Who Goes There!

"I didn't realize that I had been asleep. Please, will you turn your back" – her glance fell on the table – "I shall be ready in a moment – Kervyn."

"Had I not better give you the place to yourself?"

"Yes, please."

"I'll do a sentry-go in the corridor," he said. "Open the door when you're quite ready."

So he went out and walked up and down until the stateroom door opened and her low voice summoned him.

"I can't eat," she said.

"Do you feel the sea?"

"No" – she smiled faintly – "but the excitement of the day – the anxiety – "

"We'll have some tea, anyway," he said.

They ate a little after all, and the hot and rather vile tea stimulated her. Presently he set tray and table outside in the corridor and came slowly back to where she had gathered herself in a corner of the sofa.

"The sea is rather rough," he said. "You seem to be a good sailor."

"Yes, I am. My father had a yacht and my mother and I always went when he cruised."

This slightest glimpse of personal history – the first she had vouchsafed – the first slight lifting of the curtain which hung between them, aroused his latent curiosity.

What else lay behind that delicate, opaque veil which covered the nineteen years of her? What had been the childhood, the earlier life of this young girl whom he had found living alone with a maid and a single servant at an obscure heath outside of London?

Gently born, gently bred young girls of aristocratic precedents, don't do that sort of thing. Even if they desire to try it, they are not permitted. Also they don't go on the stage, as a rule.

Neither the sign manual, the sign visible of the theatre, nor yet that occult indefinable something characteristic of the footlights appeared to taint her personality.

Talented as she was undoubtedly, cultured and gently nurtured, the sum total of all her experience, her schooling, her development, and her art had resulted only in a charming harmony, not a personality aggressively accented in any single particular. Any drawing-room in any country might have contained this young girl. Homes which possess drawing-rooms breed the self-possession, the serenity, the soft voice, the winsome candour and directness of such girls as she.

She was curled up in the corner of the sofa where he had placed behind her the two pillows from the bed, and her winning blue eyes rested every few minutes upon this young man whom she had known only a few hours and whom she already, in her heart and in her mind, was calling a friend.

She had never had any among young men – never even among older men had she experienced the quiet security, the untroubled certainty of such a friendship as had begun now – as had suddenly stepped into her life, new, yet strangely familiar – a friendship that seemed instantly fully developed and satisfactory.

There appeared to be no room for doubt about it, no occasion for waiting, no uncertainty in her mind, no inclination and no thought of the lesser conventionalities which must strew elaborately the path of first acquaintance with the old, old-fashioned garlands – those prim, stiff blossoms of discretion, of propriety, of self-conscious concession to formula and tradition.

No; when her eyes first fell on him her mind and heart seemed to recognize what neither had ever before beheld – a friend. And from that moment the girl had accepted the matter as settled, as far as she herself was concerned. And she had lost very little time in acquainting herself with his views upon the subject.

That he had responded to the friendship she had so naïvely offered did not surprise her. She seemed to have expected it – perhaps in the peril of the moments when they were nearing London and doubt and suspicion in her mind concerning the contents of her satchel were becoming an agony to her as they grew more definite – perhaps even then the sudden and deep sense of gratitude for his response had made courage a new necessity and had armoured her against panic – for friendship's sake.

All she realized in that moment was that this friendship, so sudden, so vital, was already so strong in her, so real, that even in the terror of that instant she thought of the danger to him, and asked him to let her go on alone.

Perhaps they both were thinking of these things – she, curled up in her corner, looking thoughtfully at him; he, knees crossed, gazing restlessly from object to object in the unsteady stateroom, but his eyes always reverting to her.

Then the duet of silence ended for a while. He said: "You must not suppose that I am not keenly alive to the kindness, the fearless generosity you have shown me all through this affair. What you suffered is lodged forever in my mind – and in my heart."

"What you have done for me is in my – heart," she said in her sweetly modulated voice.

"I have done very little – "

"You would not leave me!"

"My own life was forfeit if I did – "

"No! You did not reason that way! Besides, had I managed to get through alone, you should have had your life back again to do with as you pleased. No; you did not reason that way. You stood by a friend in peril – at your own peril."

She drew a deep, tremulous breath. "More than that," she said, "you stood by me when you almost believed I had lied to you – lied shamefully."

"I had my plans ready – in that event," he said, forcing a laugh.

"You did doubt me?"

"Yes."

She bent her head, looked thoughtfully at her hands, which clasped one knee, then, lifting her eyes: "I forgive you," she said gravely.

He flushed: "I did not know you – did not realize – what you are – "

"You were slower than I."

"What?"

"I trusted you– from the first."

He was silent; she watched him for a few moments, then:

"When you concluded that I had lied to you, what plans had you ready?"

"I had rather not say – "

"Please do."

He bit his lip: "I had decided to take your satchel from you."

"Against my wishes?" she asked, amazed.

"Yes."

There was no resentment, only a childish surprise: "Why?"

"I told you that I am an enemy to your country."

"Yes, I know – "

"I told you that I would not knowingly permit you to take out of England anything which might be detrimental to England's interests. And I made up my mind that if you had deceived me – and although I stood by you – because you are only a young girl – and were in danger from those who make no allowance for youth and sex – nevertheless, as soon as you were in personal safety, I meant to take from you whatever you had concealed from me and which might have been of service to England's enemies."

"Would you have done that?"

"Yes, if you had been untruthful to me."

She bent her head, thoughtfully; then looking up at him: "Yes; that would have been just… But I have not been untruthful."

His perplexed and slightly careworn eyes met hers.

"I can't doubt you," he said. "I know you have been truthful. But – what is in that satchel? Forgive me, I must ask you. Because there is evidently enough there to terrify you at the thought of British eyes inspecting it."

"Kervyn – can't you believe me when I tell you that I don't know what is in that satchel?"

"I do believe you. But tell me what you are afraid it might be."

"I can't – truly I can't tell you. Don't you understand? Don't you realize that I must have promised?"

"Promised?"

"Yes – not to unlock or open the satchel. I did promise."

"To whom did you make that promise?" And, as she did not reply: "Was the promise made to anybody I ever met?"

She looked at him in a distressed way, but his face darkened and his determination increased.

"Did you make that promise to a German? An officer? Did you make it to General von Reiter?"

"Yes."

"I see. And there are papers in that satchel!"

"Yes."

"Where did you get them?"

"From – Mr. Grätz."

"You were accustomed to receive papers from Mr. Grätz?"

"Sometimes."

"At certain intervals?"

"I don't know. Whenever Mr. Grätz telephoned, Anna, my maid, went to London and usually brought back the – the plans."

"Plans!"

"Yes. I understood that they were plans of a new automobile which was being designed by the Edmeston Agency for their Berlin branch. Mr. Grätz mentioned it as the Bauer-Schroeder car."

"To whom were these plans to go, ultimately?"

"I sent them to New York."

"To whom?"

"To Schimmel and Company, Broadway."

"Have you any idea where Schimmel and Company sent those plans?"

"Yes. I never thought much about it then, but today I realized that sooner or later the plans were sent to General von Reiter – in Berlin."

"You are sure?"

"Yes. I saw them when I was there last April. He said that those were the plans which I had sent to Schimmel and Company."

"You saw the plans?"

"Yes."

"Were they plans of an automobile?"

"I – thought so then. They were on very thin paper. I supposed them to be drawings of detached machinery in sections. They looked to me like fragments of something."

"And now – in the light of what happened today – what do you believe those drawings represented?"

"I have no idea – really I haven't. Only – " She hesitated, troubled, twisting her fingers on her knees.

"Only – " he prompted her.

She said, with a tremulous intake of breath: "I think I had better tell you, Kervyn. This is what frightened me – what the experience of today seemed to suddenly make plain to me – I mean your coming to Westheath, Mr. Grätz telephoning about obeying you, and informing me of the arrest of my maid – these things, and the war, and what I have read about German spies in England – all this flashed up in my mind at the same time when you turned from the telephone and asked me such terrible questions.

"It made clear to me, or seemed to, something else that I had not understood at the time – " She hesitated, her gaze concentrated as though in an effort to recollect and visualize some scene —

"It was last April, in Berlin… General Baron von Reiter said something to me as I was waiting for his car to take me to the station – I was departing for England again – and he said – he said – "

"Yes, Karen?"

"He said something about war – the possibility of it. And he said that in case war ever came while I was in England, and if, when it came, I had in my possession any automobile plans from the Edmeston Agency – from Mr. Grätz – that I was to bring them with me to Germany – not to show them to anybody, not to send them by mail, but to bring them back and deliver them to him."

"Yes, Karen."

"I promised… He made me promise again. He was very serious. He said that on my obedience in this matter might depend the lives of many people. I had no idea what he meant by that – until today… And what I fear has happened is that Anna, who went yesterday to London because Mr. Grätz telephoned, was arrested while in possession of papers delivered to her by Mr. Grätz… And that these papers were not what I had always supposed. And that is why I was suddenly afraid – afraid – Oh, Kervyn! – I cannot describe the fear that leaped up and seized me when you asked me those dreadful questions! Suddenly everything, every detail in the entire matter seemed to grow clear and terrible to me… I – I went into my dressing-room – and steadied myself against the wall – feeling faint for a moment.

"Then I took from my dressing-table the papers which I had from Anna's last visit to Mr. Grätz. They had remained there in the drawer because I had been told not to mail them, and no word had come for me to go back to Berlin. So I had them on my hands. But until you came I gave them no thought – merely conscious that I had promised to take them back with me.

"But – in that terrible moment when I stood there leaning against the wall, I remembered what was said to me about the lives of many people depending upon my keeping my promise. It was a hideous thing to remember at such a time… But I could not break my word – for the sake of these imperilled people also – could I, Kervyn?.. So I took the papers and locked them in my satchel. And afterward I – I asked you to leave – " Her voice quivered; she bent her head and sat twisting her slim fingers on her lap.

"That is all I know," she faltered – "all I know about it. I have tried to be true to my word, and loyal to – you."

Her emotion was reflected in his own face; he bent forward, laid his hand over her restless fingers.

"Karen," he said, "you are the pluckiest, straightest, whitest woman I ever knew."

"I'm only – honest," she whispered… "And I want you to think me so."

"I do! – Karen, dearest, sincerest, most fearless of women!"

"Do you believe me – that?"

"Karen, I – "

A sharp knocking at the door cut him short. They looked at each other, startled. At the same moment he realized that the ship had stopped.

"Could it be the stewardess?" she whispered.

"I don't know."

He rose, picked up the satchel and went to the open port.

"If a British guard-ship has stopped us to search us, we can't have this thing found," he said.

She stared at him in frightened silence.

"They may have found those men we tied up and left in your house at Westheath!" he whispered. "A wireless would set a score of warships ready to intercept us. If they board us they must not find that satchel."

The sharp, loud rapping came again.

Guild went to the open port, pushed the satchel through it, leaned out himself. As he did so something brushed his head, and, looking up, he saw a rope's end dangling there.

In an instant he had tied it to the handle of the satchel, stepped back, screwed the heavy glass fast, and then, motioning Karen to fling herself on the bed, he went to the door, opened it, and stood yawning in the face of a ship's officer.

"Don't wake my wife," he said drowsily. "What is the trouble?"

"The trouble is," replied the officer coldly, "that a British cruiser has signalled us to stop, and has asked whether an American named Guild is aboard."

CHAPTER IX

H. M. S. WYVERN

"Well," said Guild coolly, "have you any idea what a casual British cruiser might want of me?"

"I have not," said the officer, "so perhaps you had better tell me what is wanted of yourself and your wife by the captain of that warship. It might save some argument between him and our own captain. We are due in Amsterdam at noon tomorrow," he added meaningly.

"Do you mean to say that the officer in command of this British ship desires to speak to my wife?"

"His signals stopped us and his wireless told us to detain you and your wife."

"What ship is it?" demanded the young man, so nervous now that he scarcely knew what he was saying.

The Dutch officer remained icy and precise: "The ship is the light cruiser Wyvern, of the 'Monster' class. Her consorts yonder are the Hippogriff and Basalisk– if this information enlightens you, Mr. Guild."

"It does not. But I know this much: You can't detain an American! Neither can that British captain take a neutral from a neutral ship! And that settles the matter."

"Be good enough to come on deck," said the Hollander in his correct and fluent English. "The captain desires to speak with you."

"Very well. I'll follow you in a moment" – and turning to Karen: "Dearest, are you awake?"

"Yes, dear."

"The captain wishes to see me. I'll be back directly." He stepped out into the corridor, hesitated, excused himself to the officer, and returned to Karen, closing the door and locking it.

She was sitting up on the bed, very still and white, and when he came over to her she instinctively laid both chilled hands in his. He held them in a firm and reassuring clasp; but he was terribly disconcerted.

"Listen, dear. I think a British officer is coming aboard for us. I don't know whether he has any right to take us off this ship, but I'm afraid that the law in the matter won't worry him.

"Now listen to me, dear. If I come back and knock and call to you by name, open. If somebody knocks, and there is no voice – or if it is not my voice, go to that port, open it, untie your satchel, which is hanging outside at a rope's end, take out the papers, and drop them into the sea. And not until you have done this shall you open the door to anybody."

"Yes, Kervyn."

"Then," he said, "if we've got to go back to England on a warship, we'll go clean-handed."

"Yes."

"And you had better take these passports, too." He drew them from his breast pocket. "They're forged. Throw them out with the other papers."

"Yes, I will."

"Then – I'm going… Don't worry – dear. Don't tremble so, Karen – dear Karen – "

"I'll try not to. I'll not be cowardly. It – it has been a long – day… I'm thinking of Anna, too. You know, if she had any papers, she was bringing them to me. That will be against me."

"I forgot that," he said, appalled. Then he squared his shoulders and forced a smile: "Anyway, whatever faces you faces us both!.. Dear – keep every atom of courage you have. I shall stand by you, always. But I must go now. Do you promise me to keep up courage?"

"Yes – dear – "

They were excited, their every nerve now stretched to the breaking, yet both were striving for self-control in the instant menace of this new peril confronting them. Neither knew just what they said or did; he bent over her; she lifted her face to his, closing her eyes as his lips touched her forehead. Then he went away swiftly, and she sprang to the floor and locked the stateroom door. The next moment the awful flare of a searchlight turned the room to a pit of silvery fire, and she cringed against the bed under the fierce white glory, covering her bloodless face with both hands.

On deck, the Dutch captain, who was awaiting Guild at the companionway, came forward hastily and drew him aside.

"They've boarded us already," he said; "there comes their lieutenant over the side. Tell me, Mr. Guild, are your papers in order and your conscience clear? Can I make a fight over this affair?"

"I have no papers, but my conscience is in order. Don't let them take us if you can help it."

"You have no papers?"

"None that can help me or my wife."

"Then it's no use fighting."

"Fight all the same!" whispered Guild, as they both turned to meet the young naval officer who had just stepped aboard. He and the Dutch captain exchanged civilities stiffly, then Guild stepped forward into the lantern light.

"Kervyn Guild!" exclaimed the slim young officer in surprise. "Is it you!"

"Jamison!" ejaculated Guild, astonished. "Well this is lucky! I'm tremendously glad! I am indeed!"

They exchanged a warm impulsive hand-clasp, smiled at each other – then the quick smile on the youthful lieutenant's features altered, and his face fell.

"Guild," he said soberly, "I am afraid I shall have to inconvenience you and – your wife. I'm afraid I shall have to ask you to come aboard the Wyvern with me. I'm sorry; I know it must inconvenience you fearfully – "

"Jamison! We can't go aboard your ship! What on earth are you thinking of?"

"Orders," returned the young fellow gravely. "I've no discretion, you see."

As by common consent they had stepped aside from the group of ships' officers and, standing in the shadow of a lifeboat, they now gazed at each other very seriously.

Guild said: "There must be some mistake about this. I have no wife on board this boat."

"Did you not board this boat in company with your wife?" asked Jamison in a low voice.

"No."

"Our information is otherwise."

"Jamison, you know whether I am likely to lie to you. And I say to you on my word of honour that I did not come aboard this boat with my wife."

"Is she not on board?"

"She is not."

Jamison said regretfully: "No good, old fellow. We know she is not your wife. But we want her. I think you had better prepare her to come with us."

"Jamison, will you listen to me and believe me?"

"Yes, of course."

"Then, on my word of honour, the woman you have come to take from this ship is absolutely innocent of any – intentional – crime."

"I take your word for it, Guild."

"You can guess my sentiments in regard to this war, can't you?" insisted Guild.

"I think I can."

"Then listen, Jamison. I pledge you my word that through this young girl, and through me, nothing shall ever happen that could in any manner be detrimental to your country or its allies. Don't press this matter, for God's sake!"

"Guild," he said quietly, "I believe you absolutely. But – both you and this young lady must come aboard the Wyvern with me. Those are my orders, old fellow. I can't go back on them; I have no discretion in this matter. You know that, don't you?"

"Yes."

After a silence, Guild linked his arm in the gold-laced arm of his old-time friend and walked back to where the captain stood fidgeting.

"I won't go, Jamison," he said, loudly but pleasantly. "I am not obliged to go aboard your ship. Captain Vandervelde, I claim the protection of your flag for myself and for my wife."

"Captain Vandervelde knows that it means only trouble for him," said Jamison, forcing a smile. "He is not likely to defy the Wyvern, I think."

They all turned in the sudden glitter of the Wyvern's searchlight and gazed across the darkness where the unseen cruiser was playing on them from stem to stern.

"Will you come with me, Guild?" asked Jamison quietly.

"No, Jamison, I'm hanged if I do… And that's too close to the truth to be very funny," he added, laughingly.

"The Wyvern will merely send a guard for you. It's no good bluffing, Guild. You know it yourself."

"International law is no bluff!"

"International law is merely in process of evolution just now. It's in the making. And we are making it."

"That remark is very British."

"Yes, I'm afraid it is. I'm sorry."

"Well, I won't go aboard the Wyvern, I tell you. I've got to stay on this ship! I – " he leaned over and said under his breath – "it may mean death to me, Jamison, to go aboard your ship. Not because of anything I have to fear from your people. On the contrary. But they'll shoot me in Germany. Can't you tell your captain I'm trustworthy?"

"What is the use, Guild?" said the young man gently. "I have my orders."

Guild looked at him, looked about him at the grave faces of the captain and the second officer, looked out across the black void of water where the long beam of the searchlight had shifted skyward, as though supplicating Heaven once more.

Only a miracle could save Karen. He knew that as he stood there, silent, with death in his heart.

And the miracle happened. For, as he stood staring at the heavenward beam of the unseen cruiser's searchlight, all at once the ship herself became grotesquely visible, tilted up oddly out of the sea in the centre of a dull reddish glow. The next instant a deadened boom sounded across the night as though from infinite depths; a shaft of fire two hundred feet high streamed skyward.

"That ship has been torpedoed! Oh, my God!" said a voice.

"The Wyvern has hit a mine!" roared the Dutch captain. "I'm going to get out of this now!"

Jamison's youthful face was marble; he swayed slightly where he stood. The next instant he was over the side like a cat, and Guild heard him hailing his boat in an agonized voice which broke with a dry, boyish sob.

From everywhere out of the blackness searchlights stretched out tremulous phantom arms toward the Wyvern, and their slender white beams crossed and recrossed each other, focussing on the stricken warship, which was already down by the stern, her after deck awash, and that infernal red glow surrounding her like the glow of hell around a soul in torment.

Passengers, seamen, stewards crowded and crushed him to the rail, shouting, struggling, crying out in terror or in pity.

Guild caught an officer by his gold sleeve. "We ought to stand by her," he said mechanically. "Her magazine is afire!"

"There are boats a-plenty to look after her," returned the officer; "the British destroyers are all around her like chicks about a dying hen. She's their parent ship; and there go their boats, pulling hell for sweeps! God! If it was a mine, I wish we were at Amsterdam, I do!"