The Yellow Dove

For the present at least Cyril’s packet was safe. In her dressing-room Wilson took off her cloak and helped her into bedroom slippers, not, however, without a comment on the bedraggled state of her dinner dress and the shocking condition of her slippers. But Doris explained with some care that Mr. Hammersley’s machine had had a blow-out near the wicket gate, that she had become frightened and had run all the way across the lawn. All of which was true. It didn’t explain Mr. Hammersley’s deficiencies as an escort, but Wilson was too well trained to presume further. A little sherry and a biscuit and Doris revived rapidly. While the maid drew her bath she locked Cyril’s cigarette papers in the drawer of the desk in her bedroom, and when she was bathed and ready for the night she dismissed Wilson to her dressing-room to wait within call until she had gone to bed.

Alone with her thoughts, her first act was to turn out her lights and kneel in the window where she could peer out through the hangings. It was inconceivable that her pursuers would dare to make any attempt upon the house, but even now she wondered whether it would not have been wiser if she had taken her father into her confidence and had the gardeners out to keep an eye open for suspicious characters. But the motives that had kept her silent downstairs in the hall were even stronger with her now. She could not have borne to discuss with her father, who had an extraordinary talent for getting at the root of difficulties, the subject of Cyril’s questionable packet of cigarette papers. She was quite sure, from the adventure which had befallen them tonight, and the mystery with which Cyril had chosen to invest the article committed to her care, that Cyril himself would not have approved of any course which would have brought the packet or his own actions into the light of publicity.

The packet of cigarette papers! With a last scrutiny of the landscape she pulled the shades and hangings so that no ray of light could reach the outside of the house, then groped her way across the room. A thin line of light beneath the door of her dressing-room showed that Wilson was still there. So she took the precaution of locking that door as well as the others leading to the upstairs hall, then went to her desk and turned on her lamp. She unlocked the drawer of the desk and taking the small object gingerly in her fingers, scrutinized it carefully. It was yellow in color, quite new, bound with a small rubber band, a very prosaic, a very harmless looking object to have caused so much excitement and trouble to all who had been concerned about it. She turned it over and stretched its rubber band, snapping it thoughtfully two or three times. Now for the first time since Cyril had given it to her did she permit herself to think of the hidden meanings the thing might possess. In the machine, during the chase Cyril had won her unreservedly to his side. As against the mysterious men of John Rizzio Cyril’s cause had been the only one to be considered. She had been carried off her feet and there hadn’t been time to think of anything but the real necessity of acceding to Cyril’s wishes in getting the small object to a place of safety. Then it had only been a packet of cigarette papers—a mere package of Riz-la-Croix which everybody, for some reason or other, seemed to want. Now, weighed lightly in her hand, the seclusion of her room gave it a different character. She recalled Cyril’s bantering tone at having been chased twenty miles for a cigarette. But his attitude deceived Doris no more than it had his pursuers. There was material here for something more deadly than cigarettes. She took the yellow packet in both hands and pressed it to her temples as though by this act she could pass its secrets into her own brain. In spite of herself she was frightfully curious and frightfully afraid.

She got up and paced the floor rapidly. No—it couldn’t go on. She must know the truth. As the key of the one unopened room fascinated Blue Beard’s wife, as the box fascinated Pandora, so this unopened yellow packet plagued and fascinated Doris Mather. She hesitated another long moment and then slipped off the rubber band and opened it, trembling so that the first leaf of paper came out in her fingers and fell to the floor. She picked the paper up and examined it minutely, holding it up to the light. There was nothing unusual about it, no mark, no sign of any kind that might indicate a secret mission. Leaf by leaf, slowly at first and then more rapidly she went through the leaves, examining each page back and front, without success. It was not until she was almost half through it that she came upon the writing—four pages written lengthways in ink with a line too fine almost for legibility.

She put the packet down for a moment, her heart throbbing with excitement and incredulity, too apprehensive to read, in mortal dread of a revelation which was to change the whole course of her life and Cyril’s. There was still time to close the book and go to bed. Why did she sit there holding the thing open, stupidly gazing at nothing? If Cyril–

Yes, if Cyril was the unspeakable thing of her doubts, it was time that she knew it and no compunctions of honor should hold her with such a man. Besides she had promised him nothing. Hesitating no longer, she held the leaves under the light of her lamp and slowly deciphered the thin script.

At first she could make little of it, as it seemed to consist of numerals which she couldn’t understand, but here and there she made out the names of towns, the names of regiments familiar to her and a series of dates, beginning in March and ending in May. As the meaning of the writing grew clearer to her, she read on, her eyes distended with horror. Even a child could have seen that this was a list of the British forces under arms, the proposed dates for the completion of their equipment, training and departure for France. When she had finished reading the written pages, her inert fingers slowly turned the blank papers over to the end. There was nothing more. God knows it was enough! Cyril—the Honorable Cyril—a spy of the Germans!

She sank low in her armchair, her senses numb from the horror of the revelation. Her thoughts became confused like those of a sick person awaking from a nightmare to a half consciousness, peopled with strange beautiful images doing the dark things of dreams. Cyril—her Cyril—a spy!

What would happen now. And which way did duty lie? Toward England or toward Cyril? She sat crouched on the floor in an agony of misery at the thought of Cyril’s baseness, the package of paper clenched in her hand, trying to think clearly for England, for Cyril, for herself, but the longer she battled the deeper became her desperation and despair.

The world seemed to be slipping away from her, the orderly arrangement of her thoughts was twisted and distorted so that wrong had become right and right wrong. She had lost her standard of judgment. She did not know which way to turn, so she bent her head forward into her hands and silently prayed. There seemed to be nothing else to do. For a long while she remained prostrate by the window, her brain tortured, her body stiff with weariness, until she could think no more. Then slowly and painfully she rose and, still clutching the yellow packet, groped her way to bed, into which she fell exhausted in mind and body.

CHAPTER V

THE PURSUIT CONTINUES

At eight o’clock Doris was awakened by a loud knocking on the door leading to her dressing-room. She had slept the sleep of utter exhaustion and aroused herself with difficulty, a little bewildered at the unusual sounds. Then she dimly remembered locking the door and got quickly out of bed, put the yellow packet in the drawer of her desk and pushed back the bolt of the door.

To her surprise her father confronted her and behind him were other members of the family in various stages of their morning toilets.

“Thank the Lord,” said David Mather with a sigh of relief.

“What on earth is the matter?” asked the girl, glancing from one to the other in alarm.

Her father laughed. “Oh, nothing, now that you’re all right. Burglars, that’s all.”

Doris’s heart stopped beating as in a flash of reviving memory the incidents of the night before came quickly back to her.

“Burglars!” she stammered.

“Yes, they got in here—came up the water spout,” pointing to the dressing-room window, “and a fine mess they made of things. You’ll have to take account of stock, child, and see how you stand.”

She glanced around the disordered room, very much alarmed. The drawers of her cupboards were all pulled out and their contents scattered about on the floor.

“When did—did it happen?” she asked timorously, more because she had to say something than because that was what she wanted to know.

“Some time before dawn,” said her father. “Wilson was here until three thinking that you might want her and then went out to her own room in the wing.”

“Yes, I remember,” said the girl, passing her hand across her eyes. “I wasn’t feeling very well—so I asked her to stay here for a while. But I can’t understand why I didn’t wake.”

“That’s what frightened us,” Cousin Tom broke in. “We were afraid the snoozers might have got in to you–”

“It’s lucky you had your door locked.”

“They were at my library desk, too,” she heard her father saying. “Must have gone down the hall from here. But so far as I can see, they didn’t get anything.”

Her Aunt Sophia gasped a sigh.

“Thank the Lord,” she put in reverently. “At least we’re all safe and sound.”

Stunned at the daring of Rizzio’s men and bewildered by the persistence with which they had followed their quest while she was sleeping, Doris managed to formulate a quick plan to hide the meaning of this intrusion from the members of her family.

She had been examining the disordered contents of the upper drawers of a bureau.

“My jewel case, fortunately, I keep in my bedroom,” she said, “but there was an emerald brooch to be repaired which I put in this drawer yesterday. It’s gone.”

She saw a puzzled look come into the eyes of Wilson, who stood near the window, and a glance passed between them.

“Oh, well,” her father said as he turned toward the door, “we’re lucky it wasn’t worse. I’m ’phoning to Watford for a constable.”

This was what Doris had feared and yet she could not protest. So she shut her lips firmly and let them go out of the room, leaving her alone with Wilson.

She knew that the woman was devoted to her and that she was not in the habit of talking belowstairs, but her mistress had seen the look of incredulity in the woman’s eyes last night and the puzzled expression a moment ago which indicated a suspicion connecting Doris’s arrival in the Hall with the mysterious entrance of the dressing-room. Doris knew that she must tell her something that would satisfy her curiosity.

“My bath please, Wilson,” she said coolly in order to gain time. “And say nothing, you understand.”

“Of course, Miss Mather,” said Wilson, with her broad Kentish smile. “I wouldn’t ha’ dreamed of it.”

The cool water refreshed and invigorated the girl, and she planned skillfully. By the time Wilson brought her breakfast tray she had already wrapped the yellow packet of cigarette papers and her Cousin Tom’s tobacco pouch in a pair of silk stockings surrounded by many thicknesses of paper and in a disguised handwriting had addressed it to Lady Heathcote at her place in Scotland. She had also written a note to Betty advising her of a change in plans and of her intention to come to her upon the following day, asking in a postscript twice underlined to keep a certain package addressed to her and carefully described safely under lock and key for her without opening until her arrival. She would explain later.

A gleam of hope had penetrated to her through the gloom that encompassed her thoughts—only a gleam at the best, but it was enough to give her courage to go on with her efforts to save Cyril from immediate danger. And this was the belief born of the forcible and secret entry of the house that the men who were in pursuit of the fateful packet were not in any way connected with Scotland Yard or the War Office. Otherwise if they believed the papers to be in her possession they would have come boldly in the light of day and demanded of her father the right to search the house. These were not times when the War Office hesitated in matters which concerned the public interest. John Rizzio, for some reason which she could not fathom, was acting upon his own initiative with a desire as urgent as Cyril’s to keep his object secret.

She pondered those things for a long while and then with a sigh of uncertainty dismissed them from her thoughts, which were too full of the immediate necessity to carry out her carefully formulated plans. First she called Wilson and after assuring herself that she was making no mistake, took her partially into confidence, telling her of the important paper intrusted by Mr. Hammersley to her care which it was to the interest of other persons to possess and the necessity for getting them safely out of the house. Her mistress’s confidences flattered the maid and she entered very willingly into the affair, concealing the emerald brooch which Doris produced from her jewel box, in a trunk containing old clothes which had long stood neglected in a dusty corner of the attic.

After the visit of the man from Watford, who went over the situation with a puzzled brow and departed still puzzled, she confided to her father the letter and package which were to be mailed from London, the letter in the morning, the package not until night.

“Don’t fail me, daddy. It’s very important–” she said as she kissed him. “It’s a surprise for Betty, but it mustn’t get to Scotland until tomorrow night at the earliest. And good-by–” And she kissed him again. “I’m going with it.”

“Tonight?”

“Tomorrow.”

Mr. Mather smiled and pinched her cheeks. He was quite accustomed to sudden changes of plan on the part of his daughter and would as soon have thought of questioning them as he would the changes in the weather. He hadn’t liked the idea of her hunting or playing polo, but she had done them both and cajoled him into approving of her. He had objected fearfully when she went in for aviation, but had learned to watch the flights of her little Nieuport with growing confidence and had even erected a shed for her machines in the meadow behind the stables.

“Take care of yourself,” he said lightly. “You’re looking a little peaky lately. If you don’t get rosier I’ll withdraw my ambulance corps.”

She laughed. “Don’t forget!” she flung after him as he got into the car.

With the departure of the yellow packet a weight had been lifted from Doris’s mind. John Rizzio’s men might come now if they liked—and she would invite them to search the place. She was not in the least afraid of herself, and she knew that the danger to Cyril had passed—at least for the present.

She hoped that Cyril wouldn’t come today—or telephone her. She wanted time to think of what she should say to him. At moments it even seemed as though she didn’t care if she ever saw him again. But as the day passed and she had no word from him, she grew anxious. What if Rizzio had told the War Office!

That night men from Watford kept a watch upon the house, but there was no disturbance. Her watchers had evidently taken the alarm. But it was in no very certain or very happy state that Doris drove her machine out of the gate of the Park in the later afternoon of the next day with her cousin Tom beside her and Wilson and the luggage in the rear seat. The main road to London was empty of vehicles except for a man on a motor-cycle just ahead of her bound in the same direction. At least, she was no longer to be watched. There was plenty of time, so she drove leisurely, reaching Euston Station with twenty minutes to spare. She sent a wire to Lady Heathcote and then Tom saw her safely into her carriage.

