Who Goes There!

"You are not a spy," he replied; "what risk do you run – or I?"

She said, still gazing into the sunlit distance: "What is done to spies – if they are caught?"

"It usually means death, Miss Girard."

"I have – " she swallowed, caught her breath, breathed deeply; then – "I have heard so… It is possible that I might be suspected and detained… I had rather you did not attempt to go with me… Because – I do not wish you to get into any difficulty – on my – account."

"Nothing serious could happen to either you or me through anything that you have done."

"I am not sure."

"I am," he said. And added in a lower voice: "It is very generous of you – very kind."

Her own voice was lower still: "Please don't go with me, Mr. Guild. Let me go to the wharf alone. Let me take my chances alone. If there is any difficulty they will arrest you, too. And if I – were convicted – "

"You could not be. That is utterly impossible. Don't think of such things, Miss Girard."

"I must think of them. Will you tell me something?" She turned and looked at him curiously, almost wistfully.

"I want to ask you something. You – you said to me that if you thought me a spy, you would not help me to escape from England. You said so, didn't you?"

"Yes."

"You mean it, don't you?"

"I am afraid I do."

"Why? You are not English. You are an American. America is neutral. Why are you an enemy to Germany?"

"I can't tell you why," he said.

"Are you an enemy to Germany?"

"Yes – a bitter one."

"And if I were a spy, trying to escape from England – trying to escape – death – you would refuse to help me?"

She had turned entirely toward him on the seat beside him; her child-like hands clasped on the robe over her knees, her child-like face, pale, sweet, wistful, turned to his.

"Would you abandon me?" she asked.

"The situation is impossible – "

"Yes, but tell me."

"I don't care to think of such a – "

"Please answer me. Is your partisanship so bitter that you would wash your hands of me – let me go to my death? – go to your own, too, rather than help me?"

"Miss Girard, you are losing your composure – "

"No; I am perfectly composed. But I should like to know what you would do under such circumstances with a girl nineteen years old who stood in danger of death."

"I can't tell you," he said, perplexed and impatient. "I can't tell now what I might do."

"Would you denounce me?"

"No, of course not."

"Would you feel – sorry?"

"Sorry!" He looked at her; "I should think I would!"

"Sorry enough for me to help me get away?"

"Yes."

"Even if I carried military information to Germany?"

He looked into her eyes searchingly for a moment. "Yes," he said; "I'd do what I could for you to get you out of England."

"Even if I had lied to you?"

"You couldn't lie to anybody."

"But if I could? If I have lied and you found it out, would you still try to help me to get away?"

"You are asking something that – "

"Yes, you can answer it. You can think a while first and then answer. I want you to answer. I want to know what you'd do with me."

"You make it a personal matter?"

"Yes. I don't want to know what you'd do in theory; I wish you to tell me what you, personally, would do with me, Karen Girard, if you believed me to be a spy, and if you came to the conclusion that I had lied to you."

"Why do you ask all this? You are over-wrought, unstrung – "

"I am absolutely mistress of myself. And I wish to know what you would do with me? Would you let me die?"

"No."

"You'd stand by me still?"

"Yes. There's no use mincing matters. Yes, I would."

"You'd help me to leave England?"

"Yes."

"Why?"

There fell a silence between them, and his face slowly reddened.

"I am not sure why," he said slowly.

"I am. Shall I tell you?"

"Yes, tell me," he said, forcing himself to meet her clear gaze.

"Very well, I'll tell you. It is because we are friends. And that is the real truth. I realize it. From the very beginning it was a friendship, without effort, instantly and mutually understood. Is it not true?"

"Yes."

"And that – the instant liking – was the basis for our confidence in each other. Was it not?"

"It must have been. I trusted you without hesitation."

"And I you… And I did tell you the truth… But not all of it."

"What have you left untold?" he asked.

"Enough to – to frighten me – a little. I am beginning to be afraid – just enough afraid to feel troubled – rather deeply troubled about – you."

"About me!"

"Because – we are friends. I don't understand how it has happened so quickly. But it has happened to us – hasn't it?"

"Yes," he said, "it has. I – I am already – devoted to – our friendship."

"I am, too. It seems odd, doesn't it. I have had no friends among men. This is new to me. I don't know what to do about it. I want to be so loyal about it – I wish to be what a man – such a man as you are – desires of a friend – what he requires of friendship… Do you understand? I am really a trifle bewildered – with the surprise and pleasure of friendship – and with its obligations… But I am very sure that unselfishness is one of its obligations and that truth is another."

"Both are part of you."

"They seem to be now. And so – because we are friends – don't go to the wharf with me. Because I think I may be – arrested. And if I am – it may go hard with me."

She said it so gently, and her eyes were so clear and sweet that for a moment he did not grasp the subtler significance of her appeal.

"You can't be involved seriously," he insisted.

"I'm afraid it is possible."

"How?"

"I can only guess how. I may be wrong. But I dare not risk involving you."

"Can't you tell me a little more?"

"Please don't ask."

"Very well. But I shall not leave you."

"Please."

"No. You ask too little of friendship."

"I do not wish to ask too much. Let me get clear of this affair if I can. If I can't – let me at least remember that I have not involved you in my – ruin."

"Your ruin!"

"Yes. It may come to that. I don't know. I don't know exactly what all this tangle means – what really threatens me, what I have to dread. But I am afraid – afraid!" Her voice became unsteady for a moment and she stared straight ahead of her at the yellow haze which loomed nearer and nearer above the suburbs of London.

He slipped one arm under hers, quietly, and his hand fell over both of hers, where they rested clasped tightly on her lap.

"This won't do," he said coolly. "You are not to be frightened whatever happens. We must go through with this affair, you and I. I know you have plenty of courage."

"Yes – except about you – "

"I stand or fall with you."

"Please, you must not – "

"I must and shall. Within the next few minutes you must regain your composure and self-command. Will you?"

"Yes."

"Because our safety may depend on your coolness."

"I know it."

"Will you remember that we are married?"

"Yes."

"Will it be difficult for you to carry out that rôle?"

"I – don't know what to do. Could you tell me?"

"Yes. If you speak to me call me by my first name. Do you remember it?"

"Kervyn," she said.

"You won't forget?"

"No."

"I think you had better say 'no, dear.' Try it."

"No – dear."

"Try it again."

"No, dear."

"Letter perfect," he said, trying to speak lightly. "You see you look about seventeen, and it's plain we couldn't have been married very long. So it's safer to say 'yes, dear,' and 'no, dear,' every time. You won't forget, Karen, will you?"

She flushed a trifle when her name fell from his lips. "No, dear," she said in a low voice.

"And if anybody addresses you as Mrs. Guild – will you try to be prepared?"

"Yes – dear. Yes, I will – Kervyn."

He laughed a trifle excitedly. "You are perfect – and really adorable in the part," he said. And his nervous excitement in the imminence of mutual danger subtly excited her.

"I ought to do it well," she said; "I have studied dramatic art and I have had some stage experience. It's a part and I must do it well. I shall, really – Kervyn, dear."

He laughed; the dangerous game was beginning to exhilarate them both, and a vivid colour began to burn in her delicate cheeks.

Suddenly the blond chauffeur pulled the car up along the curb in a crowded street and stopped.

"It is better, sir, to take a hansom from here to the wharf."

"Do you think so?"

"Yes, sir… Pardon, sir, here are passports for madam and yourself." And he handed the papers very coolly to Guild.

The young man changed colour, realizing instantly that the papers were forged.

"Had I better take these?" he asked under his breath.

"Yes, sir," said Bush, smiling his eternal smile and opening the car door for them.

Guild descended. Bush set the luggage on the curb, touched his cap, and said: "Walk south, sir, until a cabby hails you. Good-bye, sir. A pleasant trip, madam." And he sprang back into the car, started it, and rolled away grinning from ear to ear.

Guild took the luggage in both hands; Karen walked beside him. At the end of the square the driver of a hansom held up one hand inquiringly, then smiled and drew in to the curb.

"Fresh Wharf, sir?" asked the cabby.

"Yes," said Guild, calmly, red with surprise.

"Thanks, sir. I understand all about it."

CHAPTER VII

THE SATCHEL

It was only a short drive to Fresh Wharf by London Bridge. A marching column of kilted Territorials checked them for a while and they looked on while the advanced guard of civilians surged by, followed by pipers and then by the long leaf-brown column at a smart swinging stride.

When the troops had passed the hansom moved on very slowly through the human flotsam still eddying in the wake of the regiment; and after a few more minutes it pulled up again and Guild sprang out, lifted the young girl to the sidewalk, and handed the fare to the driver.

The latter leaned over and as he took the coins he thrust a parcel into Guild's hands. "Your change, sir," he said genially, touched his top hat and drove off, looking right and left for another fare.

Guild's surprised eyes fell on the packet. It contained two steamer tickets strapped together by a rubber band.

Pushing through the throng where policemen, wharf officials and soldiers in khaki were as numerous as civilians, Guild finally signalled a porter to take the luggage aboard. Karen retained her satchel. A brief scrutiny of his tickets detained them for a moment, then the porter led them up the gang-plank and aboard and a steward directed them to their stateroom. At the same moment a uniformed official stepped up to Guild.

"Sorry to trouble you, sir," he said politely, "but may I have your name?"

"My name is Kervyn Guild."

The official glanced over the steamer list. "You have papers of identification, Mr. Guild?"

Guild handed him his forged passports. The official took them, glanced at Karen, at the luggage which the porter bore.

"Where do you go from Amsterdam, Mr. Guild?"

"Through Holland."

"Naturally. And then?"

"To the Grand Duchy."

"Luxembourg?"

"Yes."

"Where in Luxembourg?"

"I have been invited to visit friends."

"Where?"

"At Lesse Forest."

"Where is that?"

"Partly in the Duchy, partly in Belgium."

"Who are your friends?"

"Mrs. and Miss Courland of New York and a Mr. Darrel."

"Madam goes with you?"

"Yes."

The official began to unfold the passports, while he looked sideways at the luggage. Holding the passports partly open in one hand he pointed to Karen's satchel with the other.

"Please open that," he said, and began to examine the passports. A deadly pallour came over the girl's face; she did not stir. Guild turned to glance at her and was stricken dumb. But she found her speech. "Dear," she said, with white lips, "would you mind stepping ashore and getting me something at a chemist's?" And under her breath, pressing close to him: "Go, for God's sake. I am afraid I shall be arrested." A terrible fear struck through him.

"The satchel!" he motioned with his lips.

"Yes. Go while you can. Go – go – dear."

"I'll be back in a moment, Karen," he said, coolly took the satchel from the porter, turned with it toward the gang-plank.

The official raised his eyes from the passport he was scanning.

"One moment, sir," he said.

"I'll be back directly," returned Guild, continuing on his way.

"Where are you going, Mr. Guild?"

"To a chemist's."

"Be kind enough to leave that satchel and remain here until I have finished," said the official coldly. And to Karen: "Mrs. Guild, will you kindly open that bag?"

"Certainly. I have the key somewhere" – searching in her reticule. And as she searched she lifted her eyes to Guild. Her face was dead white.

"Dearest," she said in a steady voice, "will you go to the chemist's while I am opening my bag. I must have something for this headache."

Her agonized eyes said: "Save yourself while you can; I am caught!"

But Guild turned and came back to her, close, standing beside her.

"I'll open the luggage," he said quietly. "You had better step ashore and get what you need." And, in a whisper: "Go straight to the American Ambassador and tell him everything."

She whispered: "No; I beg of you go. I beg of you, Kervyn."

He shook his head and they stood there together; he grave and silent, assailed by a terrible premonition; she white as death, mechanically fumbling in her reticule with slim, childish fingers.

The official was deeply immersed in the passports and continued so even when Karen's tremulous fingers held the key. "Give it to me," whispered Guild.

"No – " She beckoned the porter, took the satchel, and at the same moment the official looked up at her, then holding both passports, came over to where they were standing.

"Your papers are in order, Mr. Guild," he said. "Now, Mrs. Guild, if you will open your satchel – "

"I'll attend to that, Holden," broke in a careless voice, and the satchel was taken out of Karen's hands by a short, dark young man in uniform. "I want you to go forward and look at a gentleman for The Hague who has no papers. He's listed as Begley. Do you mind?"

"Right," said Holden. "Here, Mitchell, these papers are satisfactory. Look over Mr. Guild's luggage and come forward when you're finished. What's his name? Begley?"

"Yes, American. I'll be with you in a moment."

Holden hastened forward; Mitchell looked after him for a moment, then calmly handed back the unopened satchel to Karen and while she held it he made a mark on it with a bit of chalk.

"I pass your luggage," he said in a low voice, stooping and marking the suit-case and Guild's sack. "You have nothing to fear at Amsterdam, but there are spies on this steamer. Best go to your cabin and stay there until the boat docks."

The girl bent her little head in silence; the porter resumed the luggage and piloted them aft through an ill-lighted corridor. When he came to the door of their cabin he called a steward, took his tip from Guild, touched his cap and went away.

The steward opened the stateroom door for them, set the luggage on the lounge, asked if there was anything more he could do, was told that there was not, and took himself off.

Guild locked the door after him, turned and looked down at the girl, who had sunk trembling upon the lounge.

"What is there in that satchel?" he asked coldly.

"I don't know."

"What!" he said in a contemptuous voice.

"Kervyn – my friend – I do not know," she stammered.

"You must know! You packed it!"

"Yes. But I do not know. Can't you believe me?"

"How can I? You know what you put into that satchel, don't you?"

"I – put in toilet articles – night clothes – money."

"What else? You put in something else, didn't you? Something that has made you horribly afraid!"

"Yes."

"What is it?"

"Kervyn – I don't know what it is. I must not know. It is a matter of honour."

"If you don't know what it is you carry in that satchel you evidently suspect what it might prove to be."

"Yes."

"You have very strong suspicions?"

"Yes, I have."

"Why did you take such a thing?"

"I promised."

"Whom?"

"I can't tell you. It is a matter of honour. I – I didn't want to involve you if things turned badly. I asked you to leave me… Even at the last moment I tried to give you a chance to go ashore and escape. Kervyn, I've tried to be honourable and to be loyal to you at the same time. I've tried – I've tried – " Her childish voice faltered, almost broke, and she turned her head sharply away from him.

He dropped onto the lounge beside her, sick with anxiety, and laid his hand over hers where it lay in her lap.

"I'm afraid that you have papers in that satchel which might mean the end of the world for you," he said under his breath. "God alone knows why you carry them if you suspect their contents… Well, I won't ask you anything more at present… If your conscience acquits you, I do. I do anyway. You have given me plenty of chances to escape. You have been very plucky, very generous to me, Karen."

"I have tried to be," she said unsteadily. "You have been far too kind to me, Kervyn… I – I don't mean to tremble so. I think I am, feeling the – the reaction."

"Lie down. I am afraid I'll have to stay here – "

"Yes; don't go out on deck. Don't take any more risks… I'll lie down if I may." She rose, looked around with eyes still darkly dilated by fear:

"Oh!" she breathed – "if we were only out of British waters!"

He looked at his watch, and at the same moment a deep blast from the steamer vibrated through the cabin.

"They've cast off," he said calmly.

The girl had flung herself on the bed and buried her face in the pillow. Her brown velvet hat had fallen to the floor, her thick brown hair clustered in glossy disorder over neck and cheek. One slim hand clutched convulsively a tiny handkerchief crushed into a ball.

"We have every chance now," he said very gently, bending over the pillow – "barring a wireless to some British guard-ship. Don't give way yet, Karen." He laid a cool, firm hand over hers and tried to speak jestingly. "Wait until there's no danger at all before you go all to pieces," he whispered.

As he bent above her, he became conscious of the warm fragrance of tears. But no sound came, not a quiver. And after a while he went over to the sofa and sat down, staring at the locked satchel on the floor, vaguely aware that the boat was in steady motion.

"Karen," he said after a moment.

"Yes – dear."

"You know," he said, forcing a laugh, "you needn't say it when we're alone – except for practice."

"Yes, dear, I know."

"May I ask you something?"

"Yes, please."

"Did you know that official named Mitchell?"

"Yes."

"Who was he?"

"Mr. Grätz."

CHAPTER VIII

AT SEA

The funnel smoke blew low, burying the afterdecks, and a hurricane of scud and spindrift swept everything forward, drenching the plunging steamer to the bridge. Stanchions, davits, hatches were all a-dip, decks a-wash, and the Dutch ensign whipping aloft in a thick grey sky that seemed to speed astern as though in chase of the heaving grey waste of waters that fled away beneath.

Here and there a trawler tossed and rocked; lean, melancholy wanderers on the face of the waters; twice the raking stacks of destroyers, smothered in foam, dashed eastward running full speed on some occult trail twixt sky and sea.

The grey world grew duller, duller; one by one the blinding searchlights on coast-guard ships broke out, sweeping sky and ocean as though in desperate appeal to the God above and in menacing warning to the devils that lurked below.

For they said the North Sea was full of them; legions of them tossed broadcast from the black hell of some human mind. And beneath them, deeper, lying as still as death on the Channel's floor, waited the human submarines in unseen watery depths – motionless, patient, awaiting the moment to strike.

Night came; the white level glare of searchlights flooded the steamer, lingered, shifted, tossed their dazzling arms heavenward as though imploring the Most High, then swept unseen horizons where the outermost waters curve with the curving globe.

Only one light burned in the stateroom, but the port was not covered.

Karen lay on the bed, unstirring save for a slight tremor of her shoulders now and then. Her brown hair, half loosened, had fallen in thick burnished curls on the pillow; one hand covered her eyes, palm outward. Under it the vivid lips, scarcely parted, rested on each other in a troubled curve.

Guild brooded silently on the lounge under the port. Sometimes his sombre gaze rested on her, sometimes on the locked satchel which had rolled to the side of the bed.

Every time the arrowy beam of light from a warship flooded the cabin with swift white splendour his heart seemed to stop, for the menace of the wireless was always a living dread; and the stopping of a neutral ship and the taking from it of suspects had become a practice too common even to excite comment, let alone protest.

Twice they were stopped; twice Ardoise signals twinkled; but no cutter came alongside, and no officer boarded them. It was an eternity of suspense to Guild, and he stood by the open port, listening, the satchel in his hand ready to fling it out into the turmoil of heaving waters.

The steward came, and Guild ordered something served for them both in the stateroom. Karen had not awakened, but her hand had slipped from her eyes and it lay across the edge of the bed.

On the bridal finger glimmered the plain gold band – his credentials to her from her father.

He went over and looked down into the white, childish face. Faultless, serene, wonderful as a flower it seemed to him. Where the black lashes rested the curve of the cheek was faintly tinted with colour. All else was snowy save for the vivid rose of the scarcely parted lips.

Nineteen! – and all those accomplishments which her dim living-room at Westheath had partly revealed – where books in many languages had silently exposed the mind that required them – where pictures, music – all the unstudied and charming disorder of this young girl's intimate habitation had delicately revealed its tenant.

And what her living-room had foreshadowed was only, after all, but a tinted phantom of the girl he had come to know in the flesh – the real mistress of that dim room quickened to life – a warm, living, breathing reality, low-voiced, blue-eyed, winsome and sweet with the vague fragrance of youth incarnate clinging to her, to every gesture, every movement, every turn of her head – to her very skirts it seemed – youth, freshness, purity unblemished.

As he stood there he tried to realize that she was German – this young girl with her low and charming English voice and her accentless English speech.

He had listened in vain for any flaw, any indication of alien birth. Nothing betrayed her as a foreigner, except, possibly, a delightfully quaint formality in accepting any service offered. For when he asked her whether she desired this or that, or if he might do this or that for her, always her answer in the affirmative was, "Yes, please," like a little girl who had been carefully taught to respect age. It amused him; for modern English young women are less punctilious with modern youth.

There came a dull clatter of crockery from the passageway; Guild turned and opened the door. The waiter produced a folding table, spread it, and arranged the dishes.

"That will be all," whispered Guild. "Don't knock again; I'll set the tray outside."

So the waiter went away and Guild closed the door again and turned back to the bed where Karen lay. Her delicate brows were now slightly knitted and the troubled curve of her lips hinted again of a slumber not wholly undisturbed by subconscious apprehension.

"Karen," he said in a low voice.

The girl opened her eyes. They had that starry freshness that one sees in the eyes of waking children. For a moment her confused gaze met his without expression, then a hot flush stained her face and she sat up hurriedly. Down tumbled the thick, burnished locks and her hands flew instinctively to twist them up.