The Yellow Dove

“We might as well have an understanding before they come, Rizzio,” put in Hammersley quickly. “Do you prefer to believe my story—or would you like to invent one of your own?”

Rizzio shrugged. “As you please,” he said. “It seems that I am de trop here.” At the door he paused and finished distinctly. “I hope that your explanations will prove satisfactory.”

Doris had helped Cyril off with his coat and by the time the maid brought Betty Heathcote, had cut away the sleeve of his shirt with Cyril’s pocket knife. It was merely a gash across the upper arm, which a bandage and some old-fashioned remedies would set right.

Lady Heathcote heard the story (from which Hammersley eliminated the rope) with amazement, and was for sending at once for the local constabulary.

“Oh, it’s hardly worth while,” said the Honorable Cyril, sipping his whiskey and water, comfortably. “Poor devils—out of work, I fancy. Wanted my money. If they’d come to Ben-a-Chielt tomorrow I’d give it to ’em. But I wouldn’t mind, Betty, if you could put me up for the night. I’m not keen to be dodgin’ bullets in the dark.”

“Of course,” said Lady Heathcote. “How extraordinary! I can’t understand—Saltham Rocks—that’s on my place. Something must be done, Cyril.”

Hammersley yawned. “Oh, tomorrow will do. Couldn’t catch the beggars in the dark. Besides, it’s late. Do me a favor, Betty. Don’t let those people come in here again. I want a word with Doris.”

He had stretched himself out comfortably on the Davenport, his eyes on the girl, who still stood uncertainly beside him.

Lady Betty shrugged, and taking up her basin and lotion moved toward the door.

“It’s most mysterious. Are you sure we’re quite safe?”

“Quite. But I think it might be better if I had the room between yours and Doris’s.”

“I was putting John Rizzio there.”

“Well, change—there’s a dear. And say nothing about it. I—I might need a new dressing on this thing in the night.”

She examined him curiously, but he was looking lazily into the fire, having already taken her acquiescence for granted.

When she went out, Hammersley sat up and threw his cigarette into the fire.

“You have it still?” he whispered anxiously, taking Doris by both hands.

She nodded.

“Thank God for that. I seemed to have arrived at the proper moment.”

“I was about to burn them.”

He drew a long breath of relief.

“You know what they are?”

“Yes. I read them.”

“I was afraid you would. You have spoken to no one.”

“No,” proudly. “Hardly. After what I went through.” And, with an air of restraint, she told him everything.

He listened, a serious look in his eyes.

“It was my fault. I should have left them in the machine. I got away scot free.”

“Yes, I know. I saw you.”

“You poor child,” he said softly. “I was desperate. I thought it necessary. How can I ever thank you?”

“You can’t.” The tones of her voice were strange.

“I’d jolly well give my life for you, Doris. You know that,” he said earnestly.

“It’s something less than that that I want, and something more—your word of honor.”

“My word–?”

“Yes,” she went on quietly. “To forswear your German kinship and give me an oath of loyalty to England. Difficult as it is, I’ll believe you.”

“Sh—!” He glanced toward the door. All the windows of the room were closed. “He told you that I was a German spy?” he whispered anxiously.

“You forget that I had proof of that already.”

He sat up and looked into the fire. “I hoped you wouldn’t read ’em. It has done no good.”

“I have no regrets. I will not betray England, Cyril, even for you.”

He rose and paced the rug in front of her for a moment. Then he spoke incredulously in a whisper.

“You mean that you won’t give ’em to me?”

“I mean that—precisely.”

“But that is impossible,” he went on, with greater signs of excitement than she had ever seen in him. “Don’t you realize now that every moment the things are in your possession you’re in danger—great danger? Isn’t what you’ve gone through—isn’t this”—and he indicated his arm—“the proof of it?”

“Yes,” she said firmly. “But I would rather suffer injury myself than see you share the fate of Captain Byfield.”

He started. “Oh, you heard that?”

“Yes. Jack Sandys is here.” She put her face in her hands in the throes of her doubts of him and then suddenly thrust out her hands and laced her fingers around his arm.

“Oh, give it up, Cyril, for my sake give it all up. Can’t you see the terrible position you’ve placed me in? If I give these papers to Jack Sandys they’ll come and take you as they took Captain Byfield. I’ve kept them for you, because I promised. But I cannot let this information get to Germany. I would die first. What shall I do?” she wailed. “What on earth can I do?”

His reply made her gasp.

“There’s a fire,” he said quietly. “Burn ’em.”

Her fingers went to her corsage and her eyes gleamed with a new hope. She took the crumpled rice-papers out and looked at them. Then in a flash the thought came to her.

“You know the information contained in these papers?” she asked in an accent of deprecation.

“No,” he replied shortly. “I merely glanced at them.”

“You hadn’t the chance to study them?”

“No.”

Still she hesitated. “But what—what is Rizzio?”

He walked to the door of the room, opening it suddenly. Then he shut it quietly and coming back to the fire took the poker and made a hole between the glowing coals.

“Burn ’em!” he commanded.

She obeyed him wonderingly and together they watched the package of rice-papers flame into a live coal and then turn to ashes. When the last vestige of them had disappeared, they sat together on the davenport, Cyril thoughtful, the girl bewildered.

“What is Rizzio?” she repeated. “He told me that he was an agent of the English Government.”

“I can’t tell you,” he whispered hoarsely. “I can’t tell you anything—even you. Don’t you understand?”

“No, I don’t. It’s your word against his. I would rather believe you than him. I want to, Cyril. God knows I want to.”

“Didn’t I ask you to burn the papers? Didn’t he try to prevent it?”

“Yes.”

“Can’t you see? If he were acting for England, it wouldn’t matter what became of ’em if they didn’t reach Germany.”

“Oh, I thought of that—but what you have told me bewilders me. Why should you run away with secrets of England—given you by a traitor who is about to pay the penalty with—with death? What does it mean? Why didn’t you take those papers at once to the War Office? Why did Captain Byfield give them to you? He—a traitor—to you—Cyril! It is all so horrible. I am frightened. Your danger—Rizzio’s men, here—tonight—all about us.”

“If they were English secret service men,” Cyril put in quietly, “wouldn’t they come here to this house and arrest me in the name of the law?”

“Yes. There must be other reasons why they can’t. What is the contest between you and Rizzio? Tell me. Tell me everything! I will believe you. Haven’t I kept your trust? If I could do that—for your sake—do you not think that I could keep silent for England’s sake?”

Her arms were about his neck, and her lips very close to his, but he turned his head away so that the temptation might not be too strong for him.

“I can’t,” he muttered, “I cannot speak—even to you. I am sworn to secrecy.”

She drooped upon his arms and then moved away despairingly. It was the failure of the appeal of her femininity that condemned him.

“Oh, you won’t let me believe in you. You won’t let me. It’s too great a test you’re asking of me. Everything is against you—but the worst witness is your silence!”

He stood by the mantel, his head lowered.

“It is hard for you—hard for us both,” he said softly, “but I can’t tell you anythin’—anythin’.” He raised his head and looked at her with pity. She had sunk upon the divan, her head upon her arms in a despair too deep for tears.

He crossed and laid his hand gently upon her shoulder.

“You must trust in me if you can. I will try to be worthy of it. That’s all I can say.” He paused. “And now you must go to bed. You’re a bit fagged. Perhaps in the mornin’ you’ll pull up a bit and see things differently.”

She straightened slowly and their eyes met for a moment. His never wavered, and she saw that they were very kind, but she rose silently and without offering him her lips or even her hand, moved slowly toward the door.

He reached it in a stride before her and put his hand upon the knob.

“There’s one thing more I’ve got to ask.”

Her look questioned.

“You must sleep in my room tonight, next to Betty’s. I shall sleep in yours.”

Her weary eyes sought his with an effort.

“You mean you think Rizzio—would still–?”

She paused.

“Yes, he thinks you would not give them to me.” And then, with a laugh, “You wouldn’t, you know.”

“And if I tell him I have burned them–”

“He will not believe you.”

“He would not believe me,” she repeated in a daze.

“You must do what I ask,” Cyril went on quietly. “I know what is best. I’ll arrange it with Betty.” He glanced at his watch. “One o’clock. By Jove! It’s time even for auction players.”

She promised him at last after a protest on his own account.

“Nothin’ to worry about,” he laughed. “They may not try anythin’, and when they find I’m there they’ll bundle out in a hurry.”

Thus reassured she went out to the drawing-room where the card players were just rising. Rizzio was nowhere to be seen. Cyril at once took their hostess aside and told her that Doris was a little upset by the shooting, asking if Betty would mind letting her take the room next to her own, so that she could open the door between.

“Don’t say anything about it, Betty,” he urged. “Just ask her in, won’t you, when you get upstairs.”

“And you?”

“I could do a turn on steel spikes,” he laughed.

“Your arm?”

“Right as rain. It’s nothing at all.”

Doris accepted the situation without a word. Indeed she was numbed with the fatigue of strained nerves. The swift rush of incident since Betty’s London dinner, with its rapid alternations of hope and fear, had left her bewildered and helpless. But it was the interview with Cyril tonight that had plunged her into the dark abyss of despair. She had tried so hard to believe in him, but he would do nothing to take away the weight that had been dragging her down further and further from the light. A new kind of love had come to her, born of the new Cyril who had won her over by the sheer force of a personality, the existence of which she had not dreamed. A short time ago she had wanted to see him awake—a firebrand—and she had had her wish, for she had kindled to his touch like tinder. But tonight, in her utter weariness, it seemed as though her spirit was charred, burnt to a cinder, like the package of papers in the grate in the gun-room, destroyed, as the secret message had been, in the great game that Cyril was playing.

She undressed slowly, listening for any sounds that might come from the room next door, but the only sign she had of him was the familiar smell of his pipe tobacco which came through the cracks and key-hole. A little later Betty Heathcote came in prepared for what she called a “back hair talk,” but found her guest so unresponsive that at last she went into her own room and bed. Doris lay for a while watching the line of light under Cyril’s door, wondering what he was doing and what the night was to bring forth. One memory persisted in the chaos of the night’s events. Cyril didn’t know the contents of the papers and yet he had commanded her to burn them. The thought quieted her, and at last she saw the light in his room go out, then, after a time, in spite of her weariness, she slept.

She awakened, trembling with terror, listening for she knew not what. And then as her wits slowly came to her, she was aware of the sounds which had awakened her. They were suppressed, secret, and strange, but none the less terrible, the shuffling of feet, hoarse whispers, and the creaking of straining furniture. She sat upright, slipped to the floor quickly, and, getting into the dressing-gown at the foot of the bed, stood for a moment in the middle of the room, her heart beating wildly. Then with quick resolution she moved swiftly to Betty Heathcote’s room and, after assuring herself that her hostess still slept, closed the door softly and passed the bolt.

Again she hesitated. The sounds from Cyril’s room continued, the hard breathing of men who seemed with one accord to be trying to keep their struggles silent. Aware of her danger, but considering it less than the physical need for immediate action, with trembling fingers she turned the key and quickly opened the door.

At first, silence, utter and profound, but full of a terror which a breath might reveal.

“Cyril! What is it?” she managed to whisper.

“Sh—” she heard. And dimly, in the pale moonlight, she made out the dark blur of figures upon the floor in the corner of the room.

“Cyril!” she repeated.

“It’s all right,” she heard in a breathless whisper. “Go back to your room. It’s nothin’.”

But having ventured thus far she did not hesitate, and closing the door behind her came forward. Upon the floor, half against the wall, was the figure of a man. Cyril was sitting on his legs and holding him with one hand by the neck cloth.

“You’re safe?” she whispered.

“Yes. Go back to bed. Don’t you understand—if anyone came–?”

“I don’t care.” Her curiosity had triumphed. She leaned forward and saw that it was John Rizzio.

“Rizzio!” she whispered. “My room!”

“I ought to kill him, Doris,” said Cyril savagely, “but I’ve only choked him a little. He’ll come around in a minute.” And then more quietly: “Get me a glass of water, but don’t make a fuss, and don’t make a light. There are men outside.”

She obeyed, and in a moment Rizzio revived and sat up, Cyril standing over him, his fist clenched.

“Oh, let him go, Cyril, please,” Doris pleaded.

At the sound of the girl’s voice Rizzio started and with Cyril’s help struggled to his feet.

“Yes, he’s going the way he came—by the window,” growled Hammersley. “Head first, if I have my way.”

Rizzio succeeded in a smile, though he was still struggling for breath.

“I suppose—I—I must thank you for your generosity, Hammersley,” he said with as fine a return of his composure as his throat permitted. “I have been guilty of—of an error in judgment–”

“I’m sorry you think it’s only that,” said Cyril dryly. “Now go,” he whispered threateningly, pointing to the window.

“In a moment—with your permission,” he said, recovering his suavity with his breath. “In extenuation of this visit, terrible as it seems to Miss Mather, I—I can only say that if I had succeeded I would have saved her from remembering some day that she had given England’s secrets into the hands of the enemy.”

“You’re mistaken,” said Doris quietly. “I have burned them.”

“You—you burned them?”

“Yes—tonight.”

Rizzio peered at her in silence for a long moment and then shrugged. “Oh,” he said, “in that case, I have made two errors in judgment–”

“You’ll make a third, if you’re not out of that window in half a second,” said Cyril.

But Rizzio laughed at him.

“I don’t think it would be wise to make a disturbance–” he said coolly. “I think Miss Mather will admit my generosity to herself and to you when I say that I’ve only to raise my voice and have half a dozen men up here in a moment.”

Doris clutched him fearfully by the arm, thinking of Cyril.

“You’d not do that–?”

Hammersley laughed dryly.

“There’s no danger,” he said.

“No,” returned Rizzio with a touch of his old magnificence. “There is no danger of that—the reasons are obvious.”

As he moved toward the window Hammersley touched him lightly on the arm.

“I warn you, Rizzio,” he said in a low concentrated tone, “that you’re playing a dangerous hand. I should punish you—but other agencies–”

Rizzio halted. “Yes, other agencies–” he replied significantly. He bowed in the girl’s direction and sitting on the window-sill he threw his feet outside. “I bid you good night.” And carefully feeling for his footing he slowly descended.

Cyril Hammersley followed him to the window, and Doris took a step in his direction, when her thinly slippered foot touched something in the wooden floor—something which slid upon the polished surface from the shadow into the moonlight. Instinctively she glanced down and then started—scarcely restraining a gasp. There, unmistakable in the shape and color for so many hours graven on her mind, was a yellow packet of Riz-la-Croix cigarette papers. She glanced at Cyril, who was closing the casement window, then stooped and, picking up the packet, fled noiselessly into her room and quickly locked the door.

CHAPTER VIII

EVIDENCE

Inside her own room she stood for a moment tremulously in the dark, fingering the guilty thing in her hands as she had fingered the other one—the one she had destroyed. Or hadn’t she destroyed it? For a moment the thought came to her that Cyril had practiced some trick upon her when they had knelt before the fire, substituting other papers for the ones that were to be burned. But that was impossible. The papers had not touched his fingers. He it was who had made a hole for them in the fire, but her fingers had thrust the original papers into the glowing coals. She turned the packet over and over in her fingers, glancing at the closed door that separated her from Cyril. Another message! It must be.

She pulled the curtains at the window and then moving quietly to the bed, lit the candle on the night-stand. Another packet of Riz-la-Croix, new like the other, with its tiny thin rubber band. She opened it quickly and scanned its pages, finding what she sought without difficulty. The writing was not in the same hand. It was rounder and less minute, covering in all seven pages, and it was written carelessly as if the writer had been in a hurry. Cyril’s own handwriting it seemed. The purport of its message was the same.

No. She remembered the dates. These were somewhat different. The names of the regiments were the same, but the dates instead of days in April and May gave days in the months of June and July. And the numerals which at first had puzzled her were smaller. For instance, among “Highland Regiments Foot” the numerals of which she remembered particularly, instead of 120,000 she saw the numerals 42,000. It was the same under other headings in the remainder of the items. Under “shrapnel” there were changes, and under “artillery”–

She closed the packet in icy fingers, for the figures swam before her eyes. They were all true—all the horrible things that she had thought of Cyril! This was later and more accurate information—the exact reason for which she did not pretend to understand—and was intended to follow the previous message—perhaps to be used as a code in connection with it. Cyril was– Oh, the dishonor of it! And she had gone to sleep almost ready to believe in him again—because he had let her burn the other papers. What did it matter to him whether she burned the papers when he had other messages to send and had committed to memory the facts he had let her destroy? He had lied to her. He was false as Judas and more dangerous, for now she knew that he was desperate as well as cunning, stooping to any means, no matter how ignoble, to gain his ends. She had been a mere bauble in his hands, a child upon whose credulity he had played without scruple. He had used her, the woman he had said he loved, for his own unworthy ends as he used Betty Heathcote and her house. She was filled with shame for him and for herself, who could love something shameful.

And John Rizzio! Rizzio, Cyril’s enemy, stood for England and right, and she had permitted herself to see through Cyril’s eyes just as Cyril had wanted her to see.

It seemed as she compared them that Rizzio’s nobility attained a firmer contour. He had come to her room to save her from her own ignorance and wilfulness, from committing a crime, the greatest of all crimes against England. Rizzio knew what Cyril was and on her account had refrained from giving Cyril up to the officers of the law, although they were within call—even when he felt himself yielding to the fury of Cyril’s superior physical strength. Not even the spirit of revenge for the punishment Cyril had given him, not even the humiliation he had suffered before her eyes had been enough to make him forget his intention to save, if he could, for the woman who loved him, a successful rival. And she, Doris, had stood by Cyril’s side warm in Cyril’s cause, against the one man who held Cyril’s fate as the bearer of treacherous messages, in his hand.

There was still danger in the air. The last words of the two men to each other had been hidden threats of “other agencies,” whatever they were, and she found herself praying in a whisper that the agency of England, even if it meant Cyril’s danger, might conquer. O God! It would have been better, it seemed, if the bullet at Saltham Rocks that had grazed Cyril’s arm had killed him. That death would at least have been free from the shame of that which awaited Captain Byfield.

She gazed with wide eyes at her guttering candle. She was wishing for Cyril’s death! She shivered with pity for herself and for him and huddled down in the bed, a very small, very miserable object, seeking in vain some hope, some rest for her mind amid the torture of her thoughts.

Suddenly she started up and sat clutching the yellow packet to her breast, her gaze fixed on the door into Cyril’s room. Had she heard a knock? Or was it only imagination? Yes. There it was again. She leaned over hurriedly and blew out the candle and lay very still, her teeth chattering with the cold, her body trembling. He was knocking again, a little louder this time, and she heard his voice through the keyhole whispering her name. She made no response and feigned sleep. He knocked again still louder and she heard her name spoken quite distinctly. He would awaken the house if this went on. When he knocked again she got up and went over to the door.

“Doris!” he was saying.

She answered him.

“Will you open the door—just a crack?”

“No,” she whispered.

“I want to speak to you.”

“You cannot.”

“Please.”

“I’m listening. What do you want to say?”

“I’ve lost something—something that must have fallen from my pocket.”

She was silent.

And then in quick anxious tones:

“You didn’t see—anythin’—on the floor by the door?”

“No,” she lied, trembling. “I didn’t.”

She heard him mutter.

“You’re sure?” came his voice again.

“Yes.”

And then in dubious tones:

“Oh, very well then. Sorry to have troubled you. Good night.”

She didn’t reply and stole back through the darkness to her bed, into which she crept, like some thin wraith of vengeance, biding her time.

Into bed, but not to sleep. She watched the moonlight grow pale into the west and saw the first gray streaks of dawn paint the wooded slopes of Ben Darrah across the valley of the Dorth. In pity for herself and Cyril she watched the new day born, a new day, bleak and cheerless, which seemed by its very aspect to pronounce a sentence upon them; the new day which was to mark the passing of all the things growing womanhood holds most dear, her first faith, her first tenderness, her first passion.

Doris kept to her room until Betty came in, awakening her from a heavy sleep into which she had fallen just before sunrise. Lady Heathcote rang for Wilson and then retired to the ministrations of her own maid, leaving Doris to dress for the morning at her leisure. And when the girl got downstairs to breakfast she found that the other guests had preceded her. But Betty Heathcote was still in the breakfast room picking with dainty fingers at the various dishes upon the sideboard and making sparkling comment as was her custom on men and things. She found the disappearance of John Rizzio, bag, baggage and man, from Kilmorack House without even a line to his hostess both unusual and surprising, since her guest was a man who made much of the amenities and forms of proper behavior. Doris commented in a desultory way, trying to put on an air of cheerfulness, aware of Cyril Hammersley somewhere in the background awaiting the chance to speak to her alone. She did not hurry, and when Betty arose sauntered into the library where the other guests were waiting for the horses to come around. Twice Cyril tried to speak to her, but she avoided him skillfully, contriving to be a part of a group where personal topics were not to be discussed. That kind of maneuvering she knew was a game at which any woman is more than a match for any man. But she saw by the cloud that was growing in Cyril’s eyes that he was not in the mood to be put off with excuses, and realized that the sooner the pain of their interview was over, the better it would be for both of them. She was dressed in the long coat and breeches which she wore in the hunting field, and in her waistcoat pocket was the yellow packet.