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THE MOONLIT WAY

A Novel

by

ROBERT W. CHAMBERS

Author of "The Common Law," "The Fighting Chance," Etc.

Illustrated by A. I. Keller







D. Appleton and Company   New York  London   1919


[Illustration: HIS STRAINED GAZE SOUGHT TO FIX ITSELF ON THIS
FACE--(PAGE 325)]


Copyright, 1919, by Robert W. Chambers

Copyright, 1918, 1919, by the International Magazine Co.

Printed in the United States of America




TO MY FRIEND FRANK HITCHCOCK




CONTENTS


  CHAPTER                                                         PAGE
          Prologue--Claire-de-Lune                                   1
       I. A Shadow Dance                                            19
      II. Sunrise                                                   28
     III. Sunset                                                    39
      IV. Dusk                                                      46
       V. In Dragon Court                                           57
      VI. Dulcie                                                    78
     VII. Opportunity Knocks                                        87
    VIII. Dulcie Answers                                           102
      IX. Her Day                                                  109
       X. Her Evening                                              123
      XI. Her Night                                                131
     XII. The Last Mail                                            155
    XIII. A Midnight Tête-à-Tête                                   170
     XIV. Problems                                                 186
      XV. Blackmail                                                194
     XVI. The Watcher                                              205
    XVII. A Conference                                             216
   XVIII. The Babbler                                              233
     XIX. A Chance Encounter                                       249
      XX. Grogan's                                                 265
     XXI. The White Blackbird                                      278
    XXII. Foreland Farms                                           292
   XXIII. A Lion in the Path                                       312
    XXIV. A Silent House                                           328
     XXV. Starlight                                                339
    XXVI. 'Be-N Eirinn I!                                          349
   XXVII. The Moonlit Way                                          366
  XXVIII. Green Jackets                                            385
    XXIX. Asthore                                                  407


LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS


  His strained gaze sought to fix itself on this face
      before him                                          Frontispiece
  Nihla put her feathered steed through its absurd
      paces                                                          8
  "You little miracle!"                                            100
  He came toward her stealthily                                    382




  Novels By Robert W. Chambers

  The Laughing Girl
  The Restless Sex
  Barbarians
  The Dark Star
  The Girl Philippa
  Who Goes There!
  Athalie
  The Business of Life
  The Gay Rebellion
  The Streets of Ascalon
  The Common Law
  The Fighting Chance
  The Younger Set
  The Danger Mark
  The Firing Line
  Japonette
  Quick Action
  The Adventures of A Modest Man
  Anne's Bridge
  Between Friends
  The Better Man
  Police!!!
  Some Ladies in Haste
  The Tree of Heaven
  The Tracer of Lost Persons
  The Hidden Children
  The Moonlit Way
  Cardigan
  The Reckoning
  The Maid-at-Arms
  Ailsa Paige
  Special Messenger
  The Haunts of Men
  Lorraine
  Maids of Paradise
  Ashes of Empire
  The Red Republic
  Blue-Bird Weather
  A Young Man in a Hurry
  The Green Mouse
  Iole
  The Mystery of Choice
  The Cambric Mask
  The Maker of Moons
  The King in Yellow
  In Search of the Unknown
  The Conspiritors
  A King and a Few Dukes
  In the Quarter
  Outsiders




PROLOGUE

CLAIRE-DE-LUNE


There was a big moon over the Bosphorus; the limpid waters off
Seraglio Point glimmered; the Golden Horn was like a sheet of beaten
silver inset with topaz and ruby where lanterns on rusting Turkish
warships dyed the tarnished argent of the flood. Except for these, and
the fixed lights on the foreign guard-ships and on a big American
steam yacht, only a pale and nebulous shoreward glow betrayed the
monster city.

Over Pera the full moon's lustre fell, silvering palace, villa, sea
and coast; its rays glimmered on bridge and wharf, bastion, tower
arsenal, and minarette, transforming those big, sprawling, ramshackle
blotches of architecture called Constantinople into that shadowy,
magnificent enchantment of the East, which all believe in, but which
exists only in a poet's heart and mind.

Night veiled the squalour of Balat, and its filth, its meanness, its
flimsy sham. Moonlight made of Galata a marvel, ennobling every
bastard dome, every starved façade, every unlovely and attenuated
minarette, and invested with added charm each really lovely ruin, each
tower, palace, mosque, garden wall and balcony, and every crenelated
battlement, where the bronze bulk of ancient cannon slanted, outlined
in silver under the Prophet's moon.

Tiny moving lights twinkled on the Galata Bridge; pale points of
radiance dotted Scutari; but the group of amazing cities called
Constantinople lay almost blotted out under the moon.

Darker at night than any capital in the world, its huge, solid and
ancient shapes bulking gigantic in the night, its noble ruins cloaked,
its cheap filth hidden, its flimsy Coney Island aspect transfigured
and the stylographic-pen architecture of a hundred minarettes softened
into slender elegance, Constantinople lay dreaming its immemorial
dreams under the black shadow of the Prussian eagle.

       *       *       *       *       *

The German Embassy was lighted up like a Pera café; the drawing-rooms
crowded with a brilliant throng where sashes, orders, epaulettes and
sabre-tache glittered, and jewels blazed and aigrettes waved under the
crystal chandeliers, accenting and isolating sombre civilian evening
dress, which seemed mournful, rusty, and out of the picture, even when
plastered over with jewelled stars.

Few Turkish officials and officers were present, but the disquieting
sight of German officers in Turkish uniforms was not uncommon. And the
Count d'Eblis, Senator of France, noted this phenomenon with lively
curiosity, and mentioned it to his companion, Ferez Bey.

Ferez Bey, lounging in a corner with Adolf Gerhardt, for whom he had
procured an invitation, and flanked by the Count d'Eblis, likewise a
guest aboard the rich German-American banker's yacht, was very much in
his element as friend and mentor.

For Ferez Bey knew everybody in the Orient--knew when to cringe, when
to be patronising, when to fawn, when to assert himself, when to be
servile, when impudent.

He was as impudent to Adolf Gerhardt as he dared be, the banker not
knowing the subtler shades and differences; he was on an equality with
the French senator, Monsieur le Comte d'Eblis because he knew that
d'Eblis dared not resent his familiarity.

Otherwise, in that brilliant company, Ferez Bey was a jackal--and he
knew it perfectly--but a valuable jackal; and he also knew that.

So when the German Ambassador spoke pleasantly to him, his attitude
was just sufficiently servile, but not overdone; and when Von-der-Hohe
Pasha, in the uniform of a Turkish General of Division, graciously
exchanged a polite word with him during a moment's easy gossip with
the Count d'Eblis, Ferez Bey writhed moderately under the honour, but
did not exactly squirm.

To Conrad von Heimholz he ventured to present his German-American
patron, Adolf Gerhardt, and the thin young military attaché
condescended in his Prussian way to notice the introduction.

"Saw your yacht in the harbour," he admitted stiffly. "It is
astonishing how you Americans permit no bounds to your somewhat
noticeable magnificence."

"She's a good boat, the _Mirage_," rumbled Gerhardt, in his bushy red
beard, "but there are plenty in America finer than mine."

"Not many, Adolf," insisted Ferez, in his flat, Eurasian voice--"not
ver' many anyw'ere so fine like your _Mirage_."

"I saw none finer at Kiel," said the attaché, staring at Gerhardt
through his monocle, with the habitual insolence and disapproval of
the Prussian junker. "To me it exhibits bad taste"--he turned to the
Count d'Eblis--"particularly when the _Meteor_ is there."

"Where?" asked the Count.

"At Kiel. I speak of Kiel and the ostentation of certain foreign yacht
owners at the recent regatta."

Gerhardt, redder than ever, was still German enough to swallow the
meaningless insolence. He was not getting on very well at the Embassy
of his fellow countrymen. Americans, properly presented, they endured
without too open resentment; for German-Americans, even when
millionaires, their contempt and bad manners were often undisguised.

"I'm going to get out of this," growled Gerhardt, who held a good
position socially in New York and in the fashionable colony at
Northbrook. "I've seen enough puffed up Germans and over-embroidered
Turks to last me. Come on, d'Eblis----"

Ferez detained them both:

"Surely," he protested, "you would not miss Nihla!"

"Nihla?" repeated d'Eblis, who had passed his arm through Gerhardt's.
"Is that the girl who set St. Petersburg by the ears?"

"Nihla Quellen," rumbled Gerhardt. "I've heard of her. She's a dancer,
isn't she?"

Ferez, of course, knew all about her, and he drew the two men into the
embrasure of a long window.

It was not happening just exactly as he and the German Ambassador had
planned it together; they had intended to let Nihla burst like a
flaming jewel on the vision of d'Eblis and blind him then and there.

Perhaps, after all, it was better drama to prepare her entrance. And
who but Ferez was qualified to prepare that entrée, or to speak with
authority concerning the history of this strange and beautiful young
girl who had suddenly appeared like a burning star in the East, had
passed like a meteor through St. Petersburg, leaving several
susceptible young men--notably the Grand Duke Cyril--mentally unhinged
and hopelessly dissatisfied with fate.

"It is ver' fonny, d'Eblis--une histoire chic, vous savez! Figurez
vous----"

"Talk English," growled Gerhardt, eyeing the serene progress of a
pretty Highness, Austrian, of course, surrounded by gorgeous uniforms
and empressement.

"Who's that?" he added.

Ferez turned; the gorgeous lady snubbed him, but bowed to d'Eblis.

"The Archduchess Zilka," he said, not a whit abashed. "She is a ver'
great frien' of mine."

"Can't you present me?" enquired Gerhardt, restlessly; "--or you,
d'Eblis--can't you ask permission?"

The Count d'Eblis nodded inattentively, then turned his heavy and
rather vulgar face to Ferez, plainly interested in the "histoire" of
the girl, Nihla.

"What were you going to say about that dancer?" he demanded.

Ferez pretended to forget, then, apparently recollecting:

"Ah! Apropos of Nihla? It is a ver' piquant storee--the storee of
Nihla Quellen. Zat is not 'er name. No! Her name is Dunois--Thessalie
Dunois."

"French," nodded d'Eblis.

"Alsatian," replied Ferez slyly. "Her fathaire was captain--Achille
Dunois?--you know----?"

"What!" exclaimed d'Eblis. "Do you mean that notorious fellow, the
Grand Duke Cyril's hunting cheetah?"

"The same, dear frien'. Dunois is dead--his bullet head was crack
open, doubtless by som' ladee's angree husban'. There are a few
thousan' roubles--not more--to stan' between some kind gentleman and
the prettee Nihla. You see?" he added to Gerhardt, who was listening
without interest, "--Dunois, if he was the Gran' Duke's cheetah, kept
all such merry gentlemen from his charming daughtaire."

Gerhardt, whose aspirations lay higher, socially, than a dancing girl,
merely grunted. But d'Eblis, whose aspirations were always below even
his own level, listened with visibly increasing curiosity. And this
was according to the programme of Ferez Bey and Excellenz. As the Hun
has it, "according to plan."

"Well," enquired d'Eblis heavily, "did Cyril get her?"

"All St. Petersburg is still laughing at heem," replied the voluble
Eurasian. "Cyril indeed launched her. And that was sufficient--yet,
that first night she storm St. Petersburg. And Cyril's reward? Listen,
d'Eblis, they say she slapped his sillee face. For me, I don't know.
That is the storee. And he was ver' angree, Cyril. You know? And, by
God, it was what Gerhardt calls a 'raw deal.' Yess? Figurez
vous!--this girl, déjà lancée--and her fathaire the Grand Duke's
hunting cheetah, and her mothaire, what? Yes, mon ami, a 'andsome
Géorgianne, caught quite wild, they say, by Prince Haledine! For me, I
believe it. Why not?... And then the beautiful Géorgianne, she fell to
Dunois--on a bet?--a service rendered?--gratitude of Cyril?----Who
knows? Only that Dunois must marry her. And Nihla is their daughtaire.
Voilà!"

"Then why," demanded d'Eblis, "does she make such a fuss about being
grateful? I hate ingratitude, Ferez. And how can she last, anyway? To
dance for the German Ambassador in Constantinople is all very well,
but unless somebody launches her properly--in Paris--she'll end in a
Pera café."

Ferez held his peace and listened with all his might.

"I could do that," added d'Eblis.

"Please?" inquired Ferez suavely.

"Launch her in Paris."

The programme of Excellenz and Ferez Bey was certainly proceeding as
planned.

But Gerhardt was becoming restless and dully irritated as he began to
realise more and more what caste meant to Prussians and how
insignificant to these people was a German-American multimillionaire.
And Ferez realised that he must do something.

There was a Bavarian Baroness there, uglier than the usual run of
Bavarian baronesses; and to her Ferez nailed Gerhardt, and wriggled
free himself, making his way amid the gorgeous throngs to the Count
d'Eblis once more.

"I left Gerhardt planted," he remarked with satisfaction; "by God, she
is uglee like camels--the Baroness von Schaunitz! Nev' mind. It is
nobility; it is the same to Adolf Gerhardt."

"A homely woman makes me sick!" remarked d'Eblis. "Eh, mon Dieu!--one
has merely to look at these ladies to guess their nationality! Only in
Germany can one gather together such a collection of horrors. The only
pretty ones are Austrian."

Perhaps even the cynicism of Excellenz had not realised the perfection
of this setting, but Ferez, the nimble witted, had foreseen it.

Already the glittering crowds in the drawing rooms were drawing aside
like jewelled curtains; already the stringed orchestra had become mute
aloft in its gilded gallery.

The gay tumult softened; laughter, voices, the rustle of silks and
fans, the metallic murmur of drawing-room equipment died away. Through
the increasing stillness, from the gilded gallery a Thessalonian reed
began skirling like a thrush in the underbrush.

Suddenly a sand-coloured curtain at the end of the east room twitched
open, and a great desert ostrich trotted in. And, astride of the big,
excited, bridled bird, sat a young girl, controlling her restless
mount with disdainful indifference.

"Nihla!" whispered Ferez, in the large, fat ear of the Count d'Eblis.
The latter's pallid jowl reddened and his pendulous lips tightened to
a deep-bitten crease across his face.

To the weird skirling of the Thessalonian pipe the girl, Nihla, put
her feathered steed through its absurd paces, aping the haute-école.

There is little humour in your Teuton; they were too amazed to laugh;
too fascinated, possibly by the girl herself, to follow the panicky
gambols of the reptile-headed bird.

The girl wore absolutely nothing except a Yashmak and a zone of blue
jewels across her breasts and hips.

Her childish throat, her limbs, her slim, snowy body, her little naked
feet were lovely beyond words. Her thick dark hair flew loose, now
framing, now veiling an oval face from which, above the gauzy
Yashmak's edge, two dark eyes coolly swept her breathless audience.

But under the frail wisp of cobweb, her cheeks glowed pink, and two
full red lips parted deliciously in the half-checked laughter of
confident, reckless youth.

[Illustration: NIHLA PUT HER FEATHERED STEED THROUGH ITS ABSURD PACES]

Over hurdle after hurdle she lifted her powerful, half-terrified
mount; she backed it, pirouetted, made it squat, leap, pace, trot,
run with wings half spread and neck stretched level.

She rode sideways, then kneeling, standing, then poised on one foot;
she threw somersaults, faced to the rear, mounted and dismounted at
full speed. And through the frail, transparent Yashmak her parted red
lips revealed the glimmer of teeth and her childishly engaging
laughter rang delightfully.

Then, abruptly, she had enough of her bird; she wheeled, sprang to the
polished parquet, and sent her feathered steed scampering away through
the sand-coloured curtains, which switched into place again
immediately.

Breathless, laughing that frank, youthful, irresistible laugh which
was to become so celebrated in Europe, Nihla Quellen strolled
leisurely around the circle of her applauding audience, carelessly
blowing a kiss or two from her slim finger-tips, evidently quite
unspoiled by her success and equally delighted to please and to be
pleased.

Then, in the gilded gallery the strings began; and quite naturally,
without any trace of preparation or self-consciousness, Nihla
began to sing, dancing when the fascinating, irresponsible measure
called for it, singing again as the sequence occurred. And the
enchantment of it all lay in its accidental and detached allure--as
though it all were quite spontaneous--the song a passing whim, the
dance a capricious after-thought, and the whole thing done entirely to
please herself and give vent to the sheer delight of a young girl, in
her own overwhelming energy and youthful spirits.

Even the Teuton comprehended that, and the applause grew to a roar
with that odd undertone of animal menace always to be detected when
the German herd is gratified and expresses pleasure en masse.

But she wouldn't stay, wouldn't return. Like one of those beautiful
Persian cats, she had lingered long enough to arouse delight. Then she
went, deaf to recall, to persuasion, to caress--indifferent to praise,
to blandishment, to entreaty. Cat and dancer were similar; Nihla, like
the Persian puss, knew when she had had enough. That was sufficient
for her: nothing could stop her, nothing lure her to return.

Beads of sweat were glistening upon the heavy features of the Count
d'Eblis. Von-der-Goltz Pasha, strolling near, did him the honour to
remember him, but d'Eblis seemed dazed and unresponsive; and the old
Pasha understood, perhaps, when he caught the beady and expressive
eyes of Ferez fixed on him in exultation.

"Whose is she?" demanded d'Eblis abruptly. His voice was hoarse and
evidently out of control, for he spoke too loudly to please Ferez, who
took him by the arm and led him out to the moonlit terrace.

"Mon pauvere ami," he said soothingly, "she is actually the propertee
of nobodee at present. Cyril, they say, is following her--quite ready
for anything--marriage----"

"What!"

Ferez shrugged:

"That is the gosseep. No doubt som' man of wealth, more acceptable to
her----"

"I wish to meet her!" said d'Eblis.

"Ah! That is, of course, not easee----"

"Why?"

Ferez laughed:

"Ask yo'self the question again! Excellenz and his guests have gone
quite mad ovaire Nihla----"

"I care nothing for them," retorted d'Eblis thickly; "I wish to know
her.... I wish to know her!... _Do you understand?_"

After a silence, Ferez turned in the moonlight and looked at the Count
d'Eblis.

"And your newspapaire--_Le Mot d'Ordre_?"

"Yes.... If you get her for me."

"You sell to me for two million francs the control stock in _Le Mot
d'Ordre_?"

"Yes."

"An' the two million, eh?"

"I shall use my influence with Gerhardt. That is all I can do. If your
Emperor chooses to decorate him--something--the Red Eagle, third
class, perhaps----"

"I attend to those," smiled Ferez. "Hit's ver' fonny, d'Eblis, how I
am thinking about those Red Eagles all time since I know Gerhardt. I
spik to Von-der-Goltz de votre part, si vous le voulez? Oui?
Alors----"

"Ask her to supper aboard the yacht."

"God knows----"

The Count d'Eblis said through closed teeth:

"There is the first woman I ever really wanted in all my life!... I am
standing here now waiting for her--waiting to be presented to her
now."

"I spik to Von-der-Goltz Pasha," said Ferez; and he slipped through
the palms and orange trees and vanished.

For half an hour the Count d'Eblis stood there, motionless in the
moonlight.

She came about that time, on the arm of Ferez Bey, her father's friend
of many years.

And Ferez left her there in the creamy Turkish moonlight on the
flowering terrace, alone with the Count d'Eblis.

When Ferez came again, long after midnight, with Excellenz on one arm
and the proud and happy Adolf Gerhardt on the other, the whole cycle
of a little drama had been played to a conclusion between those two
shadowy figures under the flowering almonds on the terrace--between
this slender, dark-eyed girl and this big, bulky, heavy-visaged man of
the world.

And the man had been beaten and the girl had laid down every term. And
the compact was this: that she was to be launched in Paris; she was
merely to borrow any sum needed, with privilege to acquit the debt
within the year; that, if she ever came to care for this man
sufficiently, she was to become only one species of masculine
property--a legal wife.

And to every condition--and finally even to the last, the man had
bowed his heavy, burning head.

"D'Eblis!" began Gerhardt, almost stammering in his joy and pride.
"His highness tells me that I am to have an order--an Imperial
d-decoration----"

D'Eblis stared at him out of unseeing eyes; Nihla laughed outright,
alas, too early wise and not even troubling her lovely head to wonder
why a decoration had been asked for this burly, bushy-bearded man from
nowhere.

But within his sinuous, twisted soul Ferez writhed exultingly, and
patted Gerhardt on the arm, and patted d'Eblis, too--dared even to
squirm visibly closer to Excellenz, like a fawning dog that fears too
much to venture contact in his wriggling demonstrations.

"You take with you our pretty wonder-child to Paris to be launched, I
hear," remarked Excellenz, most affably, to d'Eblis. And to Nihla:
"And upon a yacht fit for an emperor, I understand. Ach! Such a going
forth is only heard of in the Arabian Nights. Eh bien, ma petite, go
West, conquer, and reign! It is a prophecy!"

And Nihla threw back her head and laughed her full-throated laughter
under the Turkish moon.

       *       *       *       *       *

Later, Ferez, walking with the Ambassador, replied humbly to the curt
question:

"Yes, I have become his jackal. But always at the orders of
Excellenz."

       *       *       *       *       *

Later still, aboard the _Mirage_, Ferez stood alone by the after-rail,
staring with ratty eyes at the blackness beyond the New Bridge.

"Oh, God, be merciful!" he whispered. He had often said it on the
eve of crime. Even an Eurasian rat has emotions. And Ferez had
been in love with Nihla many years, and was selling her now at a
price--selling her and Adolf Gerhardt and the Count d'Eblis and
France--all he had to barter--for he had sold his soul too long
ago to remember even what he got for it.

The silence seemed more intense for the sounds that made it audible.
From, the unlighted cities on the seven hills came an unbroken howling
of dogs; transparent waves of the limpid Bosphorus slapped the
vessel's sides, making a mellow and ceaseless clatter. Far away beyond
Galata Quay, in the inner reek of unseen Stamboul, the notes of a
Turkish flute stole out across the darkness, where some Tzigane--some
unseen wretch in rags--was playing the melancholy song of Mourad. And,
mournfully responsive to the reedy complaint of a homeless wanderer
from a nation without a home, the homeless dogs of Islam wailed their
miserere under the Prophet's moon.

The tragic wolf-song wavered from hill to hill; from the Fields of the
Dead to the Seven Towers, from Kassim to Tophane, seeming to swell
into one dreadful, endless plaint:

"My God, why hast Thou forsaken me?"

"And me!" muttered Ferez, shivering in the windy vapours from the
Black Sea, which already dampened his face with their creeping summer
chill.

"Ferez!"

He turned slowly. Swathed in a white wool bernous, Nihla stood there
in the foggy moonlight.

"Why?" she enquired, without preliminaries and with the unfeigned
curiosity of a child.

He did not pretend to misunderstand her in French:

"Thou knowest, Nihla. I have never touched thy heart. I could do
nothing for thee----"

"Except to sell me," she smiled, interrupting him in English, without
the slightest trace of accent.

But Ferez preferred the refuge of French:

"Except to launch thee and make possible thy career," he corrected her
very gently.

"I thought you were in love with me?"

"I have loved thee, Nihla, since thy childhood."

"Is there anything on earth or in paradise, Ferez, that you would not
sell for a price?"

"I tell thee----"

"Zut! I know thee, Ferez!" she mocked him, slipping easily into
French. "What was my price? Who pays thee, Colonel Ferez? This big,
shambling, world-wearied Count, who is, nevertheless, afraid of me?
Did he pay thee? Or was it this rich American, Gerhardt? Or was it
Von-der-Goltz? Or Excellenz?"

"Nihla! Thou knowest me----"

Her clear, untroubled laughter checked him:

"I know you, Ferez. That is why I ask. That is why I shall have no
reply from you. Only my wits can ever answer me any questions."

She stood laughing at him, swathed in her white wool, looming like
some mocking spectre in the misty moonlight of the after-deck.

"Oh, Ferez," she said in her sweet, malicious voice, "there was a
curse on Midas, too! You play at high finance; you sell what you never
had to sell, and you are paid for it. All your life you have been busy
selling, re-selling, bargaining, betraying, seeking always gain where
only loss is possible--loss of all that justifies a man in daring to
stand alive before the God that made him!... And yet--that which you
call love--that shadowy emotion which you have also sold to-night--I
think you really feel for me.... Yes, I believe it.... But it, too,
has its price.... _What_ was that price, Ferez?"

"Believe me, Nihla----"

"Oh, Ferez, you ask too much! No! Let _me_ tell _you_, then. The price
was paid by that American, who is not one but a German."

"That is absurd!"

"Why the Red Eagle, then? And the friendship of Excellenz? What is
he then, this Gerhardt, but a millionaire? Why is nobility so
gracious then? What does Gerhardt give for his Red Eagle?--for the
politeness of Excellenz?--for the crooked smile of a Bavarian
Baroness and the lifted lorgnette of Austria? What does he give for
_me_? Who buys me after all? Enver? Talaat? Hilmi? Who sells me?
Excellenz? Von-der-Goltz? You? And who pays for me? Gerhardt, who
takes his profit in Red Eagles and offers me to d'Eblis for
something in exchange to please Excellenz--and you? And what, at the
end of the bargaining, does d'Eblis pay for me--pay through Gerhardt
to you, and through you to Excellenz, and through Excellenz to the
Kaiser Wilhelm II----"

Ferez, showing his teeth, came close to her and spoke very softly:

"See how white is the moonlight off Seraglio Point, my Nihla!... It is
no whiter than those loveliest ones who lie fathoms deep below these
little silver waves.... Each with her bowstring snug about her snowy
neck.... As fair and young, as warm and fresh and sweet as thou, my
Nihla."

He smiled at her; and if the smile stiffened an instant on her lips,
the next instant her light, dauntless laughter mocked him.

"For a price," she said, "you would sell even Life to that old miser,
Death! Then listen what you have done, little smiling, whining jackal
of his Excellency! I go to Paris and to my career, certain of my happy
destiny, sure of myself! For my opportunity I pay if I choose--pay
_what_ I choose--when and where it suits me to pay!----"

She slipped into French with a little laugh:

"Now go and lick thy fingers of whatever crumbs have stuck there. The
Count d'Eblis is doubtless licking his. Good appetite, my Ferez! Lick
away lustily, for God does not temper the jackal's appetite to his
opportunities!"

Ferez let his level gaze rest on her in silence.

"Well, trafficker in Eagles, dealer in love, vendor of youth, merchant
of souls, what strikes you silent?"

But he was thinking of something sharper than her tongue and less
subtle, which one day might strike her silent if she laughed too much
at Fate.

And, thinking, he showed his teeth again in that noiseless snicker
which was his smile and laughter too.

The girl regarded him for a moment, then deliberately mimicked his
smile:

"The dogs of Stamboul laugh that way, too," she said, baring her
pretty teeth. "What amuses you? Did the silly old Von-der-Goltz Pasha
promise you, also, a dish of Eagle?--old Von-der-Goltz with his
spectacles an inch thick and nothing living within what he carries
about on his two doddering old legs! There's a German!--who died
twenty years ago and still walks like a damned man--jingling his iron
crosses and mumbling his gums! Is it a resurrection from 1870 come to
foretell another war? And why are these Prussian vultures gathering
here in Stamboul? Can you tell me, Ferez?--these Prussians in Turkish
uniforms! Is there anything dying or dead here, that these buzzards
appear from the sky and alight? Why do they crowd and huddle in a
circle around Constantinople? Is there something dead in Persia? Is
the Bagdad railroad dying? Is Enver Bey at his last gasp? Is Talaat?
Or perhaps the savoury odour comes from the Yildiz----"

"Nihla! Is there nothing sacred--nothing thou fearest on earth?"

"Only old age--and thy smile, my Ferez. Neither agrees with me." She
stretched her arms lazily.

"Allons," she said, stifling a pleasant yawn with one slim hand,"--my
maid will wake below and miss me; and then the dogs of Stamboul yonder
will hear a solo such as they never heard before.... Tell me, Ferez,
do you know when we are to weigh anchor?"

"At sunrise."

"It is the same to me,"--she yawned again--"my maid is aboard and all
my luggage. And my Ferez, also.... Mon dieu! And what will Cyril have
to say when he arrives to find me vanished! It is, perhaps, well for
us that we shall be at sea!"

Her quick laughter pealed; she turned with a careless gesture of
salute, friendly and contemptuous; and her white bernous faded away in
the moonlit fog.

And Ferez Bey stood staring after her out of his near-set, beady eyes,
loving her, desiring her, fearing her, unrepentant that he had sold
her, wondering whether the day might dawn when he would find it best
to kill her for the prosperity and peace of mind of the only living
being in whose service he never tired--himself.




I

A SHADOW DANCE


Three years later Destiny still wore a rosy face for Nihla Quellen.
And, for a young American of whom Nihla had never even heard, Destiny
still remained the laughing jade he had always known, beckoning him
ever nearer, with the coquettish promise of her curved forefinger, to
fame and wealth immeasurable.

       *       *       *       *       *

Seated now on a moonlit lawn, before his sketching easel, this
optimistic young man, whose name was Barres, continued to observe the
movements of a dim white figure which had emerged from the villa
opposite, and was now stealing toward him across the dew-drenched
grass.

When the white figure was quite near it halted, holding up filmy
skirts and peering intently at him.

"May one look?" she inquired, in that now celebrated voice of hers,
through which ever seemed to sound a hint of hidden laughter.

"Certainly," he replied, rising from his folding camp stool.

She tiptoed over the wet grass, came up beside him, gazed down at the
canvas on his easel.

"Can you really see to paint? Is the moon bright enough?" she asked.

"Yes. But one has to be familiar with one's palette."

"Oh. You seem to know yours quite perfectly, monsieur."

"Enough to mix colours properly."

"I didn't realise that painters ever actually painted pictures by
moonlight."

"It's a sort of hit or miss business, but the notes made are
interesting," he explained.

"What do you do with these moonlight studies?"

"Use them as notes in the studio when a moonlight picture is to be
painted."

"Are you then a realist, monsieur?"

"As much of a realist as anybody with imagination can be," he replied,
smiling at her charming, moonlit face.

"I understand. Realism is merely honesty plus the imagination of the
individual."

"A delightful _mot_, madam----"

"Mademoiselle," she corrected him demurely. "Are you English?"

"American."

"Oh. Then may I venture to converse with you in English?" She said it
in exquisite English, entirely without accent.

"You _are_ English!" he exclaimed under his breath.

"No ... I don't know what I am.... Isn't it charming out here? What
particular view are you painting?"

"The Seine, yonder."

She bent daintily over his sketch, holding up the skirts of her
ball-gown.

"Your sketch isn't very far advanced, is it?" she inquired seriously.

"Not very," he smiled.

They stood there together in silence for a while, looking out over
the moonlit river to the misty, tree-covered heights.

Through lighted rows of open windows in the elaborate little villa
across the lawn came lively music and the distant noise of animated
voices.

"Do you know," he ventured smilingly, "that your skirts and slippers
are soaking wet?"

"I don't care. Isn't this June night heavenly?"

She glanced across at the lighted house. "It's so hot and noisy in
there; one dances only with discomfort. A distaste for it all sent me
out on the terrace. Then I walked on the lawn. Then I beheld you!...
Am I interrupting your work, monsieur? I suppose I am." She looked up
at him naïvely.

He said something polite. An odd sense of having seen her somewhere
possessed him now. From the distant house came the noisy American
music of a two-step. With charming grace, still inspecting him out of
her dark eyes, the girl began to move her pretty feet in rhythm with
the music.

"Shall we?" she inquired mischievously.... "Unless you are too
busy----"

The next moment they were dancing together there on the wet lawn,
under the high lustre of the moon, her fresh young face and fragrant
figure close to his.

During their second dance she said serenely:

"They'll raise the dickens if I stay here any longer. Do you know the
Comte d'Eblis?"

"The Senator? The numismatist?"

"Yes."

"No, I don't know him. I am only a Latin Quarter student."

"Well, he is giving that party. He is giving it for me--in my honour.
That is his villa. And I"--she laughed--"am going to marry
him--_perhaps_! Isn't this a delightful escapade of mine?"

"Isn't it rather an indiscreet one?" he asked smilingly.

"Frightfully. But I like it. How did you happen to pitch your easel on
his lawn?"

"The river and the hills--their composition appealed to me from here.
It is the best view of the Seine."

"Are you glad you came?"

They both laughed at the mischievous question.

       *       *       *       *       *

During their third dance she became a little apprehensive and kept
looking over her shoulder toward the house.

"There's a man expected there," she whispered, "Ferez Bey. He's as
soft-footed as a cat and he always prowls in my vicinity. At times it
almost seems to me as though he were slyly watching me--as though he
were employed to keep an eye on me."

"A Turk?"

"Eurasian.... I wonder what they think of my absence? Alexandre--the
Comte d'Eblis--won't like it."

"Had you better go?"

"Yes; I ought to, but I won't.... Wait a moment!" She disengaged
herself from his arms. "Hide your easel and colour-box in the
shrubbery, in case anybody comes to look for me."

She helped him strap up and fasten the telescope-easel; they placed
the paraphernalia behind the blossoming screen of syringa. Then,
coming together, she gave herself to him again, nestling between his
arms with a little laugh; and they fell into step once more with the
distant dance-music. Over the grass their united shadows glided,
swaying, gracefully interlocked--moon-born phantoms which dogged
their light young feet....

       *       *       *       *       *

A man came out on the stone terrace under the Chinese lanterns. When
they saw him they hastily backed into the obscurity of the shrubbery.

"Nihla!" he called, and his heavy voice was vibrant with irritation
and impatience.

He was a big man. He walked with a bulky, awkward gait--a few paces
only, out across the terrace.

"Nihla!" he bawled hoarsely.

Then two other men and a woman appeared on the terrace where the
lanterns were strung. The woman called aloud in the darkness:

"Nihla! Nihla! Where are you, little devil?" Then she and the two men
with her went indoors, laughing and skylarking, leaving the bulky man
there alone.

The young fellow in the shrubbery felt the girl's hand tighten on his
coat sleeve, felt her slender body quiver with stifled laughter. The
desire to laugh seized him, too; and they clung there together,
choking back their mirth while the big man who had first appeared
waddled out across the lawn toward the shrubbery, shouting:

"Nihla! Where are you then?" He came quite close to where they stood,
then turned, shouted once or twice and presently disappeared across
the lawn toward a walled garden. Later, several other people came out
on the terrace, calling, "Nihla, Nihla," and then went indoors,
laughing boisterously.

The young fellow and the girl beside him were now quite weak and
trembling with suppressed mirth.

       *       *       *       *       *

They had not dared venture out on the lawn, although dance music had
begun again.

"Is it your name they called?" he asked, his eyes very intent upon her
face.

"Yes, Nihla."

"I recognise you now," he said, with a little thrill of wonder.

"I suppose so," she replied with amiable indifference. "Everybody
knows me."

She did not ask his name; he did not offer to enlighten her. What
difference, after all, could the name of an American student make to
the idol of Europe, Nihla Quellen?

"I'm in a mess," she remarked presently. "He will be quite furious
with me. It is going to be most disagreeable for me to go back into
that house. He has really an atrocious temper when made ridiculous."

"I'm awfully sorry," he said, sobered by her seriousness.

She laughed:

"Oh, pouf! I really don't care. But perhaps you had better leave me
now. I've spoiled your moonlight picture, haven't I?"

"But think what you have given me to make amends!" he replied.

She turned and caught his hands in hers with adorable impulsiveness:

"You're a sweet boy--do you know it! We've had a heavenly time,
haven't we? Do you really think you ought to go--so soon?"

"Don't you think so, Nihla?"

"I don't want you to go. Anyway, there's a train every two hours----"

"I've a canoe down by the landing. I shall paddle back as I came----"

"A canoe!" she exclaimed, enchanted. "Will you take me with you?"

"To Paris?"

"Of course! Will you?"

"In your ball-gown?"

"I'd adore it! Will you?"

"That is an absolutely crazy suggestion," he said.

"I know it. The world is only a big asylum. There's a path to the
river behind these bushes. Quick--pick up your painting traps----"

"But, Nihla, dear----"

"Oh, please! I'm dying to run away with you!"

"To Paris?" he demanded, still incredulous that the girl really meant
it.

"Of course! You can get a taxi at the Pont-au-Change and take me home.
Will you?"

"It would be wonderful, of course----"

"It will be paradise!" she exclaimed, slipping her hand into his.
"Now, let us run like the dickens!"

In the uncertain moonlight, filtering through the shrubbery, they
found a hidden path to the river; and they took it together, lightly,
swiftly, speeding down the slope, all breathless with laughter, along
the moonlit way.

       *       *       *       *       *

In the suburban villa of the Comte d'Eblis a wine-flushed and very
noisy company danced on, supped at midnight, continued the revel into
the starlit morning hours. The place was a jungle of confetti.

Their host, restless, mortified, angry, perplexed by turns, was
becoming obsessed at length with dull premonitions and vaguer alarms.

He waddled out to the lawn several times, still wearing his fancy gilt
and tissue cap, and called:

"Nihla! Damnation! Answer me, you little fool!"

He went down to the river, where the gaily painted row-boats and punts
lay, and scanned the silvered flood, tortured by indefinite
apprehensions. About dawn he started toward the weed-grown, slippery
river-stairs for the last time, still crowned with his tinsel cap; and
there in the darkness he found his aged boat-man, fishing for gudgeon
with a four-cornered net suspended to the end of a bamboo pole.

"Have you see anything of Mademoiselle Nihla?" he demanded, in a
heavy, unsteady voice, tremulous with indefinable fears.

"Monsieur le Comte, Mademoiselle Quellen went out in a canoe with a
young gentleman."

"W-what is that you tell me!" faltered the Comte d'Eblis, turning grey
in the face.

"Last night, about ten o'clock, M'sieu le Comte. I was out in the
moonlight fishing for eels. She came down to the shore--took a canoe
yonder by the willows. The young man had a double-bladed paddle. They
were singing."

"They--they have not returned?"

"No, M'sieu le Comte----"

"Who was the--man?"

"I could not see----"

"Very well." He turned and looked down the dusky river out of
light-coloured, murderous eyes. Then, always awkward in his gait, he
retraced his steps to the house. There a servant accosted him on the
terrace:

"The telephone, if Monsieur le Comte pleases----"

"Who is calling?" he demanded with a flare of fury.

"Paris, if it pleases Monsieur le Comte."

The Count d'Eblis went to his own quarters, seated himself, and picked
up the receiver:

"Who is it?" he asked thickly.

"Max Freund."

"What has h-happened?" he stammered in sudden terror.

Over the wire came the distant reply, perfectly clear and distinct:

"Ferez Bey was arrested in his own house at dinner last evening, and
was immediately conducted to the frontier, escorted by Government
detectives.... Is Nihla with you?"

The Count's teeth were chattering now. He managed to say:

"No, I don't know where she is. She was dancing. Then, all at once,
she was gone. Of what was Colonel Ferez suspected?"

"I don't know. But perhaps we might guess."

"Are _you_ followed?"

"Yes."

"By--by whom?"

"By Souchez.... Good-bye, if I don't see you. I join Ferez. And look
out for Nihla. She'll trick you yet!"

The Count d'Eblis called:

"Wait, for God's sake, Max!"--listened; called again in vain. "The
one-eyed rabbit!" he panted, breathing hard and irregularly. His large
hand shook as he replaced the instrument. He sat there as though
paralysed, for a moment or two. Mechanically he removed his tinsel cap
and thrust it into the pocket of his evening coat. Suddenly the dull
hue of anger dyed neck, ears and temple:

"By God!" he gasped. "What is that she-devil trying to do to me? What
has she _done_!"

After another moment of staring fixedly at nothing, he opened the
table drawer, picked up a pistol and poked it into his breast pocket.

Then he rose, heavily, and stood looking out of the window at the
paling east, his pendulous under lip aquiver.




II

SUNRISE


The first sunbeams had already gilded her bedroom windows, barring the
drawn curtains with light, when the man arrived. He was still wearing
his disordered evening dress under a light overcoat; his soiled shirt
front was still crossed by the red ribbon of watered silk; third class
orders striped his breast, where also the brand new Turkish sunburst
glimmered.

A sleepy maid in night attire answered his furious ringing; the man
pushed her aside with an oath and strode into the semi-darkness of the
corridor. He was nearly six feet tall, bulky; but his legs were either
too short or something else was the matter with them, for when he
walked he waddled, breathing noisily from the ascent of the stairs.

"Is your mistress here?" he demanded, hoarse with his effort.

"Y--yes, monsieur----"

"When did she come in?" And, as the scared and bewildered maid
hesitated: "Damn you, answer me! When did Mademoiselle Quellen come
in? I'll wring your neck if you lie to me!"

The maid began to whimper:

"Monsieur le Comte--I do not wish to lie to you.... Mademoiselle Nihla
came back with the dawn----"

"Alone?"

The maid wrung her hands:

"Does Monsieur le Comte m-mean to harm her?"

"Will you answer me, you snivelling cat!" he panted between his big,
discoloured teeth. He had fished out a pistol from his breast pocket,
dragging with it a silk handkerchief, a fancy cap of tissue and gilt,
and some streamers of confetti which fell to the carpet around his
feet.

"Now," he breathed in a half-strangled voice, "answer my questions.
Was she alone when she came in?"

"N-no."

"Who was with her?"

"A--a----"

"A man?"

The maid trembled violently and nodded.

"What man?"

"M-Monsieur le Comte, I have never before beheld him----"

"You lie!"

"I do not lie! I have never before seen him, Monsieur le----"

"Did you learn his name?"

"No----"

"Did you hear what they said?"

"They spoke in English----"

"What!" The man's puffy face went flabby white, and his big, badly
made frame seemed to sag for a moment. He laid a large fat hand flat
against the wall, as though to support and steady himself, and gazed
dully at the terrified maid.

And she, shivering in her night-robe and naked feet, stared back into
the pallid face, with its coarse, greyish moustache and little short
side-whiskers which vulgarized it completely--gazed in unfeigned
terror at the sagging, deadly, lead-coloured eyes.

"Is the man there--in there now--with her?" demanded the Comte d'Eblis
heavily.

"No, monsieur."

"Gone?"

"Oh, Monsieur le Comte, the young man stayed but a moment----"

"Where were they? In her bedroom?"

"In the salon. I--I served a pâté--a glass of wine--and the young
gentleman was gone the next minute----"

A dull red discoloured the neck and features of the Count.

"That's enough," he said; and waddled past her along the corridor to
the furthest door; and wrenched it open with one powerful jerk.

In the still, golden gloom of the drawn curtains, now striped with
sunlight, a young girl suddenly sat up in bed.

"Alexandre!" she exclaimed in angry astonishment.

"You slut!" he said, already enraged again at the mere sight of her.
"Where did you go last night!"

"What are you doing in my bedroom?" she demanded, confused but flushed
with anger. "Leave it! Do you hear!--" She caught sight of the pistol
in his hand and stiffened.

He stepped nearer; her dark, dilated gaze remained fixed on the
pistol.

"Answer me," he said, the menacing roar rising in his voice. "Where
did you go last night when you left the house?"

"I--I went out--on the lawn."

"And then?"

"I had had enough of your party: I came back to Paris."

"And _then_?"

"I came here, of course."

"Who was with you?"

Then, for the first time, she began to comprehend. She swallowed
desperately.

"Who was your companion?" he repeated.

"A--man."

"You brought him here?"

"He--came in--for a moment."

"Who was he?"

"I--never before saw him."

"You picked up a man in the street and brought him here with you?"

"N-not on the street----"

"Where?"

"On the lawn--while your guests were dancing----"

"And you came to Paris with him?"

"Y-yes."

"Who was he?"

"I don't know----"

"If you don't name him, I'll kill you!" he yelled, losing the last
vestige of self-control. "What kind of story are you trying to tell
me, you lying drab! You've got a lover! Confess it!"

"I have not!"

"Liar! So this is how you've laughed at me, mocked me, betrayed me,
made a fool of me! You!--with your fierce little snappish ways of a
virgin! You with your dangerous airs of a tiger-cat if a man so much
as laid a finger on your vicious body! So Mademoiselle-Don't-touch-me
had a lover all the while. Max Freund warned me to keep an eye on
you!" He lost control of himself again; his voice became a hoarse
shout: "Max Freund begged me not to trust you! You filthy little
beast! Good God! Was I crazy to believe in you--to talk without
reserve in your presence! What kind of imbecile was I to offer you
marriage because I was crazy enough to believe that there was no other
way to possess you! You--a Levantine dancing girl--a common painted
thing of the public footlights--a creature of brasserie and cabaret!
And you posed as Mademoiselle Nitouche! A novice! A devotee of
chastity! And, by God, your devilish ingenuity at last persuaded me
that you actually were what you said you were. And all Paris knew you
were fooling me--all Paris was laughing in its dirty sleeve--mocking
me--spitting on me----"

"All Paris," she said, in an unsteady voice, "gave you credit for
being my lover. And I endured it. And you knew it was not true. Yet
you never denied it.... But as for me, I never had a lover. When I
told you that I told you the truth. And it is true to-day as it was
yesterday. Nobody believes it of a dancing girl. Now, _you_ no longer
believe it. Very well, there is no occasion for melodrama. I tried to
fall in love with you: I couldn't. I did not desire to marry you. You
insisted. Very well; you can go."

"Not before I learn the name of your lover of last night!" he
retorted, now almost beside himself with fury, and once more menacing
her with his pistol. "I'll get that much change out of all the money
I've lavished on you!" he yelled. "Tell me his name or I'll kill
you!"

She reached under her pillow, clutched a jewelled watch and purse, and
hurled them at him. She twisted from her arm a gemmed bracelet, tore
every flashing ring from her fingers, and flung them in a handful
straight at his head.

"There's some more change for you!" she panted. "Now, leave my
bedroom!"

"I'll have that man's name first!"

The girl laughed in his distorted face. He was within an ace of
shooting her--of firing point-blank into the lovely, flushed features,
merely to shatter them, destroy, annihilate. He had the desire to do
it. But her breathless, contemptuous laugh broke that impulse--relaxed
it, leaving it flaccid. And after an interval something else
intervened to stay his hand at the trigger--something that crept into
his mind; something he had begun to suspect that she knew. Suddenly he
became convinced that she _did_ know it--that she believed that he
dared not kill her and stand the investigation of a public trial
before a _juge d'instruction_--that he could not afford to have his
own personal affairs scrutinised too closely.

He still wanted to kill her--shoot her there where she sat in bed,
watching him out of scornful young eyes. So intense was his need to
slay--to disfigure, brutalise this girl who had mocked him, that the
raging desire hurt him physically. He leaned back, resting against the
silken wall, momentarily weakened by the violence of passion. But his
pistol still threatened her.

No; he dared not. There was a better, surer way to utterly destroy
her,--a way he had long ago prepared,--not expecting any such
contingency as this, but merely as a matter of self-insurance.

His levelled weapon wavered, dropped, held loosely now. He still
glared at her out of pallid and blood-shot eyes in silence. After a
while:

"You hell-cat," he said slowly and distinctly. "Who is your English
lover? Tell me his name or I'll beat your face to a pulp!"

"I have no English lover."

"Do you think," he went on heavily, disregarding her reply, "that I
don't know why you chose an Englishman? You thought you could
blackmail me, didn't you?"

"How?" she demanded wearily.

Again he ignored her reply:

"Is he one of the Embassy?" he demanded. "Is he some emissary of
Grey's? Does he come from their intelligence department? Or is he only
a police jackal? Or some lesser rat?"

She shrugged; her night-robe slipped and she drew it over her shoulder
with a quick movement. And the man saw the deep blush spreading over
face and throat.

"By God!" he said, "you _are_ an actress! I admit it. But now you are
going to learn something about real life. You think you've got me,
don't you?--you and your Englishman? Because I have been fool enough
to trust you--hide nothing from you--act frankly and openly in your
presence. You thought you'd get a hold on me, so that if I ever caught
you at your treacherous game you could defy me and extort from me the
last penny! You thought all that out--very thriftily and cleverly--you
and your Englishman between you--didn't you?"

"I don't know what you mean."

"Don't you? Then why did you ask me the other day whether it was not
German money which was paying for the newspaper which I bought?"

"The _Mot d'Ordre_?"

"Certainly."

"I asked you that because Ferez Bey is notoriously in Germany's pay.
And Ferez Bey financed the affair. You said so. Besides, you and he
discussed it before me in my own salon."

"And you suspected that I bought the _Mot d'Ordre_ with German money
for the purpose of carrying out German propaganda in a Paris daily
paper?"

"I don't know why Ferez Bey gave you the money to buy it."

"He did not give me the money."

"You said so. Who did?"

"_You!_" he fairly yelled.

"W-what!" stammered the girl, confounded.

"Listen to me, you rat!" he said fiercely. "I was not such a fool as
you believed me to be. I lavished money on you; you made a fortune for
yourself out of your popularity, too. Do you remember endorsing a
cheque drawn to your order by Ferez Bey?"

"Yes. You had borrowed every penny I possessed. You said that Ferez
Bey owed you as much. So I accepted his cheque----"

"That cheque paid for the _Mot d'Ordre_. It is drawn to your order;
it bears your endorsement; the _Mot d'Ordre_ was purchased in your
name. And it was Max Freund who insisted that I take that precaution.
Now, try to blackmail me!--you and your English spy!" he cried
triumphantly, his voice breaking into a squeak.

Not yet understanding, merely conscious of some vague and monstrous
danger, the girl sat motionless, regarding him intently out of
beautiful, intelligent eyes.

He burst into laughter, made falsetto by the hysteria of sheer
hatred:

"That's where you are now!" he said, leering down at her. "Every paper
I ever made you sign incriminates you; your cancelled cheque is in the
same packet; your _dossier_ is damning and complete. You didn't know
that Ferez Bey was sent across the frontier yesterday, did you? Your
English spy didn't inform you last night, did he?"

"N-no."

"You lie! You _did_ know it! That was why you stole away last night
and met your jackal--to sell him something besides yourself, this
time! You knew they had arrested Ferez! I don't know how you knew it,
but you did. And you told your lover. And both of you thought you had
me at last, didn't you?"

"I--what are you trying to say to me--do to me?" she stammered, losing
colour for the first time.

"Put you where you belong--you dirty spy!" he said with grinning
ferocity. "If there is to be trouble, I've prepared for it. When they
try you for espionage, they'll try you as a foreigner--a dancing girl
in the pay of Germany--as my mistress whom Max Freund and I discover
in treachery to France, and whom I instantly denounce to the proper
authorities!"

He shoved his pistol into his breast pocket and put on his marred silk
hat.

"Which do you think they will believe--you or the Count d'Eblis?" he
demanded, the nervous leer twitching at his heavy lips. "Which do you
think they will believe--your denials and counter-accusations against
me, or Max Freund's corroboration, and the evidence of the packet I
shall now deliver to the authorities--the packet containing every
cursed document necessary to convict you!--you filthy little----"

The girl bounded from her bed to the floor, her dark eyes blazing:

"Damn you!" she said. "Get out of my bedroom!"

Taken aback, he retreated a pace or two, and, at the furious menace of
the little clenched fist, stepped another pace out into the corridor.
The door crashed in his face; the bolt shot home.

       *       *       *       *       *

In twenty minutes Nihla Quellen, the celebrated and adored of European
capitals, crept out of the street door. She wore the dress of a
Finistère peasant; her hair was grey, her step infirm.

The _commissaire_, two _agents de police_, and a Government detective,
one Souchez, already on their way to identify and arrest her, never
even glanced at the shabby, infirm figure which hobbled past them on
the sidewalk and feebly mounted an omnibus marked Gare du Nord.

       *       *       *       *       *

For a long time Paris was carefully combed for the dancer, Nihla
Quellen, until more serious affairs occupied the authorities, and
presently the world at large. For, in a few weeks, war burst like a
clap of thunder over Europe, leaving the whole world stunned and
reeling. The dossier of Nihla Quellen, the dancing girl, was tossed
into secret archives, together with the dossier of one Ferez Bey, an
Eurasian, now far beyond French jurisdiction, and already very
industrious in the United States about God knows what, in company with
one Max Freund.

As for Monsieur the Count d'Eblis, he remained a senator, an owner of
many third-rate decorations, and of the _Mot d'Ordre_.

And he remained on excellent terms with everybody at the Swedish,
Greek, and Bulgarian legations, and the Turkish Embassy, too. And
continued in cipher communication with Max Freund and Ferez Bey in
America.

Otherwise, he was still president of the Numismatic Society of Spain,
and he continued to add to his wonderful collection of coins, and to
keep up his voluminous numismatic correspondence.

He was growing stouter, too, which increased his spinal waddle when he
walked; and he became very prosperous financially, through fortunate
"operations," as he explained, with one Bolo Pasha.

He had only one regret to interfere with his sleep and his digestion;
he was sorry he had not fired his pistol into the youthful face of
Nihla Quellen. He should have avenged himself, taken his chances, and
above everything else he should have destroyed her beauty. His
timidity and caution still caused him deep and bitter chagrin.

For nearly a year he heard absolutely nothing concerning her. Then one
day a letter arrived from Ferez Bey through Max Freund, both being in
New York. And when, using his key to the cipher, he extracted the
message it contained, he had learned, among other things, that Nihla
Quellen was in New York, employed as a teacher in a school for
dancing.

The gist of his reply to Ferez Bey was that Nihla Quellen had already
outlived her usefulness on earth, and that Max Freund should attend to
the matter at the first favourable opportunity.




III

SUNSET


On the edge of evening she came out of the Palace of Mirrors and
crossed the wet asphalt, which already reflected primrose lights from
a clearing western sky.

A few moments before, he had been thinking of her, never dreaming that
she was in America. But he knew her instantly, there amid the rush and
clatter of the street, recognised her even in the twilight of the
passing storm--perhaps not alone from the half-caught glimpse of her
shadowy, averted face, nor even from that young, lissome figure so
celebrated in Europe. There is a sixth sense--the sense of nearness to
what is familiar. When it awakes we call it premonition.

The shock of seeing her, the moment's exciting incredulity, passed
before he became aware that he was already following her through
swarming metropolitan throngs released from the toil of a long, wet
day in early spring.

Through every twilit avenue poured the crowds; through every
cross-street a rosy glory from the west was streaming; and in its
magic he saw her immortally transfigured, where the pink light
suffused the crossings, only to put on again her lovely mortality in
the shadowy avenue.

At Times Square she turned west, straight into the dazzling fire of
sunset, and he at her slender heels, not knowing why, not even asking
it of himself, not thinking, not caring.

A third figure followed them both.

The bronze giants south of them stirred, swung their great hammers
against the iron bell; strokes of the hour rang out above the din of
Herald Square, inaudible in the traffic roar another square away,
lost, drowned out long before the pleasant bell-notes penetrated to
Forty-second Street, into which they both had turned.

Yet, as though occultly conscious that some hour had struck on earth,
significant to her, she stopped, turned, and looked back--looked quite
through him, seeing neither him nor the one-eyed man who followed them
both--as though her line of vision were the East itself, where, across
the grey sea's peril, a thousand miles of cannon were sounding the
hour from the North Sea to the Alps.

He passed her at her very elbow--aware of her nearness, as though
suddenly close to a young orchard in April. The girl, too, resumed her
way, unconscious of him, of his youthful face set hard with controlled
emotion.

The one-eyed man followed them both.

A few steps further and she turned into the entrance to one of those
sprawling, pretentious restaurants, the sham magnificence of which
becomes grimy overnight. He halted, swung around, retraced his steps
and followed her. And at his heels two shapes followed them very
silently--her shadow and his own--so close together now, against the
stucco wall that they seemed like Destiny and Fate linked arm in arm.

The one-eyed man halted at the door for a few moments. Then he, too,
went in, dogged by his sinister shadow.

The red sunset's rays penetrated to the rotunda and were quenched
there in a flood of artificial light; and there their sun-born
shadows vanished, and three strange new shadows, twisted and
grotesque, took their places.

She continued on into the almost empty restaurant, looming dimly
beyond. He followed; the one-eyed man followed both.

The place into which they stepped was circular, centred by a waterfall
splashing over concrete rocks. In the ruffled pool goldfish glimmered,
nearly motionless, and mandarin ducks floated, preening exotic
plumage.

A wilderness of tables surrounded the pool, set for the expected
patronage of the coming evening. The girl seated herself at one of
these.

At the next table he found a place for himself, entirely unnoticed by
her. The one-eyed man took the table behind them. A waiter presented
himself to take her order; another waiter came up leisurely to attend
to him. A third served the one-eyed man. There were only a few inches
between the three tables. Yet the girl, deeply preoccupied, paid no
attention to either man, although both kept their eyes on her.

But already, under the younger man's spellbound eyes, an odd and
unforeseen thing was occurring: he gradually became aware that, almost
imperceptibly, the girl and the table where she sat, and the sleepy
waiter who was taking her orders, were slowly moving nearer to him on
a floor which was moving, too.

He had never before been in that particular restaurant, and it took
him a moment or two to realise that the floor was one of those trick
floors, the central part of which slowly revolves.

Her table stood on the revolving part of the floor, his upon fixed
terrain; and he now beheld her moving toward him, as the circle of
tables rotated on its axis, which was the waterfall and pool in the
middle of the restaurant.

A few people began to arrive--theatrical people, who are obliged to
dine early. Some took seats at tables placed upon the revolving
section of the floor, others preferred the outer circles, where he sat
in a fixed position.

Her table was already abreast of his, with only the circular crack in
the floor between them; he could easily have touched her.

As the distance began to widen between them, the girl, her gloved
hands clasped in her lap, and studying the table-cloth with unseeing
gaze, lifted her dark eyes--looked at him without seeing, and once
more gazed through him at something invisible upon which her thoughts
remained fixed--something absorbing, vital, perhaps tragic--for her
face had become as colourless, now, as one of those translucent
marbles, vaguely warmed by some buried vein of rose beneath the snowy
surface.

Slowly she was being swept away from him--his gaze following--hers
lost in concentrated abstraction.

He saw her slipping away, disappearing behind the noisy waterfall.
Around him the restaurant continued to fill, slowly at first, then
more rapidly after the orchestra had entered its marble gallery.

The music began with something Russian, plaintive at first, then
beguiling, then noisy, savage in its brutal precision--something
sinister--a trampling melody that was turning into thunder with the
throb of doom all through it. And out of the vicious, Asiatic
clangour, from behind the dash of too obvious waterfalls, glided the
girl he had followed, now on her way toward him again, still seated at
her table, still gazing at nothing out of dark, unseeing eyes.

It seemed to him an hour before her table approached his own again.
Already she had been served by a waiter--was eating.

He became aware, then, that somebody had also served him. But he could
not even pretend to eat, so preoccupied was he by her approach.

Scarcely seeming to move at all, the revolving floor was steadily
drawing her table closer and closer to his. She was not looking at the
strawberries which she was leisurely eating--did not lift her eyes as
her table swept smoothly abreast of his.

Scarcely aware that he spoke aloud, he said:

"Nihla--Nihla Quellen!..."

Like a flash the girl wheeled in her chair to face him. She had lost
all her colour. Her fork had dropped and a blood-red berry rolled over
the table-cloth toward him.

"I'm sorry," he said, flushing. "I did not mean to startle you----"

The girl did not utter a word, nor did she move; but in her dark eyes
he seemed to see her every sense concentrated upon him to identify his
features, made shadowy by the lighted candles behind his head.

By degrees, smoothly, silently, her table swept nearer, nearer,
bringing with it her chair, her slender person, her dark, intelligent
eyes, so unsmilingly and steadily intent on him.

He began to stammer:

"--Two years ago--at--the Villa Tresse d'Or--on the Seine.... And we
promised to see each other--in the morning----"

She said coolly:

"My name is Thessalie Dunois. You mistake me for another."

"No," he said, in a low voice, "I am not mistaken."

Her brown eyes seemed to plunge their clear regard into the depths of
his very soul--not in recognition, but in watchful, dangerous
defiance.

He began again, still stammering a trifle:

"--In the morning, we were to--to meet--at eleven--near the fountain
of Marie de Médicis--unless you do not care to remember----"

At that her gaze altered swiftly, melted into the exquisite relief of
recognition. Suspended breath, released, parted her blanched lips; her
little guardian heart, relieved of fear, beat more freely.

"Are you Garry?"

"Yes."

"I know you now," she murmured. "You are Garret Barres, of the rue
d'Eryx.... You _are_ Garry!" A smile already haunted her dark young
eyes; colour was returning to lip and cheek. She drew a deep,
noiseless breath.

The table where she sat continued to slip past him; the distance
between them was widening. She had to turn her head a little to face
him.

"You do remember me then, Nihla?"

The girl inclined her head a trifle. A smile curved her lips--lips now
vivid but still a little tremulous from the shock of the encounter.

"May I join you at your table?"

She smiled, drew a deeper breath, looked down at the strawberry on the
cloth, looked over her shoulder at him.

"You owe me an explanation," he insisted, leaning forward to span the
increasing distance between them.

"Do I?"

"Ask yourself."

After a moment, still studying him, she nodded as though the nod
answered some silent question of her own:

"Yes, I owe you one."

"Then may I join you?"

"My table is more prudent than I. It is running away from an
explanation." She fixed her eyes on her tightly clasped hands, as
though to concentrate thought. He could see only the back of her head,
white neck and lovely dark hair.

Her table was quite a distance away when she turned, leisurely, and
looked back at him.

"May I come?" he asked.

She lifted her delicate brows in demure surprise.

"I've been waiting for you," she said, amiably.

The one-eyed man had never taken his eyes off them.




IV

DUSK


She had offered him her hand; he had bent over it, seated himself, and
they smilingly exchanged the formal banalities of a pleasantly renewed
acquaintance.

A waiter laid a cover for him. She continued to concern herself,
leisurely, with her strawberries.

"When did you leave Paris?" she enquired.

"Nearly two years ago."

"Before war was declared?"

"Yes, in June of that year."

She looked up at him very seriously; but they both smiled as she
said:

"It was a momentous month for you then--the month of June, 1914?"

"Very. A charming young girl broke my heart in 1914; and so I came
home, a wreck--to recuperate."

At that she laughed outright, glancing at his youthful, sunburnt face
and lean, vigorous figure.

"When did _you_ come over?" he asked curiously.

"I have been here longer than you have. In fact, I left France the day
I last saw you."

"The same day?"

"I started that very same day--shortly after sunrise. I crossed the
Belgian frontier that night, and I sailed for New York the morning
after. I landed here a week later, and I've been here ever since.
That, monsieur, is my history."

"You've been here in New York for two years!" he repeated in
astonishment. "Have you really left the stage then? I supposed you had
just arrived to fill an engagement here."

"They gave me a try-out this afternoon."

"_You?_ A try-out!" he exclaimed, amazed.

She carelessly transfixed a berry with her fork:

"If I secure an engagement I shall be very glad to fill it ... and my
stomach, also. If I don't secure one--well--charity or starvation
confronts me."

He smiled at her with easy incredulity.

"I had not heard that you were here!" he repeated. "I've read nothing
at all about you in the papers----"

"No ... I am here incognito.... I have taken my sister's name. After
all, your American public does not know me."

"But----"

"Wait! I don't wish it to know me!"

"But if you----"

The girl's slight gesture checked him, although her smile became
humorous and friendly:

"Please! We need not discuss my future. Only the past!" She laughed:
"How it all comes back to me now, as you speak--that crazy evening of
ours together! What children we were--two years ago!"

Smilingly she clasped her hands together on the table's edge,
regarding him with that winning directness which was a celebrated part
of her celebrated personality; and happened to be natural to her.

"Why did I not recognise you immediately?" she demanded of herself,
frowning in self-reproof. "I _am_ stupid! Also I have, now and then,
thought about you----" She shrugged her shoulders, and again her face
faltered subtly:

"Much has happened to distract my memories," she added carelessly,
impaling a strawberry, "--since you and I took the key to the fields
and the road to the moon--like the pair of irresponsibles we were that
night in June."

"Have you really had trouble?"

Her slim figure straightened as at a challenge, then became adorably
supple again; and she rested her elbows on the table's edge and took
her cheeks between her hands.

"Trouble?" she repeated, studying his face. "I don't know that word,
trouble. I don't admit such a word to the honour of my happy
vocabulary."

They both laughed a little.

She said, still looking at him, and at first speaking as though to
herself:

"Of course, you are that same, delightful Garry! My youthful American
accomplice!... Quite unspoiled, still, but very, very irresponsible
... like all painters--like all students. And the mischief which is in
me recognised the mischief in you, I suppose.... I _did_ surprise you
that night, didn't I?... And what a night! What a moon! And how we
danced there on the wet lawn until my skirts and slippers and
stockings were drenched with dew!... And how we laughed! Oh, that
full-hearted, full-throated laughter of ours! How wonderful that we
have lived to laugh like that! It is something to remember after
death. Just think of it!--you and I, absolute strangers, dancing every
dance there in the drenched grass to the music that came through the
open windows.... And do you remember how we hid in the flowering
bushes when my sister and the others came out to look for me? How they
called, 'Nihla! Nihla! Little devil, where are you?' Oh, it was
funny--funny! And to see _him_ come out on the lawn--do you remember?
He looked so fat and stupid and anxious and bad-tempered! And you and
I expiring with stifled laughter! And he, with his sash, his
decorations and his academic palms! He'd have shot us both, you
know...."

They were laughing unrestrainedly now at the memory of that impossible
night a year ago; and the girl seemed suddenly transformed into an
irresponsible gamine of eighteen. Her eyes grew brighter with mischief
and laughter--laughter, the greatest magician and doctor emeritus of
them all! The immortal restorer of youth and beauty.

Bluish shadows had gone from under her lower lashes; her eyes were
starry as a child's.

"Oh, Garry," she gasped, laying one slim hand across his on the
table-cloth, "it was one of those encounters--one of those heavenly
accidents that reconcile one to living.... I think the moon had made
me a perfect lunatic.... Because you don't yet know what I risked....
Garry!... It ruined me--ruined me utterly--our night together under
the June moon!"

"What!" he exclaimed, incredulously.

But she only laughed her gay, undaunted little laugh:

"It was worth it! Such moments are worth anything we pay for them! I
laughed; I pay. What of it?"

"But if I am partly responsible I wish to know----"

"You shall know nothing about it! As for me, I care nothing about it.
I'd do it again to-night! That is living--to go forward, laugh, and
accept what comes--to have heart enough, gaiety enough, brains enough
to seize the few rare dispensations that the niggardly gods fling
across this calvary which we call life! _Tenez_, that alone is living;
the rest is making the endless stations on bleeding knees."

"Yet, if I thought--" he began, perplexed and troubled, "--if I
thought that through my folly----"

"Folly! _Non pas!_ Wisdom! Oh, my blessed accomplice! And do you
remember the canoe? Were we indeed quite mad to embark for Paris on
the moonlit Seine, you and I?--I in evening gown, soaked with dew to
the knees!--you with your sketching block and easel! _Quelle
déménagement en famille!_ Oh, Garry, my friend of gayer days, was that
really folly! No, no, no, it was infinite wisdom; and its memory is
helping me to live through this very moment!"

She leaned there on her elbows and laughed across the cloth at him.
The mockery began to dance again and glimmer in her eyes:

"After all I've told you," she added, "you are no wiser, are you?
You don't know why I never went to the Fountain of Marie de
Médicis--whether I forgot to go--whether I remembered but decided that
I had had quite enough of you. You don't know, do you?"

He shook his head, smiling. The girl's face grew gradually serious:

"And you never heard anything more about me?" she demanded.

"No. Your name simply disappeared from the billboards, kiosques, and
newspapers."

"And you heard no malicious gossip? None about my sister, either?"

"None."

She nodded:

"Europe is a senile creature which forgets overnight. _Tant mieux_....
You know, I shall sing and dance under my sister's name here. I told
you that, didn't I?"

"Oh! That would be a great mistake----"

"Listen! Nihla Quellen disappeared--married some fat bourgeois, died,
perhaps,"--she shrugged,--"anything you wish, my friend. Who cares to
listen to what is said about a dancing girl in all this din of war?
Who is interested?"

It was scarcely a question, yet her eyes seemed to make it so.

"Who cares?" she repeated impatiently. "Who remembers?"

"I have remembered you," he said, meeting her intently questioning
gaze.

"You? Oh, you are not like those others over there. Your country is
not at war. You still have leisure to remember. But they forget. They
haven't time to remember anything--anybody--over there. Don't you
think so?" She turned in her chair unconsciously, and gazed eastward.
"--They have forgotten me over there--" And her lips tightened,
contracted, bitten into silence.

The strange beauty of the girl left him dumb. He was recalling, now,
all that he had ever heard concerning her. The gossip of Europe had
informed him that, though Nihla Quellen was passionately and devotedly
French in soul and heart, her mother had been one of those unmoral and
lovely Georgians, and her father an Alsatian, named Dunois--a French
officer who entered the Russian service ultimately, and became a
hunting cheetah for the Grand Duke Cyril, until himself hunted into
another world by that old bag of bones on the pale and shaky nag. His
daughter took the name of Nihla Quellen and what money was left, and
made her début in Constantinople.

As the young fellow sat there watching her, all the petty gossip of
Europe came back to him--anecdotes, panegyrics, eulogies, scandals,
stage chatter, Quarter "divers," paid réclames--all that he had ever
read and heard about this notorious young girl, now seated there
across the table, with her pretty head framed by slender, unjewelled
fingers. He remembered the gems she had worn that June night, a year
ago, and their magnificence.

"Well," she said, "life is a pleasantry, a jest, a bon-mot flung over
his shoulder by some god too drunk with nectar to invent a better
joke. Life is an Olympian epigram made between immortal yawns. What do
you think of _my_ epigram, Garry?"

"I think you are just as clever and amusing as I remember you,
Nihla."

"Amusing to _you_, perhaps. But I don't entertain myself very
successfully. I don't think poverty is a very funny joke. Do you?"

"Poverty!" he repeated, smiling his unbelief.

She smiled too, displayed her pretty, ringless hands humorously, for
his inspection, then framed her oval face between them again and made
a deliberate grimace.

"All gone," she said. "I am, as you say, here on my uppers."

"I can't understand, Nihla----"

"Don't try to. It doesn't concern you. Also, please forget me as Nihla
Quellen. I told you that I've taken my sister's name, Thessalie
Dunois."

"But all Europe knows you as Nihla Quellen----"

"Listen!" she interrupted sharply. "I have troubles enough. Don't add
to them, or I shall be sorry I met you again. I tell you my name is
Thessa. Please remember it."

"Very well," he said, reddening under the rebuke.

She noted the painful colour in his face, then looked elsewhere,
indifferently. Her features remained expressionless for a while. After
a few moments she looked around at him again, and her smile began to
glimmer:

"It's only this," she said; "the girl you met once in your life--the
dancing singing-girl they knew over there--is already an episode to be
forgotten. End her career any way you wish, Garry,--natural death,
suicide--or she can repent and take the veil, if you like--or perish
at sea--only end her.... Please?" she added, with the sweet, trailing
inflection characteristic of her.

He nodded. The girl smiled mischievously.

"Don't nod your head so owlishly and pretend to understand. You don't
understand. Only two or three people do. And I hope they'll believe me
dead, even if you are not polite enough to agree with them."

"How can you expect to maintain your incognito?" he insisted. "There
will be plenty of people in your very first audience----"

"I had a sister, did I not?"

"_Was_ she your sister?--the one who danced with you--the one called
Thessa?"

"No. But the play-bills said she was. Now, I've told you something
that nobody knows except two or three unpleasant devils--" She dropped
her arms on the table and leaned a trifle forward:

"Oh, pouf!" she said. "Don't let's be mysterious and dramatic, you and
I. I'll tell you: I gave that woman the last of my jewels and she
promised to disappear and leave her name to me to use. It was my own
name, anyway, Thessalie Dunois. Now, you know. Be as discreet and nice
as I once found you. Will you?"

"Of course."

"'Of course,'" she repeated, smiling, and with a little twitch of her
shoulders, as though letting fall a burdensome cloak. "Allons! With a
free heart, then! I am Thessalie Dunois; I am here; I am poor--don't
be frightened! I shall not borrow----"

"That's rotten, Thessa!" he said, turning very red.

"Oh, go lightly, please, my friend Garry. I have no claim on you.
Besides, I know men----"

"You don't appear to!"

"Tiens! Our first quarrel!" she exclaimed, laughingly. "This is indeed
serious----"

"If you need aid----"

"No, I don't! Please, why do you scowl at me? Do you then wish I
needed aid? Yours? Allez, Monsieur Garry, if I did I'd venture,
perhaps, to say so to you. Does that make amends?" she added sweetly.

She clasped her white hands on the cloth and looked at him with that
engaging, humorous little air which had so easily captivated her
audiences in Europe--that, and her voice with the hint of recklessness
ever echoing through its sweetness and youthful gaiety.

"What are you doing in New York?" she asked. "Painting?"

"I have a studio, but----"

"But no clients? Is that it? Pouf! Everybody begins that way. I sang
in a café at Dijon for five francs and my soup! At Rennes I nearly
starved. Oh, yes, Garry, in spite of a number of obliging gentlemen
who, like you, offered--first aid----"

"That is absolutely rotten of you, Thessa. Did I ever----"

"No! For goodness' sake let me jest with you without flying into
tempers!"

"But----"

"Oh, pouf! I shall not quarrel with you! Whatever you and I were going
to say during the next ten minutes shall remain unsaid!... Now, the
ten minutes are over; now, we're reconciled and you are in good humour
again. And now, tell me about yourself, your painting--in other
words, tell me the things about yourself that would interest a
friend."

"Are you?"

"Your friend? Yes, I am--if you wish."

"I do wish it."

"Then I am your friend. I once had a wonderful evening with you....
I'm having a very good time now. You were _nice_ to me, Garry. I
really was sorry not to see you again."

"At the fountain of Marie de Médicis," he said reproachfully.

"Yes. Flatter yourself, monsieur, because I did _not_ forget our
rendezvous. I might have forgotten it easily enough--there was
sufficient excuse, God knows--a girl awakened by the crash of
ruin--springing out of bed to face the end of the world without a
moment's warning--yes, the end of all things--death, too! Tenez, it
was permissible to forget our rendezvous under such circumstances, was
it not? But--I did _not_ forget. I thought about it in a dumb, calm
way all the while--even while _he_ stood there denouncing me,
threatening me, noisy, furious--with the button of the Legion in his
lapel--and an ugly pistol which he waved in the air--" She laughed:

"Oh, it was not at all gay, I assure you.... And even when I took to
my heels after he had gone--for it was a matter of life or death, and
I hadn't a minute to lose--oh, very dramatic, of course, for I ran
away in disguise and I had a frightful time of it leaving France!
Well, even then, at top speed and scared to death, I remembered the
fountain of Marie de Médicis, and you. Don't be too deeply flattered.
I remembered these items principally because they had caused my
downfall."

"I? I caused----"

"No. _I_ caused it! It was I who went out on the lawn. It was I who
came across to see who was painting by moonlight. That began
it--seeing you there--in moonlight bright enough to read by--bright
enough to paint by. Oh, Garry--and you were _so_ good-looking! It was
the moon--and the way you smiled at me. And they all were dancing
inside, and _he_ was so big and fat and complacent, dancing away in
there!... And so I fell a prey to folly."

"Was it really our escapade that--that ruined you?"

"Well--it was partly that. Pouf! It is over. And I am here. So are
you. It's been nice to see you.... Please call our waiter." She
glanced at her cheap, leather wrist watch.

As they rose and left the dining-room, he asked her if they were not
to see each other again. A one-eyed man, close behind them, listened
for her reply.

She continued to walk on slowly beside him without answering, until
they reached the rotunda.

"Do you wish to see me again?" she enquired abruptly.

"Don't you also wish it?"

"I don't know, Garry.... I've been annoyed in New
York--bothered--seriously.... I can't explain, but somehow--I don't
seem to wish to begin a friendship with anybody...."

"Ours began two years ago."

"Did it?"

"Did it not, Thessa?"

"Perhaps.... I don't know. After all--it doesn't matter. I think--I
think we had better say good-bye--until some happy hazard--like
to-day's encounter--" She hesitated, looked up at him, laughed:

"Where is your studio?" she asked mischievously.

The one-eyed man at their heels was listening.




V

IN DRAGON COURT


There was a young moon in the southwest--a slender tracery in the
April twilight--curved high over his right shoulder as he walked
northward and homeward through the flare of Broadway.

His thoughts were still occupied with the pleasant excitement of his
encounter with Thessalie Dunois; his mind and heart still responded to
the delightful stimulation. Out of an already half-forgotten realm of
romance, where, often now, he found it increasingly difficult to
realise that he had lived for five happy years, a young girl had
suddenly emerged as bodily witness, to corroborate, revive, and
refresh his fading faith in the reality of what once had been.

Five years in France!--France with its clear sun and lovely moon; its
silver-grey cities, its lilac haze, its sweet, deep greenness, its
atmosphere of living light!--France, the dwelling-place of God in all
His myriad aspects--in all His protean forms! France, the sanctuary of
Truth and all her ancient and her future liberties; France, blossoming
domain of Love in Love's million exquisite transfigurations, wherein
only the eye of faith can recognise the winged god amid his
camouflage!

       *       *       *       *       *

Wine-strong winds of the Western World, and a pitiless Western sun
which etches every contour with terrible precision, leaving nothing to
imagination--no delicate mystery to rest and shelter souls--had swept
away and partly erased from his mind the actuality of those five past
years.

Already that past, of which he had been a part, was becoming
disturbingly unreal to him. Phantoms haunted its ever-paling sunlight;
its scenes were fading; its voices grew vague and distant; its hushed
laughter dwindled to a whisper, dying like a sigh.

Then, suddenly, against that misty tapestry of tinted spectres,
appeared Thessalie Dunois in the flesh!--straight out of the
phantom-haunted void had stepped this glowing thing of life! Into the
raw reek and familiar dissonance of Broadway she had vanished. Small
wonder that he had followed her to keep in touch with the vanishing
past, as a sleeper, waking against his will, strives still to grasp
the fragile fabric of a happy dream.

Yet, in spite of Thessalie, in spite of dreams, in spite of his own
home-coming, and the touch of familiar pavements under his own feet,
the past, to Barres, was utterly dead, the present strange and unreal,
the future obscure and all aflame behind a world afire with war.

For two years, now, no human mind in America had been able to adjust
itself to the new heaven and the new earth which had sprung into lurid
being at the thunderclap of war.

All things familiar had changed in the twinkling of an eye; all former
things had passed away, leaving the stunned brain of humanity dulled
under the shock.

Slowly, by degrees, the world was beginning to realise that the
civilisation of Christ was being menaced once again by a resurgence
from that ancient land of legend where the wild Hun denned;--that
again the endless hordes of barbarians were rushing in on Europe out
of their Eastern fastnesses--hordes which filled the shrinking skies
with their clamour, vaunting the might of Baal, cheering their
antichrist, drenching the knees of their own red gods with the blood
of little children.

It seemed impossible for Americans to understand that these things
could be--were really true--that the horrors the papers printed were
actualities happening to civilised people like themselves and their
neighbours.

Out of their own mouths the German tribes thundered their own disgrace
and condemnation, yet America sat dazed, incredulous, motionless.
Emperor and general, professor and junker, shouted at the top of their
lungs the new creed, horrible as the Black Mass, reversing every
precept taught by Christ.

Millions of Teuton mouths cheered fiercely for the new
religion--Frightfulness; worshipped with frantic yells the new
trinity--Wotan, Kaiser and Brute Strength.

Stunned, blinded, deafened, the Western World, still half-paralysed,
stirred stiffly from its inertia. Slowly, mechanically, its arteries
resumed their functions; the reflex, operating automatically, started
trade again in its old channels; old habits were timidly resumed;
minds groped backward, searching for severed threads which connected
yesterday with to-day--groped, hunted, found nothing, and, perplexed,
turned slowly toward the smoke-choked future for some reason for it
all--some outlook.

There was no explanation, no outlook--nothing save dust and flame and
the din of Teutonic hordes trampling to death the Son of Man.

So America moved about her worn, deep-trodden and familiar ways, her
mind slowly clearing from the cataclysmic concussion, her power of
vision gradually returning, adjusting itself, little by little, to
this new heaven and new earth and this hell entirely new.

The _Lusitania_ went down; the Great Republic merely quivered. Other
ships followed; only a low murmur of pain came from the Western
Colossus.

But now, after the second year, through the thickening nightmare the
Great Republic groaned aloud; and a new note of menace sounded in her
drugged and dreary voice.

And the thick ears of the Hun twitched and he paused, squatting
belly-deep in blood, to listen.

       *       *       *       *       *

Barres walked homeward. Somewhere along in the 40's he turned eastward
into one of those cross-streets originally built up of brownstone
dwelling houses, and now in process of transformation into that
architectural and commercial miscellany which marks the transition
stage of the metropolis anywhere from Westchester to the sea.

Altered for business purposes, basements displayed signs and
merchandise of bootmakers, dealers in oriental porcelains, rare
prints, silverware; parlour windows modified into bay windows, sheeted
with plate-glass, exposed, perhaps, feminine headgear, or an expensive
model gown or two, or the sign of a real-estate man, or of an
upholsterer.

Above the parlour floors lived people of one sort or another;
furnished and unfurnished rooms and suites prevailed; and the
brownstone monotony was already indented along the building line by
brand-new constructions of Indiana limestone, behind the glittering
plate-glass of which were to be seen reticent displays of artistic
furniture, modern and antique oil paintings, here and there the
lace-curtained den of some superior ladies' hair-dresser, where
beautifying also was accomplished at a price, alas!

Halfway between Sixth Avenue and Fifth, on the north side of the
street, an enterprising architect had purchased half a dozen squatty,
three-storied houses, set back from the sidewalk behind grass-plots.
These had been lavishly stuccoed and transformed into abodes for those
irregulars in the army of life known as "artists."

In the rear the back fences had been levelled; six corresponding
houses on the next street had been purchased; a sort of inner court
established, with a common grass-plot planted with trees and
embellished by a number of concrete works of art, battered statues,
sundials, and well-curbs.

Always the army of civilisation trudges along screened, flanked, and
tagged after by life's irregulars, who cannot or will not conform to
routine. And these are always roaming around seeking their own
cantonments, where, for a while, they seem content to dwell at the end
of one more aimless étape through the world--not in regulation
barracks, but in regions too unconventional, too inconvenient to
attract others.

Of this sort was the collection of squatty houses, forming a
"community," where, in the neighbourhood of other irregulars, Garret
Barres dwelt; and into the lighted entrance of which he now turned,
still exhilarated by his meeting with Thessalie Dunois.

The architectural agglomeration was known as Dragon Court--a faïence
Fu-dog above the electric light over the green entrance door
furnishing that priceless idea--a Fu-dog now veiled by mesh-wire to
provide against the indiscretions of sparrows lured thither by
housekeeping possibilities lurking among the dense screens of Japanese
ivy covering the façade.

Larry Soane, the irresponsible superintendent, always turned gardener
with April's advent in Dragon Court, contributions from its denizens
enabling him to pepper a few flower-beds with hyacinths and tulips,
and later with geraniums. These former bulbs had now gratefully
appeared in promising thickets, and Barres saw the dark form of the
handsome, reckless-looking Irishman fussing over them in the
lantern-lit dusk, while his little daughter, Dulcie, kneeling on the
dim grass, caressed the first blue hyacinth blossom with thin,
childish fingers.

Barres glanced into his letter-box behind the desk, above which a
drop-light threw more shadows than illumination. Little Dulcie Soane
was supposed to sit under it and emit information, deliver and receive
letters, pay charges on packages, and generally supervise things when
she was not attending school.

There were no letters for the young man. He examined a package, found
it contained his collars from the laundry, tucked them under his left
arm, and walked to the door looking out upon the dusky interior
court.

"Soane," he said, "your garden begins to look very fine." He nodded
pleasantly to Dulcie, and the child responded to his friendly greeting
with the tired but dauntless smile of the young who are missing those
golden years to which all childhood has a claim.

Dulcie's three cats came strolling out of the dusk across the lamplit
grass--a coal black one with sea-green eyes, known as "The Prophet,"
and his platonic mate, white as snow, and with magnificent azure-blue
eyes which, in white cats, usually betokens total deafness. She was
known as "The Houri" to the irregulars of Dragon Court. The third cat,
unanimously but misleadingly christened "Strindberg" by the dwellers
in Dragon Court, has already crooked her tortoise-shell tail and was
tearing around in eccentric circles or darting halfway up trees in a
manner characteristic, and, possibly accounting for the name, if not
for the sex.

"Thim cats of the kid's," observed Soane, "do be scratchin' up the
plants all night long--bad cess to thim! Barrin' thim three omadhauns
yonder, I'd show ye a purty bed o' poisies, Misther Barres. But
Sthrin'berg, God help her, is f'r diggin' through to China."

Dulcie impulsively caressed the Prophet, who turned his solemn,
incandescent eyes on Barres. The Houri also looked at him, then,
intoxicated by the soft spring evening, rolled lithely upon the new
grass and lay there twitching her snowy tail and challenging the stars
out of eyes that matched their brilliance.

Dulcie got up and walked slowly across the grass to where Barres
stood:

"May I come to see you this evening?" she asked, diffidently, and with
a swift, sidelong glance toward her father.

"Ah, then, don't be worritin' him!" grumbled Soane. "Hasn't Misther
Barres enough to do, what with all thim idees he has slitherin' in his
head, an' all the books an' learnin' an' picters he has to think
of--whithout the likes of you at his heels every blessed minute, day
an' night!----"

"But he always lets me--" she remonstrated.

"G'wan, now, and lave the poor gentleman be! Quit your futtherin' an'
muttherin'. G'wan in the house, ye little scut, an' see what there is
f'r ye to do!----"

"What's the matter with you, Soane?" interrupted Barres good-humouredly.
"Of course she can come up if she wants to. Do you feel like paying me
a visit, Dulcie, before you go to bed?"

"Yes," she nodded diffidently.

"Well, come ahead then, Sweetness! And whenever you want to come you
say so. Your father knows well enough I like to have you."

He smiled at Dulcie; the child's shy preference for his society always
had amused him. Besides, she was always docile and obedient; and she
was very sensitive, too, never outwearing her welcome in his studio,
and always leaving without a murmur when, looking up from book or
drawing he would exclaim cheerfully: "Now, Sweetness! Time's up! Bed
for yours, little lady!"

It had been a very gradual acquaintance between them--more than two
years in developing. From his first pleasant nod to her when he first
came to live in Dragon Court, it had progressed for a few months,
conservatively on her part, and on his with a detached but kindly
interest born of easy sympathy for youth and loneliness.

But he had no idea of the passionate response he was stirring in the
motherless, neglected child--of what hunger he was carelessly
stimulating, what latent qualities and dormant characteristics he was
arousing.

Her appearance, one evening, in her night-dress at his studio doorway,
accompanied by her three cats, began to enlighten him in regard to her
mental starvation. Tremulous, almost at the point of tears, she had
asked for a book and permission to remain for a few moments in the
studio. He had rung for Selinda, ordered fruit, cake, and a glass of
milk, and had installed Dulcie upon the sofa with a lapful of books.
That was the beginning.

But Barres still did not entirely understand what particular magnet
drew the child to his studio. The place was full of beautiful things,
books, rugs, pictures, fine old furniture, cabinets glimmering with
porcelains, ivories, jades, Chinese crystals. These all, in minutest
detail, seemed to fascinate the girl. Yet, after giving her permission
to enter whenever she desired, often while reading or absorbed in
other affairs, he became conscious of being watched; and, glancing up,
would frequently surprise her sitting there very silently, with an
open book on her knees, and her strange grey eyes intently fixed on
him.

Then he would always smile and say something friendly; and usually
forget her the next moment in his absorption of whatever work he had
under way.

Only one other man inhabiting Dragon Court ever took the trouble to
notice or speak to the child--James Westmore, the sculptor. And he was
very friendly in his vigorous, jolly, rather boisterous way, catching
her up and tossing her about as gaily and irresponsibly as though she
were a rag doll; and always telling her he was her adopted godfather
and would have to chastise her if she ever deserved it. Also, he was
always urging her to hurry and grow up, because he had a wedding
present for her. And though Dulcie's smile was friendly, and
Westmore's nonsense pleased the shy child, she merely submitted, never
made any advance.

       *       *       *       *       *

Barres's ménage was accomplished by two specimens of mankind, totally
opposite in sex and colour; Selinda, a blonde, slant-eyed, and very
trim Finn, doing duty as maid; and Aristocrates W. Johnson, lately
employed in the capacity of waiter on a dining-car by the New York
Central Railroad--tall, dignified, graceful, and Ethiopian--who cooked
as daintily as a débutante trifling with culinary duty, and served at
table with the languid condescension of a dilettante and wealthy
amateur of domestic arts.

       *       *       *       *       *

Barres ascended the two low, easy flights of stairs and unlocked his
door. Aristocrates, setting the table in the dining-room, approached
gracefully and relieved his master of hat, coat, and stick.

Half an hour later, a bath and fresh linen keyed up his already
lively spirits; he whistled while he tied his tie, took a critical
look at himself, and, dropping both hands into the pockets of his
dinner jacket, walked out into the big studio, which also was his
living-room.

There was a piano there; he sat down and rattled off a rollicking air
from the most recent spring production, beginning to realise that he
was keyed up for something livelier than a solitary dinner at home.

His hands fell from the keys and he swung around on the piano stool
and looked into the dining-room rather doubtfully.

"Aristocrates!" he called.

The tall pullman butler sauntered gracefully in.

Barres gave him a telephone number to call. Aristocrates returned
presently with the information that the lady was not at home.

"All right. Try Amsterdam 6703. Ask for Miss Souval."

But Miss Souval, also, was out.

Barres possessed a red-leather covered note-book; he went to his desk
and got it; and under his direction Aristocrates called up several
numbers, reporting adversely in every case.

It was a fine evening; ladies were abroad or preparing to fulfil
engagements wisely made on such a day as this had been. And the more
numbers he called up the lonelier the young man began to feel.

Thessalie had not given him either her address or telephone number. It
would have been charming to have her dine with him. He was now
thoroughly inclined for company. He glanced at the empty dining-room
with aversion.

"All right; never mind," he said, dismissing Aristocrates, who receded
as lithely as though leading a cake-walk.

"The devil," muttered the young fellow. "I'm not going to dine here
alone. I've had too happy a day of it."

He got up restlessly and began to pace the studio. He knew he could
get some man, but he didn't want one. However, it began to look like
that or a solitary dinner.

So after a few more moments' scowling cogitation he went out and down
the stairs, with the vague idea of inviting some brother painter--any
one of the regular irregulars who inhabited Dragon Court.

Dulcie sat behind the little desk near the door, head bowed, her thin
hands clasped over the closed ledger, and in her pallid face the
expressionless dullness of a child forgotten.

"Hello, Sweetness!" he said cheerfully.

She looked up; a slight colour tinted her cheeks, and she smiled.

"What's the matter, Dulcie?"

"Nothing."

"Nothing? That's a very dreary malady--nothing. You look lonely. Are
you?"

"I don't know."

"You don't know whether you are lonely or not?" he demanded.

"I suppose I am," she ventured, with a shy smile.

"Where is your father?"

"He went out."

"Any letters for me--or messages?"

"A man--he had one eye--came. He asked who you are."

"What?"

"I think he was German. He had only one eye. He asked your name."

"What did you say?"

"I told him. Then he went away."

Barres shrugged:

"Somebody who wants to sell artists' materials," he concluded. Then he
looked at the girl: "So you're lonely, are you? Where are your three
cats? Aren't they company for you?"

"Yes...."

"Well, then," he said gaily, "why not give a party for them? That
ought to amuse you, Dulcie."

The child still smiled; Barres walked on past her a pace or two,
halted, turned irresolutely, arrived at some swift decision, and came
back, suddenly understanding that he need seek no further--that he had
discovered his guest of the evening at his very elbow.

"Did you and your father have your supper, Dulcie?"

"My father went out to eat at Grogan's."

"How about you?"

"I can find something."

"Why not dine with me?" he suggested.

The child stared, bewildered, then went a little pale.

"Shall we have a dinner party for two--you and I, Dulcie? What do you
say?"

She said nothing, but her big grey eyes were fixed on him in a passion
of inquiry.

"A real party," he repeated. "Let the people get their own mail and
packages until your father returns. Nobody's going to sneak in,
anyway. Or, if that won't do, I'll call up Grogan's and tell your
father to come back because you are going to dine in my studio with
me. Do you know the telephone number? Very well; get Grogan's for me.
I'll speak to your father."

Dulcie's hand trembled on the receiver as she called up Grogan's;
Barres bent over the transmitter:

"Soane, Dulcie is going to take dinner in my studio with me. You'll
have to come back on duty, when you've eaten." He hung up, looked at
Dulcie and laughed.

"I wanted company as much as you did," he confessed. "Now, go and put
on your prettiest frock, and we'll be very grand and magnificent. And
afterward we'll talk and look at books and pretty things--and maybe
we'll turn on the Victrola and I'll teach you to dance--" He had
already begun to ascend the stairs:

"In half an hour, Dulcie!" he called back; "--and you may bring the
Prophet if you like.... Shall I ask Mr. Westmore to join us?"

"I'd rather be all alone with you," she said shyly.

He laughed and ran on up the stairs.

       *       *       *       *       *

In half an hour the electric bell rang very timidly. Aristocrates,
having been instructed and rehearsed, and, loftily condescending to
his rôle in a kindly comedy to be played seriously, announced: "Miss
Soane!" in his most courtly manner.

Barres threw aside the evening paper and came forward, taking both
hands of the white and slightly frightened child.

"Aristocrates ought to have announced the Prophet, too," he said
gaily, breaking the ice and swinging Dulcie around to face the open
door again.

The Prophet entered, perfectly at ease, his eyes of living jade
shining, his tail urbanely hoisted.

Dulcie ventured to smile; Barres laughed outright; Aristocrates
surveyed the Prophet with toleration mingled with a certain respect.
For a black cat is never without occult significance to a gentleman of
colour.

With Dulcie's hand still in his, Barres led her into the living-room,
where, presently, Aristocrates brought a silver tray upon which was
a glass of iced orange juice for Dulcie, and a "Bronnix," as
Aristocrates called it, for the master.

"To your health and good fortune in life, Dulcie," he said politely.

The child gazed mutely at him over her glass, then, blushing, ventured
to taste her orange juice.

When she finished, Barres drew her frail arm through his and took her
out, seating her. Ceremonies began in silence, and the master of the
place was not quite sure whether the flush on Dulcie's face indicated
unhappy embarrassment or pleasure.

He need not have worried: the child adored it all. The Prophet came in
and gravely seated himself on a neighbouring chair, whence he could
survey the table and seriously inspect each course.

"Dulcie," he said, "how grown-up you look with your bobbed hair put
up, and your fluffy gown."

She lifted her enchanted eyes to him:

"It is my first communion dress.... I've had to make it longer for a
graduation dress."

"Oh, that's so; you're graduating this summer!"

"Yes."

"And what then?"

"Nothing." She sighed unconsciously and sat very still with folded
hands, while Aristocrates refilled her glass of water.

She no longer felt embarrassed; her gravity matched Aristocrates's;
she seriously accepted whatever was offered or set before her, but
Barres noticed that she ate it all, merely leaving on her plate, with
inculcated and mathematical precision, a small portion as concession
to good manners.

They had, toward the banquet's end, water ices, bon-bons, French
pastry, and ice cream. And presently a slight and blissful sigh of
repletion escaped the child's red lips. The symptoms were satisfactory
but unmistakable; Dulcie was perfectly feminine; her capacity had
proven it.

The Prophet's stately self-control in the fragrant vicinity of
nourishment was now to be rewarded: Barres conducted Dulcie to the
studio and installed her among cushions upon a huge sofa. Then,
lighting a cigarette, he dropped down beside her and crossed one knee
over the other.

"Dulcie," he said in his lazy, humorous way, "it's a funny old world
any way you view it."

"Do you think it is always funny?" inquired the child, her deep, grey
eyes on his face.

He smiled:

"Yes, I do; but sometimes the joke in on one's self. And then,
although it is still a funny world, from the world's point of view,
you, of course, fail to see the humour of it.... I don't suppose you
understand."

"I do," nodded the child, with the ghost of a smile.

"Really? Well, I was afraid I'd been talking nonsense, but if you
understand, it's all right."

They both laughed.

"Do you want to look at some books?" he suggested.

"I'd rather listen to you."

He smiled:

"All right. I'll begin at this corner of the room and tell you about
the things in it." And for a while he rambled lazily on about old
French chairs and Spanish chests, and the panels of Mille Fleur
tapestry which hung behind them; the two lovely pre-Raphael panels in
their exquisite ancient frames; the old Venetian velvet covering
triple choir-stalls in the corner; the ivory-toned marble figure on
its wood and compos pedestal, where tendrils and delicate foliations
of water gilt had become slightly irridescent, harmonising with the
patine on the ancient Chinese garniture flanking a mantel clock of
dullest gold.

About these things, their workmanship, the histories of their times,
he told her in his easy, unaccented voice, glancing sideways at her
from time to time to note how she stood it.

But she listened, fascinated, her gaze moving from the object
discussed to the man who discussed it; her slim limbs curled under
her, her hands clasped around a silken cushion made from the robe of
some Chinese princess.

Lounging there beside her, amused, humorously flattered by her
attention, and perhaps a little touched, he held forth a little
longer.

"Is it a nice party, so far, Dulcie?" he concluded with a smile.

She flushed, found no words, nodded, and sat with lowered head as
though pondering.

"What would you rather do if you could do what you want to in the
world, Dulcie?"

"I don't know."

"Think a minute."

She thought for a while.

"Live with you," she said seriously.

"Oh, Dulcie! That is no sort of ambition for a growing girl!" he
laughed; and she laughed, too, watching his every expression out of
grey eyes that were her chiefest beauty.

"You're a little too young to know what you want yet," he concluded,
still smiling. "By the time that bobbed mop of red hair grows to a
proper length, you'll know more about yourself."

"Do you like it up?" she enquired naïvely.

"It makes you look older."

"I want it to."

"I suppose so," he nodded, noticing the snowy neck which the new
coiffure revealed. It was becoming evident to him that Dulcie had her
own vanities--little pathetic vanities which touched him as he glanced
at the reconstructed first communion dress and the drooping hyacinth
pinned at the waist, and the cheap white slippers on a foot as
slenderly constructed as her long and narrow hands.

"Did your mother die long ago, Dulcie?"

"Yes."

"In America?"

"In Ireland."

"You look like her, I fancy--" thinking of Soane.

"I don't know."

Barres had heard Soane hold forth in his cups on one or two
occasions--nothing more than the vague garrulousness of a Celt made
more loquacious by the whiskey of one Grogan--something about his
having been a gamekeeper in his youth, and that his wife--"God rest
her!"--might have held up her head with "anny wan o' thim in th' Big
House."

Recollecting this, he idly wondered what the story might have been--a
young girl's perverse infatuation for her father's gamekeeper,
perhaps--a handsome, common, ignorant youth, reckless and irresponsible
enough to take advantage of her--probably some such story--resembling
similar histories of chauffeurs, riding-masters, grooms, and
coachmen at home.

The Prophet came noiselessly into the studio, stopped at sight of his
little mistress, twitched his tail reflectively, then leaped onto a
carved table and calmly began his ablutions.

Barres got up and wound up the Victrola. Then he kicked aside a rug or
two.

"This is to be a real party, you know," he remarked. "You don't dance,
do you?"

"Yes," she said diffidently, "a little."

"Oh! That's fine!" he exclaimed.

Dulcie got off the sofa, shook out her reconstructed gown. When he
came over to where she stood, she laid her hand in his almost
solemnly, so overpowering had become the heavenly sequence of events.
For the rite of his hospitality had indeed become a rite to her. Never
before had she stood in awe, enthralled before such an altar as this
man's hearthstone. Never had she dreamed that he who so wondrously
served it could look at such an offering as hers--herself.

But the miracle had happened; altar and priest were accepting her; she
laid her hand, which trembled, in his; gave herself to his guidance
and to the celestial music, scarcely seeing, scarcely hearing his
voice.

"You dance delightfully," he was saying; "you're a born dancer,
Dulcie. I do it fairly well myself, and I ought to know."

He was really very much surprised. He was enjoying it immensely. When
the Victrola gave up the ghost he wound it again and came back to
resume. Under his suggestions and tutelage, they tried more intricate
steps, devious and ambitious, and Dulcie, unterrified by terpsichorean
complications, surmounted every one with his whispered coaching and
expert aid.

Now it came to a point where time was not for him. He was too
interested, enjoying it too genuinely.

Sometimes, when they paused to enable him to resurrect the defunct
music in the Victrola, they laughed at the Prophet, who sat upon the
ancient carved table, gravely surveying them. Sometimes they rested
because he thought she ought to--himself a trifle pumped--only to
find, to his amazement, that he need not be solicitous concerning
her.

       *       *       *       *       *

A tall and ancient clock ringing midnight from clear, uncompromising
bells, brought Barres to himself.

"Good Lord!" he exclaimed, "this won't do! Dear child, I'm having a
wonderful time, but I've got to deliver you to your father!"

He drew her arm through his, laughingly pretending horror and haste;
she fled lightly along beside him as he whisked her through the hall
and down the stairs.

A candle burned on the desk. Soane sat there, asleep, and odorous of
alcohol, his flushed face buried in his arms.

But Soane was what is known as a "sob-souse"; never ugly in his cups,
merely inclined to weep over the immemorial wrongs of Ireland.

He woke up when Barres touched his shoulder, rubbed his swollen eyes
and black, curly head, gazed tragically at his daughter:

"G'wan to bed, ye little scut!" he said, getting to his feet with a
terrific yawn.

Barres took her hand:

"We've had a wonderful party, haven't we, Sweetness?"

"Yes," whispered the child.

The next instant she was gone like a ghost, through the dusky,
whitewashed corridor where distorted shadows trembled in the
candlelight.

"Soane," said Barres, "this won't do, you know. They'll sack you if
you keep on drinking."

The man, not yet forty, a battered, middle-aged by-product of hale and
reckless vigour, passed his hands over his temples with the dignity
of a Hibernian Hamlet:

"The harp that wanst through Tara's halls--" he began; but memory
failed; and two tears--by-products, also, of Grogan's whiskey--sparkled
in his reproachful eyes.

"I'm merely telling you," remarked Barres. "We all like you, Soane,
but the landlord won't stand for it."

"May God forgive him," muttered Soane. "Was there ever a landlord but
he was a tyrant, too?"

Barres blew out the candle; a faint light above the Fu-dog outside,
over the street door, illuminated the stone hall.

"You ought to keep sober for your little daughter's sake," insisted
Barres in a low voice. "You love her, don't you?"

"I do that!" said Soane--"God bless her and her poor mother, who could
hould up her pretty head with anny wan till she tuk up with th' like
o' me!"

His brogue always increased in his cups; devotion to Ireland and a
lofty scorn of landlords grew with both.

"You'd better keep away from Grogan's," remarked Barres.

"I had a bite an' a sup at Grogan's. Is there anny harrm in that,
sorr?"

"Cut out the 'sup,' Larry. Cut out that gang of bums at Grogan's, too.
There are too many Germans hanging out around Grogan's these days. You
Sinn Feiners or Clan-na-Gael, or whatever you are, had better manage
your own affairs, anyway. The old-time Feinans stood on their own
sturdy legs, not on German beer-skids."

"Wisha then, sorr, d'ye mind th' ould song they sang in thim days:

  "_Then up steps Bonyparty
  An' takes me by the hand,
  And how is ould Ireland,
  And how does she shtand?
  It's a poor, disthressed country
  As ever yet was seen,
  And they're hangin' men and women
  For the wearing of the green!_

  _Oh, the wearing of the_----"

"That'll do," said Barres drily. "Do you want to wake the house? Don't
go to Grogan's and talk about Ireland to any Germans. I'll tell you
why: we'll probably be at war with Germany ourselves within a year,
and that's a pretty good reason for you Irish to keep clear of all
Germans. Go to bed!"




VI

DULCIE


One warm afternoon late in spring, Dulcie Soane, returning from school
to Dragon Court, found her father behind the desk, as usual, awaiting
his daughter's advent, to release him from duty.

A tall, bony man with hectic and sunken cheeks and only a single eye
was standing by the desk, earnestly engaged in whispered conversation
with her father.

He drew aside instantly as Dulcie came up and laid her school books on
the desk. Soane, already redolent of Grogan's whiskey, pushed back his
chair and got to his feet.

"G'wan in f'r a bite an' a sup," he said to his daughter, "while I
talk to the gintleman."

So Dulcie went slowly into the superintendent's dingy quarters for her
mid-day meal, which was dinner; and between her and a sloppy
scrub-woman who cooked for them, she managed to warm up and eat what
Soane had left for her from his own meal.

When she returned to the desk in the hall, the one-eyed man had gone.
Soane sat on the chair behind the desk, his face over-red and shiny,
his heels drumming the devil's tattoo on the tessellated pavement.

"I'll be at Grogan's," he said, as Dulcie seated herself in the
ancient leather chair behind the desk telephone, and began to sort the
pile of mail which the postman evidently had just delivered.

"Very well," she murmured absently, turning around and beginning
to distribute the letters and parcels in the various numbered
compartments behind her. Soane slid off his chair to his feet and
straightened up, stretching and yawning.

"Av anny wan tilliphones to Misther Barres," he said, "listen in."

"What!"

"Listen in, I'm tellin' you. And if it's a lady, ask her name first,
and then listen in. And if she says her name is Quellen or Dunois,
mind what she says to Misther Barres."

"Why?" enquired Dulcie, astonished.

"Becuz I'm tellin' ye!"

"I shall not do that," said the girl, flushing up.

"Ah, bother! Sure, there's no harm in it, Dulcie! Would I be askin' ye
to do wrong, asthore? Me who is your own blood and kin? Listen then:
'Tis a woman what do be botherin' the poor young gentleman, an' I'll
not have him f'r to be put upon. Listen, m'acushla, and if airy a lady
tilliphones, or if she comes futtherin' an' muttherin' around here,
call me at Grogan's and I'll be soon dishposen' av the likes av her."

"Has she ever been here--this lady?" asked the girl, uncertain and
painfully perplexed.

"Sure has she! Manny's the time I've chased her out," replied Soane
glibly.

"Oh. What does she look like?"

"God knows--annything ye don't wish f'r to look like yourself! Sure, I
disremember what make of woman she might be--her name's enough for
you. Call me up if she comes or rings. She may be a dangerous woman,
at that," he added, "so speak fair to her and listen in to what she
says."

Dulcie slowly nodded, looking at him hard.

Soane put on his faded brown hat at an angle, fished a cigar with a
red and gold band from his fancy but soiled waistcoat, scratched a
match on the seat of his greasy pants, and sauntered out through the
big, whitewashed hallway into the street, with a touch of the swagger
which always characterised him.

       *       *       *       *       *

Dulcie, both hands buried in her ruddy hair and both thin elbows on
the desk, sat poring over her school books.

Graduation day was approaching; there was much for her to absorb, much
to memorise before then.

As she studied she hummed to herself the air of the quaint song which
she was to sing at her graduation exercises. That did not interfere
with her concentration; but as she finished one lesson, cast aside the
book, and opened another to prepare the next lesson, vaguely happy
memories of her evening party with Barres came into her mind to
disturb her thoughts, tempting her to reverie and the delicious
idleness she knew only when alone and absorbed in thoughts of him.

But she resolutely put him out of her mind and opened her book.

The hall clock ticked loudly through the silence; slanting sun rays
fell through the street grille, across the tessellated floor where
flies crawled and buzzed.

The Prophet sat full in a bar of sunlight and gravely followed the
movements of the flies as though specialising on the study of those
amazing insects.

Tenants of Dragon Court passed out or entered at intervals, pausing to
glance at their letter-boxes or requesting their keys.

Westmore came down the eastern staircase, like an avalanche, with a
cheery:

"Hello, Dulcie! Any letters? All right, old dear! If you see Mr.
Mandel, tell him I'll be at the club!"

Corot Mandel came in presently, and she gave him Westmore's message.

"Thanks," he said, not even glancing at the thin figure in the shabby
dress too small for her. And, after peering into his letter-box, he
went away with the indolent swing of a large and powerful plantigrade,
gazing fixedly ahead of him out of heavy, oriental eyes, and twisting
up his jet black, waxed moustache.

A tall, handsome girl called and enquired for Mr. Trenor. Dulcie
returned her amiable smile, unhooked the receiver, and telephoned up.
But nobody answered from Esmé Trenor's apartment, and the girl, whose
name was Damaris Souval, and whose profession varied between the stage
and desultory sitting for artists, smiled once more on Dulcie and
sauntered out in her very charming summer gown.

The shabby child looked after her through the sunny hallway, the smile
still curving her lips--a sensitive, winning smile, untainted by envy.
Then she resumed her book, serenely clearing her youthful mind of
vanity and desire for earthly things.

Half an hour later Esmé Trenor sauntered in. His was a sensitive
nature and fastidious, too. Dinginess, obscurity--everything that was
shabby, tarnished, humble in life, he consistently ignored. He had
ignored Dulcie Soane for three years: he ignored her now.

He glanced indifferently into his letter-box as he passed the desk.
Dulcie said, with the effort it always required for her to speak to
him:

"Miss Souval called, but left no message."

Trenor's supercilious glance rested on her for the fraction of a
second, then, with a bored nod, he continued on his way and up the
stairs. And Dulcie returned to her book.

The desk telephone rang: a Mrs. Helmund desired to speak to Mr.
Trenor. Dulcie switched her on, rested her chin on her hand, and
continued her reading.

Some time afterward the telephone rang again.

"Dragon Court," said Dulcie, mechanically.

"I wish to speak to Mr. Barres, please."

"Mr. Barres has not come in from luncheon."

"Are you sure?" said the pretty, feminine voice.

"Quite sure," replied Dulcie. "Wait a minute----"

She called Barres's apartment; Aristocrates answered and confirmed his
master's absence with courtly effusion.

"No, he is not in," repeated Dulcie. "Who shall I say called him?"

"Say that Miss Dunois called him up. If he comes in, say that Miss
Thessalie Dunois will come at five to take tea with him. Thank you.
Good-bye."

Startled to hear the very name against which her father had warned
her, Dulcie found it difficult to reconcile the sweet voice that came
to her over the wire with the voice of any such person her father had
described.

Still a trifle startled, she laid aside the receiver with a disturbed
glance toward the wrought-iron door at the further end of the hall.

She had no desire at all to call up her father at Grogan's and inform
him of what had occurred. The mere thought of surreptitious listening
in, of eavesdropping, of informing, reddened her face. Also, she had
long since lost confidence in the somewhat battered but jaunty man who
had always neglected her, although never otherwise unkind, even when
intoxicated.

No, she would neither listen in nor inform on anybody at the behest of
a father for whom, alas, she had no respect, merely those shreds of
conventional feeling which might once have been filial affection, but
had become merely an habitual solicitude.

No, her character, her nature refused such obedience. If there was
trouble between the owner of the unusually sweet voice and Mr. Barres,
it was their affair, not hers, not her father's.

This settled in her mind, she opened another book and turned the pages
slowly until she came to the lesson to be learned.

It was hard to concentrate; her thoughts were straying, now, to
Barres.

And, as she leaned there, musing above her dingy school book, through
the grilled door at the further end of the hall stepped a young girl
in a light summer gown--a beautiful girl, lithe, graceful, exquisitely
groomed--who came swiftly up to the desk, a trifle pale and
breathless:

"Mr. Barres? He lives here?"

"Yes."

"Please announce Miss Dunois."

Dulcie flushed deeply under the shock:

"Mr.--Mr. Barres is still out----"

"Oh. Was it you I talked to over the telephone?" asked Thessalie
Dunois.

"Yes."

"Mr. Barres has not returned?"

"No."

Thessalie bit her lip, hesitated, turned to go. And at the same
instant Dulcie saw the one-eyed man at the street door, peering
through the iron grille.

Thessalie saw him, too, stiffened to marble, stood staring straight at
him.

He turned and went away up the street. But Dulcie, to whom the
incident signified nothing in particular except the impudence of a
one-eyed man, was not prepared for the face which Thessalie Dunois
turned toward her. Not a vestige of colour remained in it, and her
dark eyes seemed feverish and too large.

"You need not give Mr. Barres any message from me," she said in an
altered voice, which sounded strained and unsteady. "Please do not
even say that I came or mention my name.... May I ask it of you?"

Dulcie, very silent in her surprise, made no reply.

"Please may I ask it of you?" whispered Thessalie. "Do you mind not
telling anybody that I was here?"

"If--you wish it."

"I do. May I trust you?"

"Y-yes."

"Thank you--" A bank bill was in her gloved fingers; intuition warned
her; she took another swift look at Dulcie. The child's face was
flaming scarlet.

"Forgive me," whispered Thessalie.... "And thank you, dear--" She bent
over quickly, took Dulcie's hand, pressed it, looking her in the
eyes.

"It's all right," she whispered. "I am not asking you to do anything
you shouldn't. Mr. Barres will understand it all when I write to
him.... Did you see that man at the street door, looking through the
grating?"

"Yes."

"Do you know who he is?" whispered Thessalie.

"No."

"Have you never before seen him?"

"Yes. He was here at two o'clock talking to my father."

"Your father?"

"My father's name is Lawrence Soane. He is superintendent of Dragon
Court."

"What is your name?"

"Dulcie Soane."

Thessalie still held her hand tightly. Then with a quick but forced
smile, she pressed it, thanking the girl for her consideration, turned
and walked swiftly through the hall out into the street.

       *       *       *       *       *

Dulcie, dreaming over her closed books in the fading light, vaguely
uneasy lest her silence might embrace the faintest shadow of
disloyalty to Barres, looked up quickly at the sound of his familiar
footsteps on the pavement.

"Hello, little comrade," he called to her on his way to the stairs.
"Didn't we have a jolly party the other evening? I'm going out to
another party this evening, but I bet it won't be as jolly as ours!"

The girl smiled happily.

"Any letters, Sweetness?"

"None, Mr. Barres."

"All the better. I have too many letters, too many visitors. It leaves
me no time to have another party with you. But we shall have another,
Dulcie--never fear. That is," he added, pretending to doubt her
receptiveness of his invitation, "if you would care to have another
with me."

She merely looked at him, smiling deliciously.

"Be a good child and we'll have another!" he called back to her,
running on up the western staircase.

       *       *       *       *       *

Around seven o'clock her father came in, steady enough of foot but
shiny-red in the face and maudlin drunk.

"That woman was here," he whined, "an' ye never called me up! I am
b-bethrayed be me childer--wurra the day----"

"Please, father! If any one sees you----"

"An' phwy not! Am I ashamed o' the tears I shed? No, I am not. No
Irishman need take shame along av the tears he sheds for Ireland--God
bless her where she shtands!--wid the hob-nails av the crool tyrant
foreninst her bleeding neck an'----"

"Father, please----"

"That woman I warned ye of! She was here! 'Twas the wan-eyed lad who
seen her----"

Dulcie rose and took him by his arm. He made no resistance; but he
wept while she conducted him bedward, as the immemorial wrongs of
Ireland tore his soul.




VII

OPPORTUNITY KNOCKS


The tremendous tragedy in Europe, now nearing the end of the second
act, had been slowly shaking the drowsy Western World out of its snug
slumber of complacency. Young America was already sitting up in bed,
awake, alert, listening. Older America, more difficult to convince,
rolled solemn and interrogative eyes toward Washington, where the
wooden gods still sat nodding in a row, smiling vacuously at destiny
out of carved and painted features. Eyes had they but they saw not,
ears but they heard not; neither spake they through their mouths.

Yet, they that made them were no longer like unto them, for many an
anxious idolater no longer trusted in them. For their old God's voice
was sounding in their ears.

The voice of a great ex-president, too, had been thundering from the
wilderness; lesser prophets, endowed, however, with intellect and
vision, had been warning the young West that the second advent of
Attila was at hand; an officer of the army, inspired of God, had
preached preparedness from the market places and had established for
its few disciples an habitation; and a great Admiral had died of a
broken heart because his lips had been officially sealed--the wisest
lips that ever told of those who go down to the sea in ships.

Plainer and plainer in American ears sounded the mounting surf of
that blood-red sea thundering against the frontiers of Democracy;
clearer and clearer came the discordant clamour of the barbaric
hordes; louder and more menacing the half-crazed blasphemies of their
chief, who had given the very name of the Scourge of God to one among
the degenerate litter he had sired.

       *       *       *       *       *

Garret Barres had been educated like any American of modern New York
type. Harvard, then five years abroad, and a return to his native city
revealed him as an ambitious, receptive, intelligent young man, deeply
interested in himself and his own affairs, theoretically patriotic, a
good citizen by intention, an affectionate son and brother, and
already a pretty good painter of the saner species.

A modest income of his own enabled him to bide his time and decline
pot-boilers. A comparatively young father and an even more youthful
mother, both of sporting proclivities, together with a sister of the
same tastes, were his preferred companions when he had time to go home
to the family rooftree in northern New York. His lines, indeed, were
cast in pleasant places. Beside still waters in green pastures, he
could always restore his city-tarnished soul when he desired to retire
for a while from the battleground of endeavour.

The city, after all, offered him a world-wide battlefield; for Garret
Barres was by choice a painter of thoroughbred women, of cosmopolitan
men--a younger warrior of the brush imbued with the old traditions of
those great English captains of portraiture, who recorded for us the
more brilliant human truths of the seventeenth and eighteenth
centuries.

From their stately canvases aglow, the eyes of the lovely dead look
out at us; the eyes of ambition, of pride, of fatuous complacency;
the haunted eyes of sorrow; the clear eyes of faith. Out of the past
they gaze--those who once lived--deathlessly recorded by Van Dyck,
Lely, Kneller; by Gainsborough, Reynolds, Hoppner, Lawrence, Raeburn;
or consigned to a dignified destiny by Stuart, Sully, Inman, and
Vanderlyn.

       *       *       *       *       *

When Barres returned to New York after many years, he found that the
aspect of the city had not altered very greatly. The usual dirt,
disorder, and municipal confusion still reigned; subways were being
dug, but since the memory of man runneth, the streets of the
metropolis have been dug up, and its market places and byways have
been an abomination.

The only visible excitement, however, was in the war columns of the
newspapers, and, sometimes, around bulletin boards where wrangling
groups were no uncommon sight, