treves got away under another name he might rouse himself. He might become a man again." ...

In the morning Manton came into the office looking bright, vigorous and full of vitality. Gilbert rose and examined him. Yes, there was a difference, a slight, almost undetectable difference. Something in the eyes—nothing more than that.

"Are you convinced now, sir?" asked the young man, smiling and standing at attention.

"I am quite convinced, Manton, and I have a proposition to make to you."

He took his visitor into an inner room, and, seated there, he unfolded a little of the plan that had come to him during the watches of the night.

"Manton," he said, "I must get authority before I can accept you as a recruit, but in the meantime," he went on, "I have been thinking of our talk of last night. I like you for trying to earn that hundred and forty-five pounds, and they gave a good account of you at Scarthoe."

"I don't know who had the money, sir, but I'd do anything in the world to pay it back for the honour of the battery."

Captain Gilbert paused, then took a letter from the pocket of his tunic. The envelope was addressed: "Lieutenant Bernard Treves, 15, Sade Road, Lymington."

Gilbert had written this letter earlier that morning. With a certain air of formality he handed it to John Manton and instructed him to deliver it to Lieutenant Treves that evening after dark.

"I have a plan in regard to you, Manton, that I think will work out to your entire satisfaction. I won't tell you what it is until you have seen my friend Treves. But when Treves has read this letter he may, or may not, think it worth his while to pay you the money you need. If he doesn't, please come back to me to-morrow, and we will go on with the matter of your re-enlistment."

"In case Lieutenant Treves decides favourably, sir, what must I do to earn the money?"

"You will learn that from him," answered the Captain. "Go to-night, as unobtrusively as you can," he said. He rose, held out his hand and gripped Manton's fingers cordially in his.

CHAPTER II

That evening, when John Manton stepped off the boat at Lymington, a heavy summer rain was falling. In the town itself the streets appeared to be deserted, and it was some minutes before he encountered a workman hurrying home, with upturned collar. He inquired the way to Sade Road, and five minutes later came upon a row of small workmen's cottages with little gardens in front. Counting the houses until he came to number fifteen, he entered the garden gate, and, striking a match, discovered that he had halted at the right address. A woman came to the door in answer to his knock, and stood in the dark, looking out at him, opening the door only a few cautious inches.

"What do you want?"

Manton, with collar turned up and hat drawn over his brows, answered that he brought a letter for Lieutenant Treves.

"You'd better go up to him, then," said the woman, drawing open the door. "It's the front room at the top of the stairs."

There was a candle at the stair-head, and Manton passed her, ascended the single flight of steps and halted at the door. The smallness of the house, the shabbiness of the woman who had admitted him, depressed his spirits. He liked Captain Gilbert, with his sleek and buoyant confidence. This plan of his suddenly struck Manton as the wildest piece of quixotism.

He lifted his hand and knocked quietly upon the door. A voice from within instantly invited him to enter. A moment later he stood in a small lamp-lit bedroom. The room was littered with trunks, suit-cases, boxes and a general confusion of other articles. The close air reeked with the smell of Turkish cigarettes, and at a table near the window, with a lamp before him, sat a young man, busily occupied scribbling figures on a sheet of paper.

Bernard Treves, whose back was towards the door, wore mufti, and Manton, in the moment of entering, noticed that he was well dressed and that his hair was smooth and dark.

"If that's my supper, Mrs. Dodge," said Treves, "put it on the bed." He spoke without looking round, took a drink of whisky from a glass at his side, then went on with his figures.

Manton, standing near the door, coughed to attract his attention.

"Hallo!" exclaimed Treves, and turned swiftly. In an instant at sight of Manton his expression changed. He sprang to his feet in what appeared to be a state of terror, and stood staring at his visitor without uttering a word. With brows drawn together, he passed a hand over his eyes, then he turned, and, lifting his lamp from the table, held it aloft.

"Who are you?" he demanded savagely, "and what the devil do you want?"

John Manton took the letter from his pocket.

"I have come with a letter from your friend, Captain Gilbert," he answered quietly.

With his eyes still fixed on Manton, Treves lowered the lamp and replaced it on the table.

"A letter," he repeated, "from Gilbert? Give it to me." He held out his hand. "God!" he exclaimed, as he snatched the envelope, "coming in like that, you gave me a devil of a start. I thought that I was looking into my own face! Come nearer; come into the light."

Manton advanced farther into the room.

"I suppose these figures I've been poring over," went on Treves, "have made my eyes a bit wrong, but I've never seen anything like it." His nerve was gradually returning, and his astonishment was turning to amusement at the intensity of the resemblance between them.

"Look into the mirror there," he said. "Don't you think the likeness is amazing?"

Manton looked into the mirror, and then again at the young man, who had replaced the lamp on the table, and was tearing open Gilbert's envelope. As he scrutinised Treves's face and figure he, too, was astonished. He began to understand now something of Captain Gilbert's strange behaviour of the day before. But Manton had never been occupied over much with his own appearance; he took himself for granted, and after the first momentary flash of curiosity he thought no more of the resemblance. Besides, there was, after all, a difference. Treves wore a black moustache; his complexion was flushed, whereas Manton, as a result of gas poisoning at the Front, was still pale. Treves's eyes, moreover, were evasive and furtive in expression. Nevertheless, it would have been difficult to tell the two men apart.

"Sit down, Sergeant," Treves said. "Help yourself to a drink." He waved towards the whisky bottle and a siphon on the table. Upon Manton refusing the drink, Treves pushed towards him a box of cigarettes. Then read Captain Gilbert's missive through a second and a third time, and seemed to be considering it deeply with brows drawn together. "Do you know what is in this letter?" he questioned at last.

"No."

"Captain Gilbert told you nothing?"

"Nothing whatever, beyond saying that you might be willing to make some sort of offer."

"Well, he makes an extraordinary suggestion," went on Treves, leaning back in his chair. "It's all brought about by your resemblance to me." His eyes sought the letter again. "He tells me you are a public school boy and all that, and gives me here an outline of your little trouble at Scarthoe Head. Well, for certain reasons known to himself and to me, he thinks you may be able to make yourself useful to me. That is," he added, "if you are willing to undertake a somewhat delicate piece of work."

Manton looked inquiringly at Treves; he was not sure of the young man.

"Perhaps you will let me know the nature of the work."

"The fact of the matter is, Manton," Treves resumed, dropping his voice confidentially, "I am in want of help. Owing to certain peculiar circumstances, I want somebody to make use of my name and my personality for a short time."

He took up his whisky and Manton observed an almost imperceptible tremor of his fingers as they closed about the glass.

"Now, your extraordinary likeness to me, and the fact that you are in need of cash—well, do you see the point?"

"I'm afraid not," remarked Manton quietly.

Treves made a gesture of impatience.

"It's pretty plain, I should think. You need cash, I need some one to step into my shoes; somebody who must take the name of Bernard Treves. Now, do you understand?"

"Your suggestion is that I should pass myself off as you?"

"That's it exactly!"

His visitor stared at him in amazement.

"But I don't see," said he, "any advantage in that for either of us."

"Perhaps not. How much money are you in need of?" Treves inquired pointedly.

"Nearly one hundred and fifty pounds."

Treves whistled.

"Lot of money," he said.

John Manton agreed with him, and for a space there was silence. John's hopes that had risen fell to zero.

Then Treves poured himself another glass of whisky, and drank it down. He wiped his lips with a silk handkerchief from his breast pocket.

"All right," he said at length; "carry out my wishes and you shall have it."

"Then you are serious?"

"I was never more serious in my life. You are to take everything that is mine, and in return you shall have the money you need."

A vague doubt stirred in Manton's mind; then he thought of Gilbert. The Captain was most obviously a man of honour.

"If I accept, can I still enlist?"

"Enlist by all means."

"It seems to me to be an easy way of earning the money, but what about your rank in the army?"

Treves flashed a suspicious glance at him; there was a questioning expression in his eyes.

"If you accept my offer we can go into details later, and as regards my rank, I—I happen to be leaving the army."

"In that case," said Manton, "I am much obliged to you; the money will be a great boon to me."

"You accept?"

"Like a bird!" smiled Manton. "But there is one thing I would like to ask."

"Well?"

"The terms are generous enough," he said, "but what is to happen to my name; is that to disappear too?"

Bernard Treves lit a cigarette, and looked at him with the expression of one from whose mind has been lifted a heavy burden. He made an expressive gesture with his hand.

"For the time being," he answered, "the name of Sergeant Manton will vanish into thin air."

CHAPTER III

Six days later Manton found himself once more in Lymington, alone in Treves's lodgings, in the crowded room, littered with that young man's desirable possessions. Those possessions were, for the time being, his own; even Treves's name was his, for, carrying out his bargain, Treves had vanished from the scene. Again Manton fell to wondering why the other had been so anxious to dispossess himself of name and identity. There was nothing criminal in the matter, he was assured of that, otherwise Captain Gilbert would not have had a hand in it. The idea that the Lieutenant had suffered from shell-shock, and desired to hide himself from all who knew him for a time until he had recovered, came to Manton, and struck him as feasible. He had himself known quite a number of peculiar manifestations of this particularly mysterious disease. In any case, whatever Treves's reasons, it mattered little to Manton at that moment.

"I have simply got to make myself act as Treves, and to do the best I can in Treves's shoes for the time being."

A few days earlier the young man had written him a letter in which he had said: "Use everything of mine as if it were your own. It is only fair if you get the kicks meant for me, you should get the ha'pence as well. I have few relations, and none of them are likely to bother you. When we shall meet again I do not know, but, in the meantime, au revoir. I wonder what you will feel like this time next year?"

Manton, in the quiet of the room, took some considerable time trying to realise his new circumstances, and gradually the sense of strangeness and mystery that enveloped him began to fade away. In all his life Manton had been used to the buffets and hard knocks of Fate; he began to wonder what his immediate future in Treves's shoes held for him. Both parents having died in India, he had been educated from a small fund in the hands of a guardian, first in Germany, and later at Rugby. After that he spent two years at Bonn. His resources were at an end, and the guardian, feeling that he had done his duty, left him to fend for himself. A period of hard going had followed, until the war broke out, whereupon he precipitately enlisted in the first hundred thousand. If he had waited a little longer a commission would have been thrust upon him as it was upon all public school men in any way eligible. Treves's past, Manton surmised, had not been of that nature, for despite the poorness of the young man's lodgings, all his belongings were of the costliest order. And all these belongings were now his, Manton's, to do with as he liked. The idea came to him to write to Captain Gilbert, thanking him for the amicable intervention that had wrought this change in his circumstances. He sat down, drew forth a sheet of Treves's notepaper, and had taken up a pen when a knock came at the door, and the landlady appeared.

"You'd like some tea, sir, wouldn't you?"

"Yes, thank you," answered the young man.

"I've dusted the room every day, sir, since you've been away," said the landlady.

"It's exactly as I left it," responded he truthfully. She was looking at him across the width of the little room, but there was no doubt or curiosity in her gaze; she had accepted him instantly on his arrival that day as Bernard Treves, and even now, looking at him full and closely, no thought of deception entered her mind. "I wonder what she'd think," he pondered inwardly, "if Treves were to come in behind her now."

But no such dramatic event occurred; the landlady brought up his tea, and later furnished him with a bottle of whisky, a siphon of soda, and a glass.

Next morning, when she cleared these things away, she was surprised to find that no more than one peg of whisky had been taken.

"Wasn't you feeling well, sir, last night?" she asked.

"Quite," answered Manton, who was busy with an excellent breakfast.

She went away wondering. Until that day she had never known Mr. Treves to drink less than half a bottle of whisky in the course of an evening.

During the morning John went for a stroll in the town, and on his return the landlady handed him a letter which had arrived by the post in his absence. Manton took it up to his room, and noticed that the handwriting was sprawling and shaky. Twice he read the superscription, "Bernard Treves, Esq., 15, Sade Road, Lymington." He hesitated several minutes before breaking open the envelope. He felt as though he were stepping beyond the pale of decency in opening the letter addressed to another man, then he recalled Treves's admonition, "Everything that is mine is yours." He tore open the envelope. Within was a single sheet of paper headed, "Heatherfield Grange, Freshwater." Manton quickly scanned the contents.

"Dear Bernard,—They tell me you are in hiding, as well you may be, but if you have a spark of decency left in you, you will come here to me at the first opportunity. There are things I have to say to you.

"You have dishonoured and disgraced the family name, but I have still a faint hope that you will retrieve yourself at the last moment.—Your affectionate father,

"R.T."

For many minutes John Manton sat staring at this letter, staring from the stiff, sprawling writing out into the little street and back again.

All that day he pondered upon the missive he had received from Treves's father. He wondered what it was Treves had done, and why he should have been skulking in hiding at that address? A sense of uneasiness swept over him, and was succeeded by a violent curiosity. For the first time he felt vividly interested in Treves and Treves's history, and at the same time doubtful and uneasy. Unpleasant and difficult situations presented themselves to his mind.

Next morning, as a result of a decision he had taken, he was on his way to Freshwater by midday. At three o'clock in the afternoon he walked through the town and out to Heatherfield Grange, which he discovered to be a large, many-chimneyed, many-windowed Elizabethan mansion, standing in a spacious, heavily-wooded park. The mansion itself was approached by a long carriage drive, too much overshadowed by trees, and when Manton reached the lodge gates a bent old man, who was sweeping leaves from the path, hurried forward and drew open the gate for him to enter. The man drew himself up and saluted.

"Good day, Master Bernard."

Manton nodded and smiled. As he walked along the drive towards the grand old house, his pulse-beat quickened. After all, had he a right to act the part; was it honourable and fair that he should thus step into another man's shoes? The under-gardener had taken him for Bernard Treves; the whole world evidently was prepared to believe in the deception. But there was Treves's father to face. Naturally Treves's father would detect an impostor in a moment. But was he an impostor; was it not probable that the elder Treves also was aware of what had occurred?

The broad front door of the mansion was opened to him. A white-haired butler, with pouches under his eyes, and a general air of world-weariness, looked at him from the threshold, and slowly lifted his eyes in surprise.

"Good afternoon, sir," said the butler. He took Manton's hat and stick, and deferentially stood aside. "Your father will indeed be pleased and surprised to see you, sir," he said, as he closed the door. His manner was studiously civil, and yet somehow Manton felt a lack of cordiality towards himself in the butler's tone.

"Possibly he's a privileged servant," he thought, "and does not like Mr. Bernard."

"Where is—is the Colonel?" he asked after a moment's hesitation.

"In the library, sir, as usual. Will you go up at once?"

"Yes." He wondered consumedly where the Colonel's room might be, and experienced a pleasant thrill of impending event. He attempted a little harmless finesse to discover the way. "Perhaps you will go first and tell him I am here."

"Very good, sir." The butler looked at him meditatively for a moment, then went to a side-table and took up a silver salver containing three letters and a telegram. Manton seized the moment to survey the heavy splendour of the dark antique furniture, the wide spaces of the hall and the richness of the rugs scattered over the polished floor. High above the mantelshelf hung a portrait in oils of a personage in eighteenth century costume. Descending to the middle of the hall was a wide oak balustraded staircase, carpeted in scarlet, a single flight ascended to the first floor, then branched to right and left.

"Your letters, sir." The butler was standing at Manton's elbow with the silver salver extended. John took up the three letters and the telegram. A renewed and intensified disinclination to pry into Bernard Treves's affairs seized him. He was about to put letters and telegram into his pocket when the butler spoke in his firm, polite voice. There was a note of reproach in his tone, however, "The telegram came two days ago, sir."

"Oh!" exclaimed Manton. And under the bleak eye of the butler he disinterred it from his pocket, tore open the envelope, and read the contents. The telegram had been dispatched from Camden Town, and ran:

"Wire when you can come. Of course I will forgive you.—ELAINE."

He was conscious, as he read the words, that the butler's eyes were fixed steadily upon him.

Then the old servant turned and preceded him towards the broad staircase. They ascended to the first landing, and here the butler wheeled to the right and halted before a double green baize door. The elderly man knocked, paused for a moment, then pushed open the door, and stepped into a room lined with books, a spacious, luxuriously furnished apartment, with two mullioned windows overlooking the park. John, following him, saw him cross to a deep, high-backed arm-chair near the hearth.

"Mr. Bernard's here, sir," he announced, standing before this chair.

There was a movement in the chair, then a tall, soldierly, grey-haired man revealed himself, leaning on a stick, and looked across at Manton. He looked at him with a cold, inimical gaze, and until the butler had closed the door and departed, did not utter a word, Then he spoke:

"So you've come, you dog, have you!" The almost savage intensity of dislike and contempt in his tone struck the young man like a blow in the face.

"I got your letter——" he began.

"Oh, yes, I found out where you were. Well," he went on, harshly, "there is no need for us to waste compliments on each other. We will settle the business that is to be settled at once."

He moved shakily towards a desk in the middle of the room, using his stick as a support. Manton, seeing his frailty, hurried forward to assist him, but the old man drew himself erect, raised his stick, and flashed a look at him of utter repulsion.

"Do not dare to lay a hand on me," he said violently.

When he reached his desk he seated himself in a big swivel-chair, drew out a drawer, and flung certain documents on the table. From under his eyebrows he glowered at Manton.

"Sit down," he commanded.

John moved to the table side and occupied a chair near his elbow. Among a pile of documents Colonel Treves searched for a certain typewritten sheet. He found it at length, a long, yellow piece of official paper.

"Listen to this," he commanded. From the table beside him he took up a square reading glass, and deciphered the typewritten paper with faded grey eyes. "This," he vouchsafed, raising his eyes, "is from my old, good friend, General Whiston." He paused a moment, and John seized the opportunity to intervene, "May I say a word, sir?"

"No," thundered Treves. Then he read aloud in a voice vibrant with emotion:

"My dear Treves,—Your boy had every chance.... It was the merest fluke in the world that he escaped as easily as he did. He is not of the right stuff, and my condolences are with you. I wish I could suggest something, but I cannot. I know, old friend, what a tragedy this must be to you——"

The Colonel stopped abruptly, flung down his reading glass, and looked into Manton's face. "Well?" he demanded. "What do you think of that?"

Manton said nothing.

"Can you read between the lines?" questioned the elder man.

"It suggests," said John, after a moment's hesitation, "that the punishment meted out to—to me, was a light one."

"I see you are as evasive as ever," retorted Colonel Treves. He turned and smote the open letter twice with the back of his hand. "In this letter, General Whiston," he measured his words slowly, "tells me, by implication, that you are guilty of cowardice in the face of the enemy—you, a Treves!" Then in a moment the anger that had vivified him seemed to fade; he appeared to Manton to become suddenly old, bowed, and pitiful, the expression on his face was one of anguish. The dishonour that had befallen his name was no less than torture to him, but once again he recovered himself, and gripped the arms of his chair with both white-knuckled hands.

"You know the just punishment for cowardice in the face of the enemy?" He was leaning towards Manton now; his mouth twitched, but there was a blaze in the old grey eyes.

"I know it, sir," said John quietly.

The Colonel drew in his breath slowly and sat erect.

"Ah, you know. And, having escaped that punishment, and knowing yourself to be guilty, you skulk in hiding! You fail to seize the one chance that is open to you to redeem the past!"

"What is the chance?" inquired Manton, forgetting himself for a moment.

The Colonel stared at him in astonishment.

"The chance of re-enlistment, of course. Instead of doing that," he went on, "you write me a whining letter, saying you can't stand the trenches, you can't face it, your nerves—bah! nerves, my God, and you a Treves!" He hurled these words forth with a contempt and loathing that was like a blow in the face. But Manton noticed that he was breathing heavily. The emotional intensity of his feelings was wearing on him, and the younger man felt a sudden tenderness towards this old, stricken, bitterly disappointed father.

"Is it too late now, sir?" he asked quietly.

"Eh?"

"Is it too late for me to make good?"

"Talk!" exclaimed the Colonel, in bitter derision; "always talk with you. You don't mean that any more than you meant any of the lying promises you made to me in the past. You have always been a liar! A liar, a spendthrift, and a fool—and now, added to all these things, to your gambling and your profligacy, you've finished as a——"

He paused, and Manton ventured:

"In regard to a way out, sir?"

The Colonel looked at him with renewed ferocity, then his expression slowly changed. For some seconds he was silent, and, without a glance at Manton, he began to fumble at a drawer. He drew it open at length, and groped in its interior. His hand shook visibly, but there was something in his attitude, some strange intensity of purpose, that riveted Manton's attention. Presently the Colonel discovered the object he sought, and revealed from the depths of the drawer an automatic pistol.

"If you have a shred of honour left you will know what to do," he said grimly. He reached out, and laid the weapon on the corner of the desk at the young man's side.

CHAPTER IV

Then Colonel Treves rose slowly to his feet, took up his stick, and moved towards the door of the room. With his hand on the door knob, he pointed his stick at the weapon on the table. Manton had remained motionless; utterly at a loss. Now the old soldier's meaning gradually revealed itself.

"You want me to take this and——?"

"And," broke in Colonel Treves, "use it to recover such shreds of honour as are left to you."

He drew open the door.

"Thanks," said Manton, taking the pistol from the desk. He slipped the weapon into his hip pocket. The Colonel halted, looking back at him in surprise.

"What are you going to do?"

"I am going to use it," answered John, "if occasion arises."

He saw the Colonel hesitate. Some deep emotion seemed to stir within him. Then with an effort he turned swiftly, and was about to hurry from the room. Manton strode towards him.

"There was another way out?" he questioned, rapidly.

"There was, and you failed to take it. You whined that you couldn't face the army again—you, a Treves! In the past, before my time and yours," went on the Colonel, suddenly violent again, "there have been Treves who have been fools and spendthrifts; there may have been Treves who kept their honour none too clean—but never in our long line has there been a coward until you came, until you grew up to be a curse to my existence, and made my life a shame to me!" His lip trembled, the old, proud head was held aloft, but a world of desolation dwelt in the faded eyes. On a sudden impulse, John gripped him by the hand; he could feel the old man resisting him, seeking to free himself.

"I want to make you a promise, sir," he said. "I am going to Ryde the first thing in the morning. I have a friend there who will help me to get back into the army."

The Colonel narrowed his eyes and tried to read the expression on his face.

"There is a new ring in your voice, Bernard," he said, after a moment's pause, "but I cannot trust you."

He turned and walked away. John saw him go, using his stick for support, and felt a renewed pity for the old, broken father. He spent that night at an inn in Freshwater, and took the first train next morning for Ryde. Here at the recruiting office he presented himself before Captain Gilbert. This plump and comfortable officer was busy at his work when John stepped into the office. His shadow fell upon Captain Gilbert's desk, and the elder man looked up quickly.

"Great Scott!" he exclaimed. He stared wide-eyed at Manton for a moment, and John broke into a smile.

"I see you mistook me for Treves."

"I did," said Gilbert, leaning forward and looking into his face. "The resemblance is really closer than I thought at first. Well," he said, "you've done your part of the bargain splendidly. You earned the money you needed, and you've lifted a great load off the minds of several deserving persons, including myself."

"I should like to know how I've done that," said Manton. "It seems to me the only service I have rendered has been to myself."

"You forget the battery at Scarthoe Head. You made up the deficiency, and the Colonel's delighted with you, Manton."

"Thanks to you—and young Treves—I was able to put matters straight there."

"You have probably saved young Treves from going utterly to the devil," said Gilbert. "I'll tell you about that later; I'm busy till one o'clock, but come to my hotel then and we'll have lunch together."

"But I am here on business myself!" protested Manton. He was feeling cheerful and particularly satisfied with the course of events so far.

"What is your particular business?" inquired Gilbert.

"I want to get back into the army."

Gilbert looked at him for a moment.

"Of course—of course," he said hastily. "I'd forgotten that; we will discuss the subject at lunch time."

Until lunch time Manton was free to stroll upon the pier and consider his situation. He felt a deep curiosity to know what had happened to the man whose clothes he was wearing; to Treves, whose money he was jingling in his pocket, whose excellent cigarettes he had smoked.

At a quarter to one he threw his cigarette end over the rail into the water, and turning, made his way to the hotel where Gilbert was staying. He found the Captain already there, busy mixing a salad at a table in the corner of a small dining-room. There were half a dozen tables in the room, none of which were as yet occupied.

"Sit down, Manton," invited Captain Gilbert, as John entered. "I always mix my own salads. What will you have? There's the menu."

John chose a dish and accepted his host's invitation to divide with him a bottle of Chablis. During the meal Captain Gilbert talked on general matters. But at length the conversation appeared to drift round to the subject of Treves.

"Old Treves took you for granted, eh?" asked the Captain.

"His eyesight isn't good," answered John, "but he suspected nothing."

"And Gates, the butler?"

"He called me 'Mr. Bernard' the moment he saw me. Also, he gave me Treves's letters and a telegram. I didn't read the letters, but the telegram——" Manton put his hand in his inner pocket. "Perhaps I'd better hand them all over to you now."

"Not so fast," Gilbert said, pushing the letters and the telegram back across the table towards Manton. "As a matter of fact, I can't hand them to Treves just now, as I have persuaded him to go to a nursing home for a time. A very good friend of his father's, General Whiston, recommended that something of the sort should be done with him months ago."

"Treves did not give me the impression of being actually ill," Manton observed.

"He wasn't, but his nerves were all to rags. He was in such a state of acute neurasthenia that I expected him to lay hands on himself any minute. Anyway, where he is he will be safe for a while; he will be out of his father's way and the discipline of this particular nursing home may pull him together."

John lit a cigarette and smoked thoughtfully. There was evidently something on Gilbert's mind, something of which he wished to unburden himself. John waited, and at last the elder man broke the silence again:

"Manton," he said earnestly, "I want you to do me a particular favour."

John inquired the nature of the favour.

"I want you," went on the Captain, "to sustain Treves's personality for a little longer. He is in good hands in the nursing home, and for the time being has vanished from the public gaze." Gilbert paused, and again appeared to hesitate. What he had to say was very difficult to frame in words. He wished to hint at something that was the merest suspicion in his own mind. Two or three times he was on the verge of putting his thoughts into words, and each time the effort appeared too much for his gift of expression. Finally he leaned back in his chair. "Manton," he said, "I cannot tell you all I think and suspect, but I will give you such confidences as I can."

He paused for a moment, then went on: "Since Treves came back from France, he appears to have got into the hands of undesirable company. One of his rooted ideas, possibly the result of his drug habit, is that some one is watching him, and that, for some reason or other, his life is in danger."

John listened quietly; then, when the other had finished, he observed seriously: "So far as I see it, you want me to continue my impersonation of Treves until he is cured and comes out of the nursing home."

"That is it, exactly," said Gilbert.

"You are putting a good deal of trust in me," answered John.

At that Gilbert stretched out his hand and gripped John's fingers heartily.

"Manton," he said, "you and I are in this together for the good of the Cause. Not only for Treves and the old Colonel, but perhaps for bigger issues."

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

"Don't ask it, trust me as I trust you. And now to get back to the matter in hand," he said, resuming his ordinary tone. "Perhaps it would be worth your while to open those two letters."

As John obediently tore open the envelopes and read the contents of the letters, Gilbert called the waiter and paid for the two lunches. One of the letters was a typewritten screed from a quack doctor in which he claimed to cure any victim of the drug habit within the space of three months. John experienced a real feeling of pity for Treves as he read the quack's fraudulent promises. The second letter contained two lines only on a single sheet of paper with the printed heading: "208, St. George's Square, S.W." The letter ran:

"Dear Treves,—I must see you at once. You understand; it is essential that you should come to me without delay. To-morrow night at nine o'clock I shall expect you.—Yours, G. MANNERS."

Manton handed both letters to Gilbert, who studied them carefully.

"I haven't a notion who G. Manners is," mused the Captain when he had read the letter through a second time, "but he may be one of the friends Treves ought to get rid of, and for that reason I should advise you to call on him to-morrow."

Manton was thoughtful for a moment.

"What if he discusses matters I know nothing about? Treves's past life is a blank to me:"

"Come," said Gilbert, touching him lightly on the arm, "you are playing a part; you are not such a fool as not to play it well. I admit there are certain little precautions you may find it wise to take. In the first place, you might have a go at copying Treves's degenerate handwriting. You might also keep in mind that Treves is over-strung, lacking in will-power, and so much a victim of the cocaine habit that he would do anything, short of murder, to get the drug when the craving is upon him. As to Treves's past life, it seems to me that a victim of the drug habit can be afflicted with convenient lapses of memory when occasion arises."

Manton glanced at the Captain's pleasant, fat face, and the thought crossed his mind that there was a good deal more cleverness behind Gilbert's amiable exterior than he had at first realised. He forthwith decided to go to town that night. London always held a vivid attraction for him, and he had not had the pleasure of visiting it since his journey through its streets in an ambulance on his return from France. Some weeks in hospital had followed that visit, then had come his transference to the R.G.A. at Scarthoe Head. And now, with returned health and in new, strange and portentous circumstances, he was to visit London again.

Mr. Manners, the mysterious, imperative writer of the letter, had demanded to see Treves at nine o'clock. The hour of John's arrival was eight, and he was in a hurry. He was impatient to plunge into whatever adventure awaited him. Without bothering to engage a room for the night, he deposited his bag in the cloak-room at Waterloo Station, and set out to find St. George's Square. He arrived at the corner of the square, the Embankment corner, at precisely eight-thirty. The square's decorous, solemn-looking houses with heavy pillared porticoes struck him as gloomy in the extreme. The only individual upon the long strip of pavement which ran the length of the west side of the square was himself. His footfalls appeared to echo with inordinate resonance in the areas as he made his way towards Number 208.

It was not his intention to ring the bell immediately. In the first place he wanted to reconnoitre the house, to see if it were possible to judge of the house's occupants by its exterior. This thought occupied his mind, when a taxi sped into the square and drew to a halt within half a dozen yards of him. The taxi had stopped behind him, and its occupant had alighted.

"That's all right; half an hour," said a curt voice in a cultured accent.

The chauffeur nodded, and slammed the taxi door. The young man who had alighted hurried forward, passed John, and continued down the square. Without paying over especial attention, John noticed that he was tall, that he wore a morning coat of distinguished cut, that his light grey felt hat was of expensive quality, and that the pearl in his tie-pin was also, if genuine, of exceptional value. He was of John's height and age, fair-haired, blue-eyed, and with a slight tooth-brush moustache. His features were large and heavy-boned, without being harsh. Two things John noticed as he hurried past; one was that he carried a silk-lined light overcoat over his arm, and the other that he wore a "service rendered" badge on the lapel of his coat.

"Invalided from the army," thought John. "All the same, he doesn't look as if there was much the matter with him."

John continued to walk until he reached the corner of the square, then he turned, and as he did so he saw the tall young man flit up the steps of a house a considerable distance away. John fixed his eyes on the portico of this particular house and walked towards it. And as he neared the door he realised that the young man had entered the very house at which he also had an appointment—Number 208. For a moment Manton paused, hesitated, then passed on. Before making the plunge into whatever adventure awaited him, he wanted still further to consider the situation.

In the meantime the stranger, who had alighted from the taxi, was now within the hall of Mr. Manners's residence. He had opened the door with a Yale key and had admitted himself. The hall was narrow and somewhat dark, and the young man laid his gold-headed cane noisily on a little table, and began to draw off his grey gloves. A door at the back of the house opened noiselessly, and a sombre-faced, sallow-complexioned butler advanced.

"Mr. Manners is in, of course?" demanded the young man in a voice that rasped a little.

"Yes, Herr Baron, in the library."

The visitor nodded curtly, ran swiftly up the stairs, turned to the left, and opened a door on the first landing. He entered a room where the curtains had already been drawn. Two electric chandeliers, one on either side of the hearth, illuminated the apartment. A large bookcase occupied one wall of the room, and in the middle of the floor was a business-like table, scattered with papers. On the table was a green-shaded reading lamp, and by its illumination a man sat at work busily writing. He looked up as the stranger entered, then sprang quickly to his feet. He was a tall man of fifty, uncomfortably stout, with a fleshy neck that protruded over his collar at the back. The big man's iron-grey hair was short, his nose broad and short, and his lips thick and pouting. Despite his inelegance of figure, he was dressed, with an attempt at smartness, in a well-cut frock coat and newly-creased trousers. His heavy eyebrows shielded his eyes, hiding his expression from any but the closest scrutiny. For a man of his excessive bulk he showed extreme activity on his feet.

"I didn't expect you to-night," he said. He placed a chair near the desk for the younger man to seat himself.

His visitor, however, stood still and fixed him with a direct, cold stare.

"Well, Manners," he demanded, "what have you to say for yourself?"

Manners shrugged his heavy shoulders, and displayed the palms of his hands.

"Nothing, Herr Baron," he said, "except that I have done my best. Won't you sit down?"

The young man took a cigarette from his case, and lit it.

"Your best is damned bad!" he said.

"I exercised such judgment as I have," returned the other, in a tone of abasement.

"Judgment alone is of no avail," retorted the other. "What we want is aggressive action. We don't get that from you—you talk, and think, and scheme——"

The other ventured a faint note of protest.

"I was chosen, Herr Baron——"

"I don't want to hear your history," returned the younger man, coldly. "I want to know about this expedition that is being prepared by the Eastern Command, that has been under preparation for the past six weeks."

"I gave you such figures, Herr Baron, as I was able to collect."

The young man crossed to the hearth and stood leaning with his back against the mantelshelf.

"Doesn't it occur to you," he demanded, after a moment's silence, "that figures are only a detail? Figures are something any fool could gather. What Berlin wants to know is, what is this expedition's objective, where is it bound for, also what port it sails from, and when?"

The elder German—Gottfried Manwitz by name, though he figured in the London directory as Godfrey Manners—turned nervously towards his desk and began to search among the papers. An expression of relief crossed his face as he took up a particular sheet of paper.

"That is the date, Herr Baron," he said, "when the expedition will sail, and also the place of departure."

The young man took the sheet, scrutinised it with frowning brows for a moment, then lifted his eyes and looked into Manwitz's fat face with cold, contemptuous gaze.

"Excellent!" he said, cuttingly; "wonderful and utterly useless! You provide Headquarters with all this detail, and fail to give the one vital, useful piece of information—the sole item that Headquarters requires."

"It is very difficult, Herr Baron," apologised Manners.

"You and I, Manwitz," retorted the younger man, "are retained in London for the sole purpose of overcoming difficulties." He paused a moment, and looked complacently for the first time in the elder man's face. "For instance, I myself have overcome quite a number of difficulties."

"Indeed, that is true, Herr Baron," conceded Manners.

"I expect you to do the same. Since you let the Inflexible and the Invincible vanish to the Falkland Islands without any one of us being aware of the fact, Berlin doesn't think so highly of your attainments as before the war. For my part," he went on, "I find you too much of a dreamer." He paused; some one had knocked lightly on the door of the room. "Open it, Manwitz!" he commanded.

The big man crossed lightly to the door and drew it open. Upon the threshold stood the sombre-countenanced butler. The tall young man from the hearth called aloud to him:

"Well, Conrad, what is it?"

"Mr. Treves, Herr Baron, to see Herr Manners."

"Thank you, Conrad," said Manners. He closed the door and turned to his superior.

"This is one of my instruments, Herr Baron, arrived to-night from the Isle of Wight. You approved of him when I gave you his dossier a month ago."

"He is the British officer who was cashiered," returned the other, swiftly. "Takes drugs, and generally gone to pieces?"

"The same, Herr Baron."

"Is he quite"—he paused—"er, quite amenable to your orders?"

"I flatter myself that I can do a good deal with him," Manwitz answered, with pride. "He comes here for cocaine, but he is of good English stock, and there are moments when he tries to shake himself free of me. For the last three weeks, as a matter of fact, he has disappeared entirely. I had great difficulty, Herr Baron, rediscovering his hiding place."

"I don't like that!" returned the Baron. "How do you know what he has been up to in the meantime?"

He was silent for a minute; then he looked with his cold, pale eyes into his elder's face. "Manwitz!" he exclaimed suddenly, "this may be the man for our business!"

For the first time a flicker of triumph lit in Manners's eyes. He went to his desk, unlocked a drawer, and produced a single sheet of notepaper. "This is a letter in his own writing, Herr Baron, signed by himself. I think it is satisfactory, eh?"

The younger man took the sheet and fixed his keen eyes upon it.

"My dear Friend," ran the note, "the s.s. 'Polidor' is due to leave H—— at four o'clock to-morrow, Tuesday afternoon. I had this on absolute authority; you can rely on it."

The tall, fair-haired man came to the end of the brief note, and his hard mouth tightened; then he read the postscript: "Don't forget the tabloids!"

He looked up slowly, and fixed his keen gaze upon Manwitz's apoplectic countenance. Baron Rathenau, who had taken his degree at Oxford, who spoke English like an English gentleman, and possessed, on the surface, the manners of an English gentleman, was quite five years older than he looked. His brain was subtle and keen, and in the service of the Fatherland he was hard and ruthless as steel.

"You have done not so badly here, Manwitz," conceded the Baron. "This letter alone"—he folded Treves's note carefully—"this letter alone would bring our young friend, Lieutenant Treves, into the presence of a firing party within forty-eight hours." He paused a moment. "Our English enemies," he went on, "are unpleasantly hasty in regard to spies. But when it comes to traitors, the celerity with which they put a man face to the wall in their Tower of London, it is marvellous!"

He had folded the note carefully, and lifting his light fawn coat, he slipped Treves's note into the inner pocket, then he flung the coat back again on the chair.

"I'll see our young neurasthenic friend at once," he said. "You will leave him to me, Manwitz." He turned and pressed the bell twice. When the footman presently appeared at the door, Baron Rathenau was standing with his back to the mantelshelf, toying with a cigarette.

"Bring up Mr. Treves, Conrad," he said, briefly.

CHAPTER V

"Do I introduce you as Captain Cherriton, Herr Baron?" asked Manwitz, when Conrad had closed the door and departed.

"Yes," said the Baron. "I find the name of the poor, dead Captain Cherriton an excellent recommendation in even the best of homes." He smiled his somewhat derisive smile.

A moment later the door opened and John Manton stepped into the room. Manners rose and held out his hand.

"My dear Treves," he said, "you have been away from me a very long time." He was thinking to himself that Treves carried himself a little better than usual; his gaze was more direct, his handgrip firmer. However, there was no suspicion in his eyes as he turned towards the younger man at the hearth.

"Captain Cherriton," he said, "this is a young friend of mine, Mr. Treves."

For a moment Rathenau's light blue eyes widened, and then narrowed.

"We've met before, Mr. Treves?"

"In the square, half an hour ago. I saw you come in."

"Oh, yes, yes," returned the Baron. "My good friend, Mr. Manners, has been telling me about you."

"I hope he had something complimentary to say," smiled John Manton. He was thinking to himself: "There is no doubt at all in my mind that this big, fat man, Mr. Manners, is a German. His finger nails are cut neatly to a point." John recalled the habit of the Germans he had met at Feldkirch, of the masters of his school, who had trimmed their nails in that particular fashion. Rather a Chinese fashion, John thought. His eyes travelled from the fat man's face and took in the younger man's hard countenance. He was recalling something he had read of Captain Cherriton.

"I think I remember reading something about you, Captain Cherriton," he ventured.

"You mean my escape from the British officers' prison camp at Celle," replied the German, easily.

"Yes," returned John, "that was it. You had rather an adventurous time getting across the frontier."

"I had a pretty hot time," laughed Cherriton.

The conversation between the three became general after this, and presently Cherriton invited John to accompany him to his hotel in the Strand.

"Come along and have a drink and a smoke with me. I should much like to have a chat with you, Treves."

John considered the proposal for a moment, and then decided to go. He bade good night to Manners, and as he shook hands with the big man, a little phial of white tabloids passed from Manners's palm to his own. For a minute John felt inclined to ask a question, but caution saved him. He slipped the little cocaine tablets into his waistcoat pocket, thanked Manners under his breath, and followed Cherriton, who had taken up his light overcoat, and was moving towards the door.

It was quite dark in the square when they emerged, and in the distance, near the river, a taxi was moving slowly.

"That is my vehicle," remarked Cherriton, standing under the light of a shaded lamp, so that the distant taxi-man could observe them. A minute later the taxi drew to a halt. John stepped inside, and Cherriton followed him.

As the taxi door closed, a man, who had been standing in the darkness against the rails of the square opposite stepped out into the road and signalled with his arm. At that moment John was leaning back in the taxi, giving himself up to thoughts of the swift events of the last half-hour. Who was this Captain Cherriton, who appeared to have taken such a fancy to him? Was it possible——? His thoughts received a jolt.

"Hey, stop!" a loud voice from the road echoed in his ears. John was projected forward almost upon his face. The vehicle came to a sudden halt; the door of the taxi was flung open; two men appeared in the aperture, and a heavy hand fell upon John's shoulder. He glanced at his companion, and saw that, from the other side, intruders were also laying heavy hands upon him. With a mighty wrench of his shoulder John snatched himself free. Scarcely knowing what had happened, he attempted to dash after his companion, who had been dragged out into the road. He was ignominiously pulled back by the leg. He heard a voice shouting:

"Don't bother about the other one—this is our man!"

Then, in a confusion of gripping hands, John was flung back on the seat of the taxi; a voice spoke firmly in his ear:

"You'll keep quiet, young man, or it will be the worse for you!"

John saw Captain Cherriton flitting like a shadow along the road and out of the square. He looked at the person who was seated beside him in the taxi, and was surprised to find a big, typical police officer in plain clothes. Opposite John two other officers, who had crowded into the vehicle, were seated, looking at him with steady, interested gaze.

"Your name's Treves?" demanded one of the men.

"What of it?" returned John.

"It's all I want to know," answered the man, coldly.

As the taxi glided along John strove to gather his scattered wits, but it was not until a plain, quietly-furnished room had been achieved in Scotland Yard, that any light broke in upon his senses. He found himself confronted by a tall, grey-moustached man in civilian clothes. The man was standing beside a table, and beside him stood a distinguished-looking staff officer.

As John entered the room, in charge of two detectives, his senses were still in a whirl from the swiftness of his adventure. The grey-moustached man, whom the detectives addressed as "Sir Robert," rose from his chair and looked at him with stern, brooding eyes; then his gaze turned to one of John's captors, who had entered the room and was holding Baron Rathenau's overcoat on his arm.

"Have you his papers?" he demanded.

"That is not my overcoat," intervened John.

"Silence," commanded Sir Robert.

The detective went through the pockets of the overcoat. He found a small time-table, two or three paid restaurant bills, and finally the letter Treves had written to Manners. The grey-moustached police commissioner took these articles, and laid them on the blotting-pad before him. Then, at a brief command, a second detective stepped forward and searched John's pockets, taking out the two letters that had been addressed to Treves and the telegram signed "Elaine." These also were laid upon the desk. The staff officer and Sir Robert read them carefully. When the officer, whom John observed to be a general of staff, read Treves's incriminating letter to Manners, he drew in his breath and whistled.

"My God!" he exclaimed.

The grey-moustached man took the letter from his fingers, read it, then held it forth towards John. His tone was utterly aloof, cold, and forbidding.

"It was unfortunate, Treves," he said, "that you should carry this letter in your pocket. For this, added to the information we have gathered about you during the past three months, condemns you absolutely." He paused a moment, then went on. "I can only say," he added ruthlessly, "that I thank God we have been able to lay our hands on you."

It was only in that moment that John for the first time realised the appalling danger that was sweeping upon him.

"I would like to make some explanation, sir."

"Your correspondence," retorted Sir Robert, with sinister meaning, "has made all the explanation we require! General Whiston here is quite satisfied, and so am I."

General Whiston, who had been looking fixedly at John, now passed round the table and walked towards him. He was a tall, bronzed man, with a clipped moustache, and a wide, strong mouth. John had recognised his name in a moment. He was Colonel Treves's old friend.

"Bernard Treves," said General Whiston, "you have broken your father's heart already; you must now make your peace with God. There is only one thing left for me to do for my old and dear friend, and I intend to do it—he shall never learn that his son died as a traitor to his country. Even now," he went on, "though I have had you watched for three months, I can still scarcely credit it, you—a Treves!"

He glanced towards the door. John felt a heavy hand fall upon his shoulder from behind.

"This way, please," said a polite voice in his ear.

As the detective's voice sounded in his ear and the detective's hand fell on his shoulder, John's scurrying senses seemed to gather themselves together. He became calm in presence of the greatest danger his life had ever known. When next he spoke his voice was steady, and his manner, despite its deep gravity, portrayed not the slightest trace of nervousness.

"Sir," he said, "may I speak merely one or two words before I am removed?" He looked into the bronzed countenance of Colonel Treves's old friend. There was no pity for him on that strong, handsome face. In General Whiston's eyes he had been guilty of the blackest of all crimes. The General answered in his deep-toned voice of authority.

"You will be permitted to make a statement, but not now."

"I have a very important declaration to make, sir."

Sir Robert, who was still scrutinising the incriminating letter that had been taken from Rathenau's overcoat, looked up now, then rapidly pencilled a few words on a slip of paper which he handed to Whiston. The General read the slip.

"Yes, perhaps so," he said; "I agree with you, time is everything."

Sir Robert looked into John's face.

"Are you prepared," he went on, "to give us the name of the person to whom this letter was written?" He lifted Treves's incriminating missive and held it for John's inspection. John had already been permitted to read the letter, though not to hold it in his hand.

"Certainly," answered Manton.

A slight flicker of surprise lit in Sir Robert's eyes.

"His name," answered John, "is either Manners, or Cherriton."

Sir Robert laid down the letter with an impatient gesture.

"That is no answer to my question. You wrote the letter yourself. To whom did you write it?"

"I didn't write it!"

"You suggest that it is a forgery?"

"Either you wrote the letter or you didn't write it," pursued Sir Robert. "Your statements contradict each other. You say, in the first place, that you did not write it. In the second place, you say it is not a forgery."

General Whiston now spoke, his stern gaze on John's face.

"This letter," he said, glancing towards the sheet, "is in your own writing, which I happen to know very well. Your attempt at mystification," he went on, "will be of no avail, either now or later."

John felt in his tones intense antagonism.

"If I might be permitted to speak to you gentlemen alone," he said, "I will in three minutes explain the mystery."

General Whiston glanced at the Commissioner of Police.

"It is for you to say, Sir Robert," he said. "To-night the affair is in your hands."

Sir Robert pondered the subject for a moment, then glanced at the detectives who stood behind John; with his hand he made a slow, significant gesture. John, who was standing at attention before the table, heard the detectives move away, and a moment later the door softly closed behind them.

He was alone with the Commissioner of Police and the General.

On his accusers' faces John read a stern and determined intention that the law should take its course, not the tortuous, long-drawn old law of pre-war days, but the swift justice which is meted out to traitors.

"You shall have three minutes in which to speak!" Sir Robert's voice smote John's ears.

Manton knew that if he held his peace and the law moved with its inexorable swiftness, he would by to-morrow have expiated the crime of another man. He was in another man's shoes. Innocently, he had taken up that other man's identity.

But he had not shouldered everything, he had not rendered himself liable for that other man's treachery. And yet, at the back of his mind, there was pity, even for Treves. He thought of the man's weakness, of his shattered nerves, of Manners's obvious power over him. Perhaps, even in uttering the truth to these two stern judges, he might put in a good word for Treves.

"The statement I have to make, gentlemen, is an amazing one."

"It will also have to be a brief one," retorted Sir Robert coldly.

"Well, out with it," interposed General Whiston.

John turned towards him.

"I wish to say, sir, that I am not Bernard Treves!"

A flash of anger lit in General Whiston's eyes.

"You say that, despite the fact that I am prepared to identify you as Bernard Treves."

"My statement," returned John, "is, I admit, an amazing one. Nevertheless, it is a fact, gentlemen. My name is Manton."

The Commissioner of Police pulled at his moustache.

"A statement of this kind," he said, "is ridiculous in presence of General Whiston, who knows you and recognises your handwriting in this letter." He leaned back in his chair and struck the letters that had been taken from John's pocket with the back of his hand. "These letters, taken from your person, this telegram addressed to you, and this letter conveying information to the enemy, are sufficient in themselves to identify you."

"There is nothing you wish to say, General?" asked Sir Robert of Whiston.

The General shook his head, and Sir Robert put his thumb on the bell-push at the corner of his desk.

John heard the whirr of a bell in the room beyond.

"I am prepared, sir," he said hurriedly, "to prove every word I say. My name is Manton, and I undertook to assume Treves's identity merely to please a friend who wished to help him."

"You are ready to give us the name of your friend, of course?" interposed General Whiston. He had been utterly unmoved by this statement of John's.

"His name is Gilbert, sir; Captain Gilbert, of Ryde, Isle of Wight."

General Whiston answered nothing; there was no softening in the harshness of his expression. For a moment he was silent. Then, with a glance at Sir Robert, he moved towards the door.

"Just a few minutes, Sir Robert," he said. "This is a matter easy of proof."

He passed out of the room. At the door, as he drew it open, John heard him speaking to two men outside.

"Sir Robert will be ready for you in five minutes," he was saying.

The door closed.

Sir Robert tapped his fingers upon the surface of his desk.

"You wish to affirm that Captain Gilbert is prepared to prove the truth of your statement?"

"I am sure he will be prepared to prove that my name is Manton," answered John.

In his long experience Sir Robert had come across many singular and dramatic events. The great police force of which he was the chief was dealing always in drama. In his experience he had interviewed every quality and degree of criminal, from affluent company promoters downward.

John's bearing and manner struck him as nothing unusual. John's statement that his was a case of mistaken identity, that Scotland Yard had for once made a mistake, meant nothing to the Police Commissioner. Such a statement was one of the commonest in his experience.

He felt no sympathy for John, and believing explicitly in his guilt, was determined to listen no further. He leaned forward and began to make rapid notes upon the writing pad.

Manton, in the meantime, stood motionless beyond the desk. Save for the movement of Sir Robert's pen, and the tick of a small travelling clock on Sir Robert's desk, no sound disturbed the heavy silence. Despite his calmness, John felt the tension grow upon him; the waiting seemed to draw itself out. He glanced at the clock, and observed that it was only a little after ten.

The whirl of events that night sped through his mind in rapid panorama, but of one thing he was certain—Manners and Captain Cherriton were either spies or traitors, and Scotland Yard in laying hands upon him, and allowing Cherriton to go, had made a mistake.

He had already guessed that General Whiston had gone to telephone Captain Gilbert. He recalled now the letter General Whiston had written to old Colonel Treves. The letter which said that he had done for Bernard Treves everything that was possible.

His mind then turned again to Gilbert. He wondered what the Captain would do when he heard of the extraordinary outcome of his visit to St. George's Square. He had gone there at Gilbert's own suggestion. He felt that the situation for himself at that moment was delicate in the extreme. But it was not yet fatal. A miscarriage of justice was impossible if Gilbert spoke up, as no doubt he would do. He knew that all Gilbert's sympathy for Bernard Treves would vanish the moment he heard to what depths that young man had descended. He recalled what Gilbert had said:

"Treves is afraid. He imagines that some one is watching him."

Then it suddenly occurred to John that at the back of Treves's mind there had been a subtle idea against himself. Treves had desired that he, John, should step into his guilty shoes and should not only wear those shoes, but should suffer for his crime.

"I stepped into far deeper water than I knew," mused John, and as the thought passed through his mind, the door opened and General Whiston re-entered.

The General walked behind John, then turned and looked keenly into his face.

"Treves," he said, "you will be examined again in the morning."

Sir Robert's finger was suspended over the bell upon his desk. In answer to his inquiring glance, General Whiston nodded.

Again John felt a man's hand laid on his shoulder, and for the second time a voice uttering polite words:

"This way, please!"

This time, however, there was no pause; he was led out into the corridor, with a tall, heavily-built man at his side and another walking behind him.

The door of Sir Robert's room closed with a soft click.

CHAPTER VI

The moment the door closed upon John, General Whiston flung himself into a chair beside Sir Robert's table. There was an expression on his face that puzzled the Police Commissioner.

"Well, Sir Robert," began the General, "it is an amazing thing, but Captain Gilbert corroborates our prisoner's statements entirely."

Sir Robert flashed a glance at the incriminating letters on the table.

"That's impossible!"

"Nevertheless, Gilbert, who is a very sound officer, corroborates every word this young man has said. I have ordered Gilbert to present himself here first thing in the morning."

Sir Robert was staring in utter bewilderment.

"You mean we have got the wrong man?"

"I don't know," answered the General, impatiently; "the thing is beyond my capacity. I've known this young blackguard for years. Only slightly, of course, but I would have sworn to him anywhere. Gilbert, however, tells me an extraordinary story. He says our prisoner is a thoroughly honest fellow, by the name of Manton. He gave me a minute history of the man, who was formerly at Scarthoe Head. I have ordered the adjutant from Scarthoe to report himself here to-morrow. We can then get to the bottom of this extraordinary tangle."

"But," protested Sir Robert, "these letters must be explained; and you have had this man watched for months."

"Precisely; that complicates matters enormously."

"Was Treves guilty of the crimes laid against him, or was this man guilty?" inquired Sir Robert.

The General shook his head in bewilderment.

"Don't ask me; I don't know," he said, "to-morrow will settle everything."

The night that followed was the longest that John had ever spent. What if by some awful mischance Captain Gilbert disowned him entirely? However, he could not think that of Gilbert. He was prepared to swear by the Captain's honesty.

A police officer called him early next morning. He dressed and was served with a satisfactory breakfast. A morning newspaper was brought to him, but at ten o'clock he was peremptorily summoned to present himself in Sir Robert's room. Under escort he made his way along various passages. The door was opened and he stepped into the room and stood at attention.

Sir Robert was not present. General Whiston stood at the window, and near him was a sleek-looking, smooth-haired, clean shaven man in a morning coat, well cut trousers and patent leather boots. John could feel the stranger's eyes steadily upon him.

Then Whiston turned from the window.

"Captain Gilbert," he said, "has been here. He has made certain statements on your behalf which are so far satisfactory."

A silence fell; the stranger moved to Sir Robert's desk, seated himself in Sir Robert's chair, and beckoned John to a chair opposite.

Dacent Smith was the head of a great branch of the Secret Intelligence Department, but there was no air of authority in his manner.

"Sit down, please," he said. His voice was smooth and agreeable. He glanced at the window, then again at John.

"Will you kindly tell me the name of your officer in command at Scarthoe Fort?"

John promptly gave him the name.

"How many men were in the fort?" The quiet gentleman, who possessed one of the subtlest brains in England, glanced at a slip of paper on his desk. He was putting John through an examination such as many a suspected person had failed to survive.

"One hundred and fifty, sir—eighty at the lower fort and seventy at the upper, exclusive of officers."

"Can you recollect the calibre of the guns?"

John gave the exact dimensions of the guns at both the lower and upper fort.

"Can you possibly recollect," inquired the other, "from your books, what store of six-inch ammunition there was?"

Fortunately John recollected the number of shells exactly.

"I see," commented the cross-examiner. "But your statement doesn't tally with my present knowledge."

"I am speaking of six weeks ago, sir; since then there would have been a heavy gun practice," John added promptly.

The elder gentleman leaned back in his chair.

"These are all details which a spy would make a great point of observing." He looked steadily into John's face, until John became conscious of nothing but his keen, grey eyes. They were kindly eyes, but the intensity of his glance was something that John had never before experienced. He looked back frankly into the elder man's face.

"I suppose they are, sir," he answered, "but they came to me in my ordinary course of work."

"How many fort candles were there in the storeroom?" asked the other, casually.

"Eight dozen, sir."

Dacent Smith nodded, as though satisfied.

"We will now come to another matter," he said. "You were educated in Germany?"

John admitted the fact.

"Have you been in Germany since your boyhood?"

"Never, sir."

"What is your opinion of Captain Gilbert?"

"I took a great liking to him."

"You trusted him when he asked you to assume another man's identity?"

"Absolutely, sir."

"So do I," said Dacent Smith, suddenly changing his tone. "I trust him absolutely. I will only try your patience just one moment longer." He pushed a clean slip of paper towards John. "Would you mind writing on that these three words, 'Deceive,' 'parallel,' and 'nursery.' Just scribble them quickly, without care."

John wrote the words and handed them across the table. The elder man took the sheet and immediately compared it with Treves's incriminating letter, and a pile of other letters in Treves's handwriting, which lay beside him.

He glanced up at the General, who stood near the window.

"The handwriting is totally unlike, General. Moreover, our young friend here can spell the words, whereas, from letters supplied us by Gilbert, Treves could not." He turned again and looked at John. Then he broke into a smile that John found charming.

"Well, Manton," he said, "you have come through the ordeal excellently. But as a matter of formality you must be identified both by Captain Gilbert and your adjutant from Scarthoe Head."

"Thank you, sir," answered John. "I am sorry to have caused so much trouble."

"No, not at all," protested the elder man. "Your desire for adventure placed you in a very nasty position. But such trouble as you have caused us may yet be turned to good account."

John hesitated a moment, then ventured:

"If I may, sir, I would like to make a statement in regard to the man Manners, at 208, St. George's Square, I am certain he is a spy, sir—a German spy."

"My dear Manton," said Dacent Smith, laying his hands on the desk, "we know that already."

"And the other man," continued John, "Cherriton. I don't believe he is all he pretends to be."

At the mention of Cherriton the lightness of mood vanished from the elder man.

"What name?" he inquired.

"Captain Cherriton, the man with the fair hair, who was in the taxi with me. The police officers allowed him to escape."

Beyond the table the great man of the Secret Service who had been cross-examining him, eased his spectacles. For, without knowing it, John had made a statement which aroused all his interest.

"This afternoon, Manton," he said, "you must come to my room. It seems to me," he continued, "you can be of very great use to my department."

"What is your department, sir?" asked John politely.

The elder man smiled.

"I think we need not give it a name, Manton. But perhaps you can guess. Perhaps, indeed, you are destined to make further acquaintance with my department and with your friend, Mr. Manners." He paused a moment.

"Captain Gilbert tells me that you wish to rejoin the army?"

"That is so, sir," answered John.

"An excellent intention," continued Dacent Smith. "But it has occurred to me that there is other work of national importance which may suit you better." He glanced at Whiston. "With General Whiston's aid I think we can arrange that you do not appear in uniform for some time. Another thing Captain Gilbert reported to me," he went on, quietly, "is that you are a young man with a taste for adventure."

John smiled.

Dacent Smith extended his hand in farewell. "You are a free man, Manton. But I shall expect you to come to my rooms at 286, Jermyn Street at three o'clock this afternoon." He gave John a card. "You will give this to my servant at the door."

The card read: "Mr. Dacent Smith, Savile Club"—that and nothing more.

* * * * *

At the time when John was undergoing his cross-examination at the hands of the great Dacent Smith, Manners and Captain Cherriton were seated in a back room at a house in Hampstead. Cherriton, who had read half a dozen morning papers, glanced at his companion.

"There is no word in any of them about our friend Treves."

"There was scarcely time for an announcement," Manners answered. "Perhaps it will be in the evening papers."

The two men waited till evening, but still the papers contained no line about Treves's capture. Cherriton was still not sure on what charge Treves had been arrested. If the charge had been an ordinary one, other than treason, there would already have been an account of some kind.

"We must find out some other way than through the papers."

"I have an excellent way of finding out," observed Manners.

"Well, put it into execution at once," returned his superior.

Manners looked at his watch.

"That way won't do until after six o'clock. After six o'clock, Herr Baron, I will take you into the presence of the most beautiful girl in England."

"I do not admire English beauty," answered Rathenau, caustically.

Manners lifted his hands.

"Ah, but this one, she is wonderful!"

"How will she know about Treves, any more than we do?"

Manners looked across at him.

"Leave that to me," he said, "I can assure you she will know." He took out his pocket-book and looked up an address. "If we go now," he said, "we shall get there a little after six, in time to interview the lady on her return from business."

Half an hour later a taxi sped along Kentish Town Road and turned into Bowles Avenue, Camden Town. The street was a particularly respectable one, with windows and doors freshly painted. Judging from the cleanliness of the curtains and the brightness of the door handles, the inhabitants of this thoroughfare each took a pride in his residence.

The taxi containing Manners and Cherriton drew to a halt before the door of No. 65. Cherriton paid the driver and dismissed him. The two men crossed the pavement, and Manners lifted the bright brass knocker. Three times Manners knocked.

He was that day attired with particular smartness in a grey, soft felt hat, a grey frock-coat, and light fawn linen gaiters. The Baron was wearing a navy-blue suit, made for him at the Army and Navy Stores. He also wore a grey felt hat, set well back on his head. In his hip pocket he carried a Mauser pistol, but this was always part of his apparel, as it were. Manners carried other little aids to his personal safety. But upon that evening their mission was pacific. They had only a desire to ask a certain lady if she had news of Treves.

Three times Manners applied the knocker; then footsteps came rapidly along the passage. The door was opened by a tall, brown-haired girl, wearing a white blouse and blue skirt, both of which Cherriton noticed were well cut. The girl's complexion was not pale, yet tended towards pallor. Her cheeks were softly rounded, her chin small, yet firm. Her eyes were grey, frank and steady in gaze. Cherriton, noticing her long, curved lashes and finely-arched brows, conceded that here, for once, he was looking upon a truly beautiful English woman.

"Good evening," Manners was saying. He had lifted his hat with extreme politeness.

"Good evening," responded the girl, looking with puzzled eyes from one man to the other.

"You have no doubt forgotten me," Manners spoke again, and then a faint recognition came to the girl's eyes.

"Oh, not at all," she said. "Will you come in?" She led the way to a little parlour, a bright little apartment, where she lived alone. She had made it as pretty and comfortable as possible with her small means.

The two Germans entered the room, and Manners closed the door. After some preliminary conversation he broached the subject of his visit, but artfully and cunningly hiding it in a veil of words.

"I have some business, madam," he said, "with"—he paused a moment—"with Mr. Treves. I have lost his address; I wonder if you could give it me?"

The girl looked at him a moment; an expression of reserve came into her face.

"I am afraid I cannot oblige you," she said.

"You have heard from him lately?"

The girl hesitated a moment, and pushed back the fine brown hair from her brow.

"Not lately," she answered.

"You will be seeing him again shortly, no doubt?" pursued Manners, smiling amicably.

"I don't know," said the girl. "I am afraid," she said, "I cannot give you his address, and if that is all you wish to see me about——" She rose quite politely, but firmly. And as she did so some one lifted the knocker of the front door and smote it thrice.

Manners started visibly.

"You have visitors?" he asked quickly.

"I don't know who it can be," said the girl. "I am expecting no one."

Manners sprang up and stood between her and the door. He looked into her face as she came towards him, then moved politely away. He felt that her candid eyes held no secrets.

When the door had closed he turned to Cherriton.

"She has heard nothing of him; she knows no more than we do."

"She is a beautiful woman, I'll admit," said Cherriton, who had been deep in thought. He raised his strong, supple hand and pointed towards the door. "Just open that," he said quietly, "and see who it is who is coming to visit her."

Manners, with his usual swiftness of step and dexterity of movement, approached the door and noiselessly drew it open. Quietly he put his head out and looked along the passage. Then he drew back and gently closed the door. His face, when he turned towards Cherriton, was deathly white.

"Who is it?" demanded Cherriton, who had come swiftly to his feet.

"Bernard Treves!" answered Manners, moistening his lips with his tongue. The thought that Treves had betrayed them blazed through his mind.

In an instant Cherriton sprang to the window and peered furtively up and down the street.

"He's alone," he said, with a note of relief in his voice.

"Gott in Himmel!" exclaimed Manners under his breath. "How did he get here?"

"Either escaped or acquitted," answered Cherriton, curtly. "Our business," he went on swiftly, under his breath, "is to express great delight when we see him. In the meantime I'll compose myself with a cigarette."

"I don't know why his coming back like this should make me feel so nervous," mused Manners. "I am more psychic than you are, Herr Baron."

Cherriton looked at the big, fat figure in the chair opposite him. He curled his lip in faint contempt.

Meanwhile John Manton, having knocked at the door of 65, Bowles Avenue, found, to his astonishment, that that door was opened by a girl of most extreme beauty. He had come there under orders from Dacent Smith to discover the identity of the sender of the telegram signed "Elaine." He had been given many instructions during that afternoon, but as he stood upon the threshold of No. 65 a swift admiration leapt into his eyes for the girl who confronted him on the doorstep.

"May I come in?" asked John.

"Of course," answered the girl. To his amazement, she seized his hand as she spoke. "Oh, how long you have been!" she said. She drew him into the hall and closed the door. Silence and caution were the parts John had been ordered to play. He did not withdraw his hand from her warm grasp. "You never came, you never wrote," continued the girl.

"I wasn't able to," John answered, truthfully.

"And yet I told you, Bernard," she went on, looking up into his face—he was glad that the light in the hall was not intense—" and yet I told you, Bernard, that if you confessed everything to your father he would forgive."

"He has forgiven a great deal," answered Manton, vaguely. He looked down at her—a little colour had come into her cheeks, and, as for her eyes, he had never seen eyes which evoked in him so much admiration. At that moment Manners put his face out at the door of the inner room; then swiftly withdrew it.

"Who's that?" John asked, quickly.

"It's a man who has come to see you, Bernard; but before you go in I want to say"—she laid her hand softly on the lapel of John's coat—"I want to say, Bernard, that I forgive you—everything." She was smiling at him, a smile of wonderful beauty. "After all, Bernard," she whispered, "I am your wife, and it is a wife's privilege to forgive."

"Yes," answered John. He could think of nothing else to say. Here was the most beautiful woman he had ever seen, holding his hand warmly in hers, and telling him she forgave him everything. The situation would have been delightful if he had only been the other man!

"Bernard, for my sake, you will try, won't you?" She paused, and this time he was obliged to frame some sort of answer.

"I'll do the best I can," he said, lamely, then added, to turn the subject, "Who is your visitor?"

"It's Mr. Manners, the big, stout man you brought here a long while ago. He has a friend with him, a younger man."

"Captain Cherriton?" asked John, lowering his voice.

The girl nodded.

"They came to ask where you were, and wanted your address, but I remembered what you told me and would not give it."

Then for the first time John looked keenly into her face. He had never seen her in his life before, and at any moment she might recognise him. But even with that danger hovering over him he could not help wondering if she loved Treves.

"Come, Bernard"; she took his hand in hers. "You must see your friends and get rid of them."

John walked with her along the narrow passage. At the door of the parlour the girl halted.

"When they are gone," she whispered, "I have whole heaps of things to tell you."

She pushed open the door and followed John into the room.

Manners, who was seated at the hearth, sprang up and rushed towards Manton.

"Come in! Come in!" he cried, drawing John forward. "It does my eyes good to see you again, eh, Captain Cherriton?"

Baron Rathenau, who had also risen, enclosed Manton's fingers in his hard, cold grip. "I, too, am glad to see you," he said, fixing his eyes steadily on John's.

CHAPTER VII

Things were not as they seemed. The situation in the little parlour was delicate in the extreme, and as John's gaze passed from the fat countenance of Manners to the cold forcefulness of Cherriton, whose strong hand but a moment ago gripped his own in greeting, he told himself that if he could creep from that situation with credit he could escape from anything. Both Cherriton's and Manners's welcome rang false. They were not pleased to see him. They were startled and puzzled, and Cherriton, at least, was more than puzzled. John knew that whatever occurred between himself and these two men must occur privately. Moreover, there was a second danger, which he knew to be ever present. The light in the bright little parlour was quite strong. The fact that he had dexterously placed his back to the window might not serve him for more than a few minutes. What if Elaine Treves suddenly discovered her mistake?

Somehow the teeming possibilities of the moment gave steadiness to John's nerves. He thought of a plan, and put it into execution on the instant.

"Elaine," he said—he used her name for the first time, and as he spoke he took her slender hand in his grasp—"I have business to discuss with Captain Cherriton and Mr. Manners."

"I promise we shall not keep your husband more than a few minutes," intervened Cherriton. "Yes, old Manwitz for once is right," he thought; "here is an Englishwoman possessed of beauty."

He made across the room, intending politely to hold open the door for Elaine to pass out. John, however, was quicker, and as he held the door wide Elaine lifted her grey-blue, beautiful eyes and searched his. Her expression, John thought, was one of surprise—surprise at what?

He closed the door, and instantly Cherriton laid a hand on his shoulder.

"Well," he demanded, "what happened to you last night."

"You were present at the beginning of the happening," returned John.

"The four men were police officers, were they not?"

"Detectives from Scotland Yard. They took me there, cross-examined me, and discovered that a mistake had been made."

Manners drew in a deep breath of relief.

"Ah—a—mistake!" he exclaimed.

Cherriton, who was busy with a cigarette, looked at John under his brows. He had retreated to the hearth, and-was leaning with his back against the mantelshelf. "A very unpleasant incident for you, eh, Treves?" he inquired.

"Very," responded John.

"And my overcoat—my very excellent summer overcoat—what happened to that?"

From the moment of John's appearance in the room he had been leading up to this question—had his overcoat been searched, had Treves's incriminating letter been discovered? It occurred to him that if John, immediately after his arrest, had established his identity no search of his overcoat was probable. And yet caution was bred in him. His deeply subtle mind prompted him to probe the matter to its depths, and at the same time to convey no suspicion of his anxiety to John.

"Cherriton, your overcoat is quite safe," John said quietly. "I left it on your behalf in the cloak-room at Charing Cross Station." He put his hand into his pocket and drew out the ticket. Cherriton took it from his extended fingers.

"I am particularly obliged to you, Treves," he said. "I have a special fondness for that overcoat? So the Scotland Yard people were for once mistaken."

"Entirely," said John, with truth; "they mistook me for another man."

"Were you made acquainted with the charges against the real person?" probed Cherriton.

"He was wanted for misappropriation of military funds."

Both Manners and Cherriton exhibited increasing interest in the unknown culprit.

"You heard the person's name?"

"His name was John Manton. He was a sergeant at Scarthoe Fort."

"That is in the Isle of Wight?"

"Yes," John answered; "that accounts for them seizing me—they traced me from the Isle of Wight."

Cherriton and Manners exchanged glances; neither man felt at all comfortable. But Cherriton felt that he had pressed the matter enough. He suddenly assumed his air of bland amiability, but it sat ill on him.

"Well, Manners," he exclaimed, looking at his confrère, "you were mistaken—you assumed that our dear friend Treves had escaped, and were in a great fluster of anxiety on his behalf; whereas the little misfortune that occurred to him was all a mistake."

"All a mistake," repeated John.

"And now, I think," Cherriton remarked, taking up his grey felt hat and denting it carefully with his hand, "I think we will not keep you from your wife any longer."

For the second time that day he gripped John's hand in his, and John, looking back into his cold blue eyes, felt the steady, penetrating power of Cherriton's gaze.

"Here was a man," thought John, "used to command—a man possessed of exceptional powers of mind and physique. You are a daring fellow," thought John; "a subtle and cunning worker of evil, but for once in your life you are mistaken. I am not the man you think, either in name or in character."

Then a singular thing happened to John. On the very instant when his fingers slid away from the other's touch a flaming instinct ran through him—a passionate impulse to leap upon the other's throat and squeeze the life out of him came upon him as a definite and conscious wish. Though he had known Cherriton only for two days, he felt a great hate swirl up in him against this serenely poised, potent enemy. Against Manners, whom he knew, and whom Dacent Smith knew to be a spy, he felt nothing of this. That afternoon he had been instructed well and thoroughly by Dacent Smith. Dacent Smith had talked much with him, drawing him out, subtly examining him as to his aspirations and his powers. And gradually, during the talk of that afternoon, Smith had come to realise that in John Manton he possessed a keen and highly-wrought weapon. Here was a young man who had fought for his country, who was willing to fight for it again in any circumstances. And long before the end of that interview the chief of a great branch of the Secret Service had laid his hand on John's arm.

"Manton," he had explained, "you were wasted as a sergeant at Scarthoe Head. There are big things awaiting you. You have fought the enemy in the open; from to-day you shall fight him in the dark. You will find him more tricky and subtle and dangerous than he was in France"—then he had paused a moment, looking at John. "Accidents sometimes happen, Manton, my boy!"

"One must be prepared for accidents," John had answered, quietly.

"I have lost two or three splendid fellows during the past year. I am telling you this," the chief resumed, "that you may remain always on your guard. Fate or Providence has placed you in a wonderful position with the aid of your acquaintance, Manwitz. I have the complete dossier in that cupboard over there." He pointed to a cabinet against the wall. "Your acquaintance with Manwitz gives you a splendid start. You will use it to acquire such information as will be useful to the Department, but in the first place you must discover all there is to know about the amiable and unexpected Cherriton. We shall at the same time be working to discover things from our end."

John thought of this conversation as Manners and Cherriton took their departure.

"You will come and see me again soon, will you not?" Manners had remarked at the moment of departure. He looked cunningly and meaningly into John's eyes. In effect he had been saying: "You will come and see me again immediately those cocaine tabloids have been consumed." Bernard Treves's craving for cocaine, both Manners and Cherriton knew, held that young man as by bonds of steel.

"I'll come again soon," John had answered, slipping the new address Manners had given him into his waistcoat pocket. He watched the two men pass into the street, then closed the door, and re-entered the empty parlour. The daintiness, the cleanliness, and the perfect taste of the little apartment had already won his appreciation. He wondered when Elaine Treves would descend from above, and what would happen then. Until now only a few fleeting words had passed between himself and the beautiful girl who was Treves's wife. What was to happen now in the intimacy that would ensue when she re-entered the room?

John was smoking one of Treves's cigarettes, with his back against the mantelshelf, when the door opened and Elaine quietly entered.

"So you have got rid of them, Bernard?"

She looked at him, he thought, a little shyly, with something of reserve in her glance. He watched her as she crossed to a chintz-covered wicker arm-chair, with its back to the window. At her side was a small work-table. She took out a needle, a thread, and various bits of coloured silk. A silence drew itself out that became awkward. John moved from one foot to another; then he made an effort to pick up the thread of what he believed to be Treves's life in relation to the girl who was so industriously sewing, with bowed head.

"I am sorry I wasn't able to come in answer to your wire."

"I think, Bernard, you might have answered it," returned Elaine, quietly, without raising her head.

"Well, you know, I was not able to. Circumstances did not permit me to answer it."

"I was afraid of that."

She suddenly looked up at him with an expression of hopelessness in her fine eyes.

"Bernard," she said, "sometimes I think you will never, never be able to keep your promise to me!"

"Why not?" John asked, feeling his way cautiously. He could see that she was stirred, that something had moved her deeply. He was more than ever assured of this when she rose, stood before him, and looked steadily into his face.

"Oh! Bernard, if you could only, only fight!"

Under the close scrutiny of her eyes John felt extraordinarily uncomfortable.

"Other people have fought and have conquered," went on the girl. "Why should not you? Sometimes," she went on, "you are quite as you should be, just as you are now—the man who once won my love. And then, again——" She broke off.

Accidentally John had put his fingers in his waistcoat pocket. He felt the contact of the little bottle of cocaine tabloids Manners had forced upon him. He had guessed that Elaine was referring to Treves's enslavement to this drug, and he drew out the bottle, holding it in the palm of his hand. He saw the girl look at the tabloids with an expression of loathing; then something seemed to pass through her that drew her rigid and erect.

"I wonder," she said, "in our very short months together, how often you have promised, have sworn, to give it up!" Her manner suddenly changed again, and she held out her hand imploringly. "I wonder, Bernard, if you have the courage to give them to me?"

"Certainly," John said, "I will give them to you!"

He unscrewed the top of the little bottle, and poured the white tabloids one after another into the palm of her hand. She looked at them for a moment, then into his face. John was still standing with his back towards the small fire. He felt the girl's hand on his arm; she was thrusting him aside. A moment later she had flung the tabloids into the red embers, and before John knew it she was holding his hand in hers, looking up into his face.

"Bernard," she said, in a low voice, "I believe—I believe you have changed! I think strength is coming to you—you will win yet!"

"Yes," John answered, "I swear I'll win."

The words came from him almost without volition, and at the same moment an instinct came to him that matters were drifting too far. He turned the conversation with a laugh, and for some minutes they were discussing general topics. He helped her to prepare the supper, going into the little kitchen and bringing out plates and dishes, under her direction.

Daylight faded, much to John's relief. They took supper together in the little parlour; John noticed how deft and womanly she was.

"Our friend Treves is a lucky man, if he only knew it," thought he.

"I am afraid there is nothing to drink, Bernard."

"That doesn't trouble me," John answered; then saw her pause with the teapot uplifted in frank surprise. "I mean," said John, striving to recover the situation, "if you haven't got it, I don't mind."

The meal passed off in an air of general cheerfulness. Elaine's little clock struck nine, and when the meal was at an end John took the seat opposite Elaine and her little work-basket. She busied herself with her fancy-work, and occasionally John caught her eyes resting upon him with a thoughtful and somewhat puzzled expression. He strove to gather from her manner what her feelings really were towards her husband. "She can't love him," thought John; "he's too much of a brute and a waster for that. And yet women are strange creatures."

Elaine had been silent for some minutes, but presently she spoke, uttering something that appeared to have dwelt for long in her mind.

"Bernard," she said, "I am not so hard as you think, but I am sure the way I am acting is the only right way." She paused.

"I am sure it is the right way," answered John, looking into her candid, girlish face.

He noticed again the flicker of surprise. He was always making false steps. The situation was difficult beyond everything he had experienced. Dacent Smith had impressed upon him the importance of tact and finesse. Here was a situation thrust upon him requiring abundance of both.

"You seem to have changed your point of view?"

"Well——" John began, cautiously.

"You were so violent with me," interposed Elaine.

"There was no intention on my part to be anything of the sort towards you," John answered.

He wondered what Treves had done, what Treves had said. He began to experience pleasure in the situation; he began to wonder what was to happen next. But very soon after that the clock struck ten.

Elaine put away her needlework and rose somewhat abruptly.

"You must go now, Bernard."

John looked at her for a moment in surprise.

"Oh, yes," he said, "I see—of course."

Then Elaine crossed the hearthrug and laid her slender hands on the lapels of his coat.

"To-night, Bernard," she said, "I have almost felt as if you were your old self again."

"Thanks," answered John, awkwardly; his position at that moment was awkward and utterly false; he was like a man who walks blindly on the edge of a precipice. He wondered if she was about to kiss him, or if she expected him to salute her in that way. This doubt was still upon him when Elaine reached up and touched his cheeks lightly with her lips. There was no passion, no love—nothing but a sort of sisterly affection in the embrace, but John was glad when it was over. If she had been a less beautiful woman the situation would have been so very much easier.

Elaine accompanied him along the passage, handing him his hat and stick as they went. In the darkness at the door, as they shook hands, John felt that the impression of her fingers was warmer and infinitely more cordial that the greeting she had given him upon his arrival. He could see her face only dimly. She had seemed surprised that he had departed so easily; he felt that he must say something, utter some remark that possibly might have been uttered by Bernard Treves.

"I am sorry to have to go," he said.

Then Elaine's voice came to him quietly in the darkness. There was a new note in her words.

"You must come again—soon, Bernard."

The door closed softly, and she was gone.

CHAPTER VIII

Dacent Smith, busy in his luxurious bachelor apartments in Jermyn Street, was going through a pile of documents, all relating directly or indirectly to the multitudinous activities of his department. He had continued his work for, perhaps, half an hour after his brief luncheon interval when the man-servant entered and announced a visitor. Dacent Smith's man-servant was discretion itself. He looked like a walking secret, and was a big, pallid man, with high cheek-bones and a grim, hard mouth. He was devoted body and soul to Dacent Smith, and no tortures ever devised could have ever wormed a word from him of his master's activities.

"Well, Grew?"

"Mr. Treves, sir."

"I'll see Mr. Treves at once."

Grew, the man-servant, departed, and a minute later John was ushered into the apartment.

Dacent Smith greeted him with brief cordiality, then indicated a chair.

"Well, Treves," he said, with a smile, "what is your news?"

"There is very little to tell you, sir, so far. The person who wrote that telegram signed 'Elaine,' is Bernard Treves's wife!"

Dacent Smith lifted his eyebrows; a twinkle of humour was detectable in his expression.

"What happened?"

"She was quite deceived, sir!"

"A piquant situation," smiled Dacent Smith.

"Very!" answered John, seriously.

"You see how quickly you find yourself in deep waters, my friend." Dacent Smith was looking at him with an expression of raillery in his keen eyes. Nevertheless he was saying inwardly: "I like you, Manton; you are a man after my own heart. There is a good deal of humour, as well as courage and intelligence, hidden behind that good-looking face of yours."

"Now, Manton," he said, "tell me about Manwitz. Are you in touch with him again?"

"I have his address, sir, and an invitation to go to him whenever I wish—that is, whenever the cocaine habit seizes me violently."

"I see," remarked the elder man. "Whenever the craving is violently upon you, you go to Manwitz and he supplies your want?"

John nodded.

"It is amazing," went on the chief, "the way these fellows manage to secure these drugs. Perhaps, later, Manton, you will be able to enlighten us upon that little matter; but in the meantime Cherriton is your chief responsibility."

"Cherriton showed a particular anxiety about his overcoat, sir, containing Treves's letter."

John gave a brief report of the events of the previous evening, and Dacent Smith made one or two notes on a slip of paper marked M. 15.

When John had finished, the elder man leaned back in his chair.

"It will take you some days—perhaps weeks," he said, "to get the hang of things with us. At present you are to play a lone hand. There is a chain of German emissaries working against us—some traitors and some spies—who pass information from all our dockyards to London, and thence to Germany. I want you to get into contact with one of the links of this chain—any link will serve our purpose. You must do all you can to keep the confidence of Cherriton and Manwitz. If they set you upon any task, carry it through absolutely. If papers or documents are given to you to be delivered elsewhere, don't fail to act absolutely according to their instructions. If you can get a sight of the documents, and memorise them during transit, do so, of course. This applies to letters or documents which may be handed to you by strangers—other German spies. Do you understand the importance of all this?"

John assured him that he did.

"It appears to me, sir," he added, "that by doing this I shall myself become a sort of link in their chain."

The great man looked at him with eyes of approbation.

"Exactly," he responded; "that is what you will be. Information is leaking out of England day by day, hour by hour—rippling along these chains of which I speak."

Half an hour later, John took his departure from the chief's sumptuous bachelor apartments. He had learned many things that amazed him, and one of these things, which filled him with fury and loathing, was that there were indeed traitors in unexpected places, that there were British-born people, few, but active, who were willing to sell their country into the power of the enemy.

"I hope it won't be my destiny to run across one of these gentry," thought John; "for even the chief himself would find it hard to make me keep my hands off him."

And yet that night, in a few brief hours, he was to find himself in contact with just such a traitor.

Reaching the corner of Jermyn Street, after his departure from Dacent Smith's rooms, John hailed a taxi and drove to Hampstead Tube at Tottenham Court Road. Here he took train to Hampstead, and made his way towards the address Manwitz had given him. The address was Cherriton's, and when John arrived there he found that the unamiable captain occupied a suite of rooms in a large, old-fashioned house near the Heath. The house was maintained by a retired butler, who received John at the door. The butler ascended to a handsomely furnished, spacious drawing-room on the first floor. Here Manners was seated at a grand piano, and Cherriton, deep in an arm-chair, was reading an English Pacifist pamphlet.

"Is that a telegram?" asked Cherriton, as the door opened.

"No, sir," answered the man; "it is a Mr. Bernard Treves called in to see Mr. Manners."

Two minutes later John stepped into the room.

"Did you get your overcoat?" he asked, shaking hands with Cherriton.

The fair man nodded.

"Many thanks," he said.

He had spent the earlier part of that day inquiring into the existence, status, and habits of John Manton. He was still not quite satisfied as to his visitor's release from Scotland Yard, and at that very moment he was awaiting a telegram from the Isle of Wight which would either increase his suspicions or remove them altogether. In the meantime, he preferred to trust John to a certain extent.

"You have come at an opportune time, Treves," he said.

John was seated now, and this time accepted a cigarette from the Baron's case. Suddenly, Rathenau looked him full in the face.

"You and I, Treves," he said, "have both been treated damnably!"

"Damnably!" answered John, wondering what was coming. The other continued:

"But there comes a time, Treves, eh, when the worm turns? You turned and I turned! You cast in your lot with our friend Manners, who knows how to appreciate loyalty! Manners," he continued, in the ironical tone that was his general habit, "fat and stupid and lazy as he is, is always willing to pay for loyalty!"

John looked into the Baron's thick-skinned, pallid face, into the steel-like eyes, and smiled inwardly. A pause came. John leaned forward.

"Cherriton," he said, "what are you leading up to?"

Manners, from the piano-stool, spoke up.

"Ah, you see, Cherriton—he is sharp, our friend Treves. Tell him what you want, Cherriton, straight out!"

He rose, came, for all his great bulk, softly across the room. He laid a fat hand on John's shoulder and looked down at him.

"Bernard," he half whispered, "you shall have all you want of everything. Money—and the other thing. I want you to throw in your lot with me as the good Captain has done. That note," he continued, still in the half whisper, "you gave me in regard to the sailing of the Polydor was well appreciated in certain circles."

"I am glad to hear that," John answered.

"That was good service," continued Manners, "but there are bigger things afoot." He paused a moment, then walked round John, and seated himself on a sofa quite near. "You have heard, no doubt," he continued, "of the Imperator——"

"You mean the new Grey Star liner?"

Manners nodded.

"A monster ship—a wonder ship! Forty-eight thousand tons."

He uttered the words slowly, rolling them unctuously over his tongue.

"Nearly as big as the Vaterland," John said, and for the life of him he could not help looking across at Cherriton's face.

But Cherriton was quick as lightning.

"The Vaterland?" he repeated. "You mean the German ship?"

John returned his attention to Manners. He could feel the web closing about him—the web in which Dacent Smith had ordered him to entangle himself.

"The Imperator," said Manners, "is to sail one day quite soon, but your Admiralty has grown doubly cunning of late. As yet we know not either her port of departure or the hour of departure!"

John noticed that the fat man's tones deepened as he spoke; excitement gleamed in his eyes. He leaned forward and laid a fat hand on Bernard's knee.

"Treves, my boy, I trust you—eh?"

"Certainly!" answered John, truthfully. "I want you to trust me."

"Good!" exclaimed Manners, uttering the word thickly in his throat. "Now, you will understand Cherriton and I cannot appear in certain places, but with you—it is different with you—eh?"

"Quite," said John. "I can appear anywhere without suspicion."

Cherriton, who had remained silent, again took control of the situation.

"What Manners and I want you to do," he said, "is to stay a few days at the Savoy Hotel. A Dutch gentleman is giving up Room 104C. You are to take that room, and stay at the hotel at Manners's expense."

"Thank you," said John.

"There will be no need for you to stint yourself. What is more, you will have no duties whatever to perform!"

John lifted his eyebrows in genuine surprise.

"I don't quite see what help I can be in that case!"

"We are hoping that the matter will resolve itself," said Cherriton.

"Yes—yes!" intervened Manners, "everything will resolve itself beautifully. All you have to do now, my dear boy, is to say that you accept the——"

"The invitation," intercepted Cherriton.

John thought there was nothing easier in the world than to accept an invitation to stay, free of expense, at a first-class hotel, and with no duties to perform. He said as much to Manners, and two nights later found him the occupant of the room 1046, a delightful Louis Seize bedroom overlooking the Embankment. He had spent a day and a night at the hotel, and no incident whatever had occurred. On the evening of the second night, however, after dinner, John seated himself in the foyer and ordered coffee and cigarettes.

Presently, in the great crowd moving, laughing and talking near him, John observed a politician who at various periods in the past had loomed importantly in the public eye.

"He is even more ugly than his photographs," thought John, watching the important personage move among his friends. John did not like Beecher Monmouth's smile; altogether he disliked the man on the instant, and was the more astonished to notice that a strikingly beautiful woman of thirty, wearing a glittering diamond necklace and diamond ear-rings, moved towards him and slipped her arm through his. The woman wore a deeply decollété evening dress of a shimmering silk that looked to John now green and now blue. He noticed her flash a smile into Beecher Monmouth's face. He saw the politician put her hand into his. Then recollection came to John. The woman was Beecher Monmouth's wife, a beautiful woman thirty years his junior, who had appeared from nowhere and married him.

"She certainly is a beautiful woman," thought John. "A case of Beauty and the Beast!"

Then, to his utter amazement, Mrs. Beecher Monmouth's eyes met his. She slid her arm from her husband's, and made her way quickly through the crowd to John. He felt his heart-beat quicken. A moment later Mrs. Beecher Monmouth was holding out her hand towards him. She flashed a smile into his face.

"My dear Mr. Treves," she said, in a voice that was low and intimate, "I have been looking for you all the evening!"

A moment later she was shaking hands with John.

"I must fly now," she added, "but you must come and see me to-morrow—six o'clock."

A moment later she was hurrying back towards her husband, her gown shimmering and gleaming as she went. There was something in the palm of John's hand—something that had passed from Mrs. Beecher Monmouth to himself.

Holding his hand below the table and free from observation, John saw that the something Mrs. Beecher Monmouth had passed into his hand was a slip of paper on which was pencilled: "Imperator—three o'clock to-morrow. Route 28."

John was conscious of a quite definite thrill. His nerve was of the best; he had accepted the momentous slip of paper without any outward sign of disturbance. Indeed, he had smiled back into Mrs. Beecher Monmouth's eyes in a manner that had won that lady's sincerest approbation. Nevertheless, he was not inwardly calm. He felt that fate, or destiny, had seized him suddenly in its relentless grip. The slip of paper was still in his right hand, concealed beneath the level of the table. For some minutes he drew at his cigarette, then, carefully taking out the pocket-book, laid the slip in its leaves, and replaced the book in the inner breast pocket of his coat. For some minutes longer he retained his seat, leaning back in the delicate gilt chair. His gaze wandered among the brilliant and fashionable crowd moving about him. The gentle murmur of music mingled still with the chatter of voices, and twenty feet away he caught the gleam of Mrs. Beecher Monmouth's ear-rings, the scintillation of her superb diamond necklace. She was talking to her yellow-skinned and unprepossessing husband, but her attention was entirely and solely fixed upon John.

Their eyes met, and John was obliged to concede, for the second time, that she was a woman of exceptional beauty. The art of her coiffeur, and, possibly, the art of her complexion expert, had wrought its best for her. Nevertheless, she would have stood out among any assemblage of young and prepossessing women. Her husband quite visibly adored her, and every word she condescended to transmit to him was received with a quick, responsive smile on his part.

John was thinking rapidly, wondering and speculating. Was it possible that Beecher Monmouth knew of the existence of the little slip of paper that reposed in his pocket-book? Beecher Monmouth, who had sat on numerous committees, who had more than once stood in the running for an under-secretaryship? The thing seemed utterly incredible!

As these things flashed through John's mind, realisation slowly came to him that Mrs. Beecher Monmouth was observing him with close intensity, under slightly lowered lids.

John rose, and as he did so the lady flashed a brilliant smile towards him—an intimate, understanding smile, full of meaning.

"I wish I knew what you meant," thought John, as he made his way through the throng out towards the cloak-room.

The circulating door received him, and he passed out into the dim light of the Strand. There was a crowd, as always at that hour, and a young man who followed closely at his heels found difficulty in keeping him in sight.

John was burning once more to look at the information Mrs. Beecher Monmouth had conveyed to him. But caution forbade anything of the sort. He was determined that this, his first swim in deep waters, should achieve a successful issue. His chief desire in life was to make good in Dacent Smith's eyes, and, moreover, obeying his chief's instructions, he had already indelibly impressed upon his memory the portentous sentence: "Imperator—three o'clock to-morrow. Route 28."

The word "treachery" floated into his mind, and filled him with rage. Until now he had been outside—one of the public. But to-night the curtain had been drawn aside. He felt himself engaged in the secret fight which is for ever taking place beneath the surface—the fight between our own secret service and the spies and traitors in the pay of the other nations.

At Hampstead, John emerged from the Tube and made his way through the darkness of Well Walk. Presently he turned to the left, through an alley, crossed a square of shabby-looking houses, and ascended a further closely-built, narrow street, leading towards Cherriton's residence.

The young man who had followed him from the Savoy was still in his wake. At this point, however, he apparently ceased his pursuit, and vanished up a side alley.

John, who had been aware of footsteps for some minutes, halted and looked behind him. The road was empty, and the suspicion that had been growing on him vanished. Nevertheless, he laid a hand on his hip pocket, assured himself that he was prepared for eventualities and moved forward again.

"I'll give this nefarious bit of news to Cherriton, then hop down to Dacent Smith and report the fact as quickly as I can," thought John.

He reached the top of Christ Church Road and paused to recollect which turning was the right one. At that moment some one moved in the shadow of the church railings near him, and before John could turn his head a doubled fist smote him heavily. The attack was so sudden, unexpected and swift that before he could in any way retaliate a second blow had been delivered.

His assailant leaped through the air, clasped two strong hands round his neck, and fell into the road, still gripping for all he was worth.

The two struggled ignominiously, and John became aware that the stranger, who had released one hand grip, was groping for the precious pocket-book. For the first time John was able to aim a blow, then, with a violent twist, he drew himself uppermost, and plunged his knee heavily into the other's chest. In the dim light he observed that his opponent was young. John was already aware that he had met no mean antagonist, and he was taking no chances.

The downward blow he now delivered on the other man's countenance staggered him for a moment. He wrenched himself free and stood upright on his feet.

His enemy was prone, but only for a moment.

"You've got a good deal of spirit, my young friend," said John, through his teeth, "but you'll get nothing from me, except another punch like the last! Now, get up!"

"Thanks," returned the other.

He rose and began to dust his clothes carefully. John did not like the man's attitude. He was quite obviously preparing to make another attack.

"Now," commanded John, moving back a pace, "don't try that with me!"

He stepped back and reached for the Colt weapon that reposed in his pocket.

"I should hate to do anything drastic," he continued; "but if you make it a habit to leap at people in the dark, and to aim half-arm jolts at strangers, you must take the consequences."

"I am prepared to take anything that is coming to me!" responded the young man.

He spoke almost jauntily, and John admired his spirit.

"I evidently did not hit you quite as hard as I thought," John remarked.

"Quite hard enough," responded the other, "but please don't shoot, because——"

Then, to John's amazement, and with the utmost daring, he leapt forward like a flash and seized John's pistol. There was a swift, fierce struggle. The moment was one for quick decisions. The stranger held the weapon by the wrong end, and John knew it. Unexpectedly he let go, and simultaneously landed a heavy left on the young man's downbent jaw. He followed with a right, and then another left. He was as busy as he had ever been, and he knew he was fighting for his entire future, possibly for his life.

"I've had enough," gasped the stranger.

He reeled away, and seated himself on the farther side of the narrow street.

John searched about, picked up the weapon from the middle of the road and pocketed it. Then he buttoned his coat, after carefully satisfying himself that the pocket-book was still in its place, and prepared to go.

"Good night," called the other, seated on the edge of the pavement, as he went.

Manton, however, was in no mood for persiflage. He took himself off, walking as swiftly as he could.

"He certainly doesn't lack pluck," mused John.

Five minutes later he reached the large house wherein Cherriton had his abode.

"I want to see Captain Cherriton at once," he said, when the door was opened to him.

He found Cherriton alone in the big drawing-room. He was in evening clothes, and was wearing comfortable house slippers.

"So it's you, Treves?" exclaimed the German as the door closed. "Come in, and I'll give you a drink of whisky; that is always acceptable, eh?"

"Always," answered John.

Cherriton was looking at him intently.

"There is a slight cut on your forehead."

"Is there? It must be a scratch."

John applied his handkerchief to the slight abrasion, then slipped off his overcoat and took a drink of whisky and soda.

"I have some news for you, Cherriton."

"News?"

The other flashed a swift glance at him.

John slowly drew out the pocket-book and produced the slip of paper.

"You wanted to know when the Imperator sailed out, and by what route."

Cherriton was suddenly and unfeignedly impatient.

"What is it you know?" he demanded.

"At the Savoy to-night," John said quietly, "this was handed to me."

He passed the slip of paper into the German's eager fingers.

"Gott!" exclaimed Cherriton, utterly absorbed. "You got this from——"

"Mrs. Beecher Monmouth."

"Three o'clock to-morrow," mused Cherriton. "There is not much time for us to act!"

He looked suddenly into John's face.

"What a woman she is!" he exclaimed. "Invaluable—invaluable!"

"Invaluable!" echoed John.

Cherriton laid a hand on John's arm.

"Keep your hold on her, my dear Treves. Your work to-night has been excellent!"

Excitement had brought an unusual gleam into his hard eyes.

"We will do great things for you yet!"

He crossed the room and rang the bell imperiously.

"My coat and hat," he commanded of the butler when the man appeared. "When Mr. Manners returns, ask him to wait up for me."

CHAPTER IX

The hour was eleven o'clock. Dacent Smith was, as usual, up to his ears in work. Very little of the real work, conducted by him on behalf of the Department, was dispatched at the office. If he possessed a weakness at all, it was a weakness for the luxury of his own suite of rooms and for the benign, competent aid of Grew. Servant and master were each equally devoted to the other, and yet even Grew was only vaguely aware of the greatness, of the importance of the stoutish, bland, keen-eyed gentleman who was his master.

At Dacent Smith's elbow a green-shaded electric lamp cast a bright light on the papers beneath his hand. The chief wrote neatly and carefully, and when the door opened and Grew came softly in he did not lift his head.

"Mr. Treves to report, sir."

"I'll see Mr. Treves immediately."

"Very good, sir."

Dacent Smith raised his head.

"Oh, Grew, please ask the gentleman who is in the other room to wait a little longer."

"Very good, sir."

Two minutes later John found himself alone with the chief.

Dacent Smith motioned him into one of the deep, leathered-covered arm-chairs, opened a silver box of Egyptian cigarettes, and pushed it towards him.

"Well," he questioned, wheeling his chair and looking at John much as an astute physician might look at a patient; "I can see by your expression," he went on quickly, "that you have something of importance to report."

"I think so," said John.

"Well, what is it?"

"In the foyer of the Savoy to-night, sir, Mrs. Beecher Monmouth"—an almost imperceptible change of expression occurred on Dacent Smith's smooth features—"Mrs. Beecher Monmouth," continued John, "passed a slip of paper into my hand. I assumed at once that the paper was meant for either Manners or Cherriton, and, obeying your instructions, I delivered it at once."

"You memorised it first?"

Dacent Smith's tone was almost sharp.

"It was very short, sir. I can remember it exactly."

Dacent Smith pushed a pencil and block of paper towards him.

"Perhaps you had better write it down immediately," he said. "If you visualise it in writing you will be less likely to have forgotten or misplaced a word."

John rose, and bending over the desk wrote the exact words of the message Mrs. Beecher Monmouth had conveyed to him. When he came to the word Imperator, Dacent Smith whistled softly.

"You have done very well, Treves," he said. He suddenly looked into John's face. "You must better your acquaintance with Mrs. Beecher Monmouth."

"I have an appointment with her for to-morrow night," answered John.

Dacent Smith glanced at a little gilt clock on the mantelshelf.

"I think we shall be in time!"

"That is exactly what Cherriton said," John answered.

Dacent Smith was silent for a moment.

"Treves," he said, "if the Imperator sails to-morrow at three o'clock by Route 28, which is their code for the North Ireland route, there will be another disaster for us."

He was silent a moment and John put a question that had troubled him somewhat.

"But if she doesn't sail at that hour," he said; "if she is suddenly delayed or dispatched by another route, won't that arouse their suspicions?"

Dacent Smith looked at him for a moment, then smiled quietly.

"Oh," he said, "we shall not be quite so obvious as that, Treves, otherwise they would come to suspect a leakage. What will occur is this: I shall communicate with the Admiralty at once, and some time to-morrow morning an accident will happen—quite a small accident—to the Imperator's boilers. The news of the accident will be well spread throughout the crew and the deck hands. Thus the Imperator will be unavoidably delayed and will not sail at three o'clock to-morrow."

He rose as he finished speaking and went quickly out of the room. When he returned he was obviously much easier in his mind. With slow deliberation he replaced himself in his chair at the desk.

"Now give me details of your interview with Cherriton."

John stated what had occurred.

"Anything else to report?" asked Dacent Smith, looking at him with a penetrating glance. "I see you have a scratch on your forehead."

"Yes," answered John. "It occurred in Hampstead; a young man attacked me and endeavoured to get my pocket-book!"

"Oh, that is rather alarming!"

"It was rather sudden," John confessed, "and he was a particularly energetic person."

"Would you know him again if you saw him?" asked Dacent Smith.

"I think I should," answered John. "He was about my own height, but more slenderly built. Rather a good-looking fellow, well dressed. He was a most energetic and audacious opponent," he continued, becoming unexpectedly expansive.

"Audacity is sometimes a fault!" observed Dacent Smith. "Just sit where you are a minute, Treves; I want to introduce you to some one."

He crossed the room and opened the door. John noticed him beckon to some one, and a moment later a young man in evening clothes stepped into the room.

Dacent Smith led the new-comer towards the hearth.

"Captain," he said, speaking to the young man, "this is Mr. Treves, who is now a member of our service."

John rose to shake hands, and found himself looking into the smiling face of a young man of twenty-eight, a young man with dark brown, daring-looking eyes, a sun-browned skin, and a dark moustache. The stranger's face was humorous, and on the lower part of his left cheek was a contused redness.

As John and he shook hands, John uttered an exclamation of astonishment.

"Why, you're the man who attacked me!"

"Well, I don't know about that!" smiled the Captain, cheerily; "it looks to me as if the attacking was mostly on your side."

"I must say," John continued, "you put up quite a good fight, but I don't quite see the point. If you were acting on behalf of the Department, why did you attack me?"

He glanced at Dacent Smith, and the great man undertook an explanation. "The whole thing was a slight mistake. Your new acquaintance, known to us as Captain X., was under my orders, his avocation to-night. He saw Mrs. Beecher Monmouth shake hands with you. He also observed you—and he says, very neatly—put something in your inner breast pocket. He had never seen you before, but he naturally jumped to the conclusion that you were in league with this particular fashionable lady, whom he had been sent to watch, hence his mistaken attack on you."

John turned again to his late antagonist.

"I am sorry if I hurt you!" he said.

"You did hurt me abominably," retorted Captain X. "I am not much of a pugilist and that half-arm jolt, or whatever you call it, has my sincerest admiration."

"The luck was on my side," returned John politely.

"And the misdirected energy on mine," smiled the Captain.

Dacent Smith moved to the table, took up a sheet of paper, folded it, and handed it to Captain X.

"Now," said he, "we will return to business."

At nine o'clock the following evening John found himself in a lady's boudoir, a room heavy with the odour of Russian cigarettes. The neat, capped foreign maid who had ushered him into the apartment had removed herself, closing the door softly behind her.

The room was not large, and every effort of a somewhat exotic taste had been put forth to create an atmosphere of intimacy. It was a room, as it were, planned and arranged for secret meetings. The carpet was thick; a while polar bear rug extended itself from the hearth, and beyond the hearth, running along the wall, was a divan covered in heavy silk of Chinese blue. A Chinese kakemono of brilliant colours—red, orange, azure, green, and gold—covered the wall behind the divan. The general air of the place was one that did not appeal to John in the least. He did not care a button about exotic boudoirs. Neither did he care for Mrs. Beecher Monmouth, who to-night was wearing a Chinese overgown as brilliant and sumptuous in hue as the kakemono that covered the wall.

She had been seated on the divan when John entered. She rose now and came towards him, with the pink light softening the cold splendour of her beauty. There was no doubt about her beauty—John was prepared to admit that even at this second meeting.

"You bad boy to be so late!" breathed Mrs. Beecher Monmouth, squeezing his fingers in hers. She drew him towards her.

The moment was a delicate one for Manton. What Treves's relations had been with this woman he could not guess. But it was his business to find out. It was indeed his business to find out many things about her. For months the Intelligence Department had held her in suspicion, but Dacent Smith's most brilliant assistants had failed to make headway in her case. She was slippery as an eel—quick-witted, cunning, daring and resourceful. In that moment, as she drew John towards her, she suspected a ruse. But there was no ruse. She looked up, her brilliant eyes searching him.

"Have you nothing for me?" she whispered.

There was only one thing to do, only one safe course to take, and John took it. He, as it were, plunged, and risked the consequences. He put his arms about her shapely shoulders and pressed a kiss upon the upturned lips.

"No, no! I didn't tell you you could kiss me!"

"You said something very like it!" laughed John.

"You are a bad, daring boy."

"Faint heart never won anything worth having," returned John.

Mrs. Beecher Monmouth returned to her divan and disposed herself comfortably. "You bad Bernard, you must sit in that low chair at once, and tell me all you have been doing lately!"

She lifted a cigarette case from a low, ivory-topped table. John took one, noticing that they were the excellent cigarettes Treves had been in the habit of smoking.

"Tell me what you have been doing."

John mused, and the woman went on:

"Do you know, you looked rather handsome last night at the Savoy." She paused and became coyly and softly wistful. "I dislike handsome boys; they are so conceited as a rule."

"If I can keep her talking like this for a while," thought John, "I shall not get into deep water!"

There was a silence, during which the lady luxuriantly smoked her Russian cigarette. Then she looked at John with her slow, low-lidded smile.

"Talk," she commanded.

"I prefer to hear you talk," said John. "Tell me what you have been doing lately—to-day, for instance."

The lady pondered.

"Oh, to-day the Ogre gave a luncheon party."

John guessed that the Ogre was her unprepossessing husband.

"The Ogre gave a luncheon party, and among others we had Lady Rachel Marlin, a delightful chatterbox. Her husband's in the Navy, you know. I could listen to her talk for hours."

"I don't doubt it," thought John.

"After tea," resumed she, "I went to my Red Cross work."

John was wary. The fact that she did Red Cross work surprised him, but possibly Treves had been aware of the fact, and it would be unsafe for him to express his surprise.

There was silence for a moment until John hit on a safe question.

"Do you go to the same place?" he inquired.

"Oh, yes, the Officers' Hospital, you know. They are such dear, delightful fellows."

She told him no more about the Officers' Hospital, and he put another question.

"What have you done this evening?"

"I have been boring myself to death until you came. And now you make poor me talk and don't entertain me in the least!"

Suddenly she lifted her head.

"I hope you aren't in one of your moods?"

"Oh, no," said John, quickly. "What makes you think that?"

She looked at him long and steadily. He sustained her gaze; her brilliant, hard beauty smote his consciousness again.

"Do you remember how awful you were at first, Bernard?"

"I suppose I was pretty awful," answered John, wondering what Treves had done to earn himself that character.

Suddenly Mrs. Beecher Monmouth ceased her scrutiny and broke into a laugh, a long tinkle of laughter that showed all her fine teeth.

"What a boy you are," she said. "Do you remember that night when you swore and tore about this room like a madman?" She laughed again, as though in memory of a scene that had been grotesquely ridiculous. Somehow, in that moment John felt his instinctive dislike of her intensify. He saw her as an utterly cold-blooded traitor to her country. Only forty-eight hours earlier she had slipped into his hand information that had been intended to doom a great ship to disaster. The slip of paper that had so astoundingly come into his possession had in itself constituted a vile blow at the safety of England. And here was the woman who had safely engineered that atrocity, who had acted as an intermediary in Germany's pay. And this same woman was smiling at him in her Grosvenor Place boudoir, surrounded by all the luxuries of life, the wife of a politician of some eminence, who had only recently been in the running for an under-secretaryship.

The thought flashed into John's mind—was Beecher Monmouth, M.P., also a traitor? He did not know. But he was prepared to risk a good deal to find out.

Once more he turned his attention to the woman before him.

"It was rather weak of me," he said, "to act the way I did."

"It was as good as a melodrama," replied she. "You said you were ruined, and swore you'd end everything! I forget whether it was to be the river or in some less pleasant manner. Called yourself a traitor——"

"Traitor!" repeated John—he wanted to know more of this.

"Melodrama again," responded Mrs. Beecher Monmouth. "However, you calmed yourself in the end. You became your own delightful, foolish self again."

"Thanks," said John, and for the life of him he could not help saying aloud, "and you were able to twist me round your pretty fingers!"

She looked at him with one of her quick looks.

"Now, that is delightful of you to say pretty things to me. Do you know," she continued, leaning towards him, "you have improved immensely—you are quite changed! Before you really came to us," she adopted a note of seriousness, "you were really too dreadful for words. You raved against the army, that had treated you so abominably, and yet would not throw in your lot with us. Oh, you were very difficult, mon ami!"

"And now?" inquired John.

"Oh, now, you are quite another man."

"I'm glad you think that," said John aloud, and to himself he added, "my clever lady, you never spoke a truer word in your iniquitous life."

"The change in you is so marked," went on Mrs. Beecher Monmouth, "that Captain Cherriton actually doubted your loyalty to us. He regarded your escape from Scotland Yard authorities as so sudden."

"Ah," protested John, "but I was mistaken for another man."

"Of course, I know that, you silly boy! But Cherriton could not rest satisfied until he had discovered that there actually existed a person called John Manton, and that you had really been mistaken for this personage."

John made a mental note that in Cherriton he had an adversary of no mean order.

"I hope," said he, "now that Captain Cherriton has discovered my story to be true, he won't suspect me again."

"As for that," responded the lady, "he suspects his own shadow. But you are very high in favour just at the moment."

"His favour is worth having?" probed John.

"We shall discover that," said Mrs. Beecher Monmouth. Her tone suddenly became fervent, almost exalted. "After the war there will be great things for us all. Now is the time to sow; then will be the time to reap the harvest!"

The expression of her face had changed. A dark, fierce light seemed to illumine her features.

"We shall win yet! We are winning now, but the end will be swift!"

"The end of some people," thought John, "will be devilishly swift!" He was thinking of Manners, of Cherriton, and of the lady before him.

"What do you think will happen?" he inquired.

"They will come here, of course," she retorted, suddenly standing erect beside the divan and speaking with fiery and passionate intensity, "they will come here—my people!"

"Your people?" interjected John, quickly.

"My people," droned she, with a lift of her head. "You didn't know that before? But you are one of us, and I can trust you now."

"But everybody thinks you are an American," observed John, recalling what Dacent Smith had told him.

"Quite true—they do think that, and for convenience sake I am an American—a rich American who married"—she lifted a scornful lip and pointed towards the door—"who married the Ogre."

"Were you working for the—the cause when you married him?" inquired John.

But the sudden flame that had animated her appeared to die away; she became once more her beautiful exotic self.

"I have worked for the cause since——" she stopped.

She, as it were, returned to earth.

"Bernard," she said, when she had smoked a few minutes in silence, "I have something to show you."

She rose, crossed the room, and unlocked a buhl cabinet. A moment later she returned to John, and handed him an envelope. Within was a closely written letter beginning: "Dearest Alice."

As John glanced at the writing Mrs. Beecher Monmouth came behind him, and laid her manicured finger-nail on the bottom four lines of the first sheet.

"That is all you need read," she said.

The four lines at which she pointed ran:

"If you think Treves has the courage for the task I will take your word for it—he shall be the man!"

CHAPTER X

John looked up quickly.

"Is this from Captain Cherriton?" he asked.

Mrs. Beecher Monmouth shook her head.

"From a far greater one than he," she answered slowly.

John pricked up his ears, then flashed a glance at the contents of the letter. But Mrs. Beecher Monmouth was very quick; he caught only the words, "secret session," and "ready by the twenty-eighth," when Mrs. Monmouth dexterously laid her white hand over the writing and drew it from his fingers. She folded it and placed it carefully in the bosom of her dress. She wore evening dress beneath her gorgeous Japanese rest gown, and John noticed the coquetry with which she concealed the letter from his view. He was young enough to be affected by her beauty, and was yet old enough to suspect she was playing a part—was, in fact, seeking to entangle him for the benefit of the cause. He put her down in that moment as a passionate, unscrupulous, dangerous woman, to whom adventure was the very breath of life. Moreover, he doubted her statement that she was German. She was certainly not his idea of a woman of Teutonic nationality.

Her arm that had been resting upon his shoulder still remained there. The lady's handsome face was very close to his; he could see deep into her smiling eyes, and was not comfortable under the closeness of her scrutiny. His resemblance to Bernard Treves was striking, but it was not perfect enough, he feared, to deceive the watchfulness of a woman who had evidently been closely intimate with that young man. He endeavoured to break the intensity of her gaze by leading her back to her chair.

"Well," she whispered tenderly, "have you nothing to say to me?"

"There are a thousand things I would like to say," returned John, promptly. "Let me light you a cigarette." He struck a match and placed one of her buff-coloured Russian cigarettes in her fingers. As he held the light, Mrs. Beecher Monmouth spoke on a new note of seriousness.

"Bernard, I have been kindness itself to you."

John assured her that she had.

"When the others doubted you I clung to my belief in you."

"You have been wonderful!" said John.

"You are changed, Bernard."

"That's impossible," answered John, "where you are concerned." He again experienced the sensation—a common one with him these days—that he walked upon the edge of a precipice.

"I have shown my confidence in you."

"You mean," proceeded John, "you have spoken up for me to the great personage who wrote the letter."

"Yes. Are you grateful?" inquired she, looking at him quizzically. She had disposed herself upon the divan in a graceful, languid poise.

"I am more than grateful," said John. "But, tell me, who is this great personage?"

The lady's laughter sounded musically in the little pink lighted room.

"Oh, my dear Bernard," she protested; "that comes much later."

"I suppose," John said, feeling that a bold plunge was worth while, "the personage is the head of the German secret agents in England?"

"What makes you think that?"

"My dear Alice, you would not stand in such awe of anyone less important than that." For some minutes—since the time he had caught sight of the letter, in fact—he had resolved to call her "Alice" at the earliest opportunity. He was playing a part. He had taken up another man's love affair at an unknown state of development—a dangerous thing to do. However, the duel between them, he believed, was to his advantage. Mrs. Beecher Monmouth had made a false step. She had already revealed to him the existence of a high secret power—a power far above and beyond Cherriton and Manwitz.

"Alice," he said, suddenly, drawing his chair a little nearer and laying a hand on her arm, "tell me who is the Great Unknown?"

"Patience, patience, Bernard. You will hear, all in good time." She lifted his hand from her arm and pushed him gently away. At the same moment there came a low knock at the door. A discreet pause followed before Mrs. Beecher Monmouth's foreign maid, in cap and white apron, entered.

"The master's returned, ma'am."

The girl spoke in a low tone, intended for her mistress's ear alone, and immediately went out, closing the door behind her.

"Sit over there," commanded Mrs. Beecher Monmouth, waving John towards a chair at the hearth. "Sit over there, and be very good."

John moved to the hearth. He wondered if Bernard Treves had known the Ogre, or if an introduction was to take place. The awkwardness of the situation was solved for him a moment later, when the door behind him opened. In a slender strip of mirror on the opposite wall John saw the reflected figure of Beecher Monmouth, M.P. The pink light softened a little the bilious yellow of his skin. But he was still an unprepossessing object, with his bald head, his long, pointed nose, and his thin-lipped mouth.

Mrs. Monmouth rose as her husband entered, and went towards him with hands outstretched.

"William, darling," she exclaimed, "how nice of you to come home so early. I must introduce you to Mr. Treves."

John rose and bowed. Beecher Monmouth put a large bony hand in his. He had just returned from the House of Commons, and looked weary and old; he looked every one of his sixty-four years. John wondered whether he ought to stay or not, but Mrs. Beecher Monmouth solved the situation by holding out her hand.

"You must come and see me again, Mr. Treves." Her tone was almost motherly. He shook hands with her, and saw her move towards her husband and slip her arm through his.

Husband and wife were standing together as the maid conducted John downstairs.

"What a monument of treachery and deceit she is," thought John, as he stepped out into the starlit night.

In the meantime Mrs. Beecher Monmouth had pressed her ungainly husband into a deep arm-chair, had commanded that whisky and soda should be brought, and was already holding the match that lit his cigar. Beecher Monmouth watched her with admiration in his tired eyes. He was prepared to sell his soul for her, and was never weary of telling her that he was the luckiest man in the world to have won her love.

"And what did my William do to-night?" she inquired, softly, when the whisky and soda had been placed at his side, and he had helped himself to a somewhat liberal dose.

"A most boring evening," said Beecher Monmouth. "Irish question!"

"And you saw no one interesting?" asked she.

"I saw Brackston Neeve in the lobby," answered her husband. "There is some talk of a military expedition to ——. I don't know whether it will come off or not. The Cabinet, I believe, discussed it yesterday."

"What did Brackston Neeve say?"

Beecher Monmouth took a sip of whisky.

"Why should I bore you with stupid politics?"

"They aren't stupid to me," she said. "You know every tiny bit of your political life interests me intensely." She settled herself in a low chair beside him. "Now you must tell me everything Brackston Neeve said. He is in the confidence of the Cabinet, is he not?"

Her husband nodded.

"He has the confidence of several members of the Cabinet."

"Tell me everything, William...."

Half an hour later, when Monmouth had finished his cigar and whisky, he rose wearily, kissed her, and went to his room. Mrs. Beecher Monmouth waited until he was safely out of the way, then, going to the telephone on the buhl writing-desk, rang up a number.

"Is that Doctor Voules?" she inquired.

At the other end of the telephone a deep voice answered in the affirmative.