The movement of the train soothed her and she closed her eyes and slept, Wilson like a watchful Gorgon, guarding against intrusion.

There was but one incident which destroyed the peace of the journey. Toward morning, Wilson, who slept with one eye open, wakened her suddenly and asked her quietly to look out of the window. Her train had stopped at a large station, the platform of which was well lighted. From the darkness of their compartment she followed the direction of Wilson’s figure. Outside, pacing the platform and smoking cigarettes, were two men.

“What is it?” asked Doris, half asleep.

“The big one,” whispered Wilson excitedly. “It was him that was ridin’ the motor-cycle.”

Doris remembered passing and repassing the vehicle on the road to London, and the face of its driver came back to her. She peered out at him eagerly and as the man turned she saw the face and figure of the larger man clearly. It was the motor-cycle man, and in a rush the thought came to her that his figure and bearing were strangely familiar.

“It’s true,” she whispered, her fingers on Wilson’s arm. “We’re followed. It’s the same man. Last night, too.”

“Last night?”

“Yes. It’s the man called Jim, who searched Mr. Hammersley in the road.”

“No,” said Wilson, her eyes brightening. “You don’t say so, Miss Mather. Of all the brazen–”

“Sh—” said Doris.

But there was no more sleep for either of them that night. Bolt upright, side by side, they watched the dawn grow into sunrise and the sunrise into broad day. They saw no more of the motor-cycle man and Doris reassured herself that there was nothing to be feared now that the packet was— She started in affright. The packet at Betty Heathcote’s! Perhaps at this very moment lying innocently in Betty’s post-box or in the careless hands of some stupid Scotch gardener, or worse yet inviting curiosity on Betty’s desk or library table. Her heart sank within her as she realized that her brave plans might yet miscarry.

It was with a sense of joyous relief that the train pulled at last into Innerwick Station. When she got down she saw Betty Heathcote’s yellow brake, the four chestnuts restive in the keen moorland air, and looking very youthful and handsome in a brown coat which made the symphony complete, the lady herself, the wind in her cheeks and in her cheery greeting.

“Of course, Doris, you’re to be trusted to do something surprising. Oh, here’s Jack Sandys—you didn’t know, of course.”

The sight of these familiar faces gave Doris renewed confidence, and when from the box seat she glanced around in search of her pursuer he had disappeared.

Sandys clambered up behind them. Wilson got into the back seat with the grooms, the boxes went in between, and they were off.

“Constance was tired, Jack. At least she said she was. I really think that all she wanted was to disappoint you. Nothing like disappointment. It breeds aspiration. But,” she added mischievously, “I’m sure she’s dying to see you. Awf’ly sad—especially since it’s not quite forty-eight hours since you were waving a tearful good-by in Euston Station.”

“Did you get my package?” whispered Doris in her ear, at the first opportunity.

“What package? Oh, yes, the stockings. It was torn and awf’ly muddy. Higgins dropped it from the dog-cart on the way over and had to go back for it. Lucky he found it—in the middle of the road. What a silly thing to make such a mystery of. And the cigarette papers—you might be sure I’d have something to smoke at Kilmorack House. I can’t understand. You really could smoke here if you want to without so much secrecy about it.”

“I—I didn’t know,” stammered the girl. “I—I’ve just taken it up and I thought you mightn’t approve.”

Betty glanced at her narrowly.

“Whatever ails you, child? I disapprove! You know I smoke when I feel like it—which isn’t often.”

The subject fortunately was turned when they passed the road to Ben-a-Chielt.

“I always envied Cyril his cliffs. I love the sea and Cyril hates it. ‘So jolly restless,’” she mimicked him. “Makes one ‘quiggledy.’ And there I am—away inland—five miles to the firth at the very nearest. But I suppose,” she sighed, “one has to overlook the deficiencies of one’s grandfather. If he had known I’d have liked the sea, Cyril, of course, would have come into my place.”

With this kind of light chatter, of which Lady Heathcote possessed a fund, their whip drove them upon their way, her own fine spirits oblivious of the silence of her companions. But at last she glanced at them suspiciously. “If I didn’t know that you were both hopelessly in love with other persons, I’d think you were épris of each other.”

Doris laughed.

“We are. That’s why we chose opposite ends of the train.”

But Sandys only smiled.

“Nothing that’s happening makes a chap happy nowadays. I bring bad news.”

Lady Heathcote relaxed the reins so that one of her leaders plunged madly, while her face went white.

“Not Algy–”

“No, no—forgive me. He’s safe. I’ve kept watch of the bulletins.”

“Thank God!” said Lady Heathcote, and sent her whiplash swirling over the ears of the erring leader.

“Not Algy—Byfield–”

“Byfield—not dead–?”

“No. Worse.”

“What–?”

“In prison. He was taken into custody yesterday afternoon as he was leaving the War Office. Orders from ‘K.’”

“You can’t mean that Richard Byfield is–”

Sandys nodded quickly.

“Yes. He was one of the leaks—a spy.”

“A spy!” Betty Heathcote whispered in awestricken tones. “A spy—Dick! Horrible! I can’t—I won’t–”

“Unfortunately there’s not the least doubt about it. They found incriminating evidence at his rooms.”

“My God!” said Lady Heathcote. “What are we coming to? Dick Byfield—why, two nights ago he was a guest at my table—with you, and you–”

Doris nodded faintly, the landscape swimming in a dark mist before her eyes. Byfield—Cyril—Rizzio—all three had been at Lady Heathcote’s dinner. Something had happened that night—only a part of which she knew. Byfield was arrested—and Cyril– She clutched desperately at the edge of the seat and set her jaw to keep herself from speaking Cyril’s name.

“Were there—any others?” she asked, with an effort.

“None so far. But there must have been others. God help them! They won’t get any mercy.”

“But what made him do such a thing?” asked Betty. “I could have sworn–”

“Money—lots of it. He wasn’t very well off, you know.”

They were swinging over the ridge towards Kilmorack House in a tragic silence mocked by the high jubilant notes of the coach horn which the groom was winding to announce their approach.

Doris got down swiftly, summoning her courage to be silent and wait. In the drawing-room when the news was told, Constance Joyliffe added another note of gloom.

“We’re going to be a lively party,” said Lady Heathcote bitterly. “Thank the Lord, John Rizzio is coming.”

“Rizzio!”

Doris flashed around, her terror written so plainly that anyone might read.

“Yes. I had his wire at Innerwick when I was waiting for you.” And then catching the girl by the arm, “Why, dear, what is the matter?”

“I—I think I’ll go up to my room if you don’t mind, Betty. I won’t have any luncheon. A cup of tea is all.” She moved toward the door, her hand in Lady Heathcote’s. “And Betty—the package, please—I—I think it may soothe me to smoke.”

Betty examined her quizzically but made no comment, though she couldn’t understand such a strange proceeding in a girl who was accustomed to do exactly as she pleased. She got the package from her desk in the library and handed Doris the silk stockings, tobacco, and the yellow packet. The wrapping paper which had been soiled had been relegated to the scrap-basket.

“And Betty–” pleaded Doris as she quickly took them, “promise me that you won’t tell John Rizzio.”

Lady Heathcote glanced at her quickly and then laughed.

“I suppose I’m the least curious woman in Scotland,” she laughed, “but I would really like to know–”

“Don’t ask me, Betty,” Doris pleaded. “I’ve a reason—a silly one, perhaps, but I ask you—not to speak of this—to anyone.”

“Oh, very well,” said Lady Heathcote, “I won’t. But don’t be mysterious. All mysteries nowadays are looked on with suspicion. Even such an innocent little mystery”—and she laughed—“as a package of cigarette papers.”

Doris made some light reply and went to her room, where, with the doors locked, she quickly examined the packet to be sure that it had not been tampered with. Nothing seemed to have been changed and she gave a sigh of relief to think that thus far her secret had escaped detection. It was very clear to her now that John Rizzio had decided that the secret information was in her possession and that his visit was planned with the object of getting it away from her. This should never be. By the light of the window she read and re-read the thin script until the lines were etched upon her memory. She would burn the papers if they were in danger. If Cyril was to meet Captain Byfield’s fate, it would be upon other evidence than this. Her hands, at least with regard to Cyril, must be clean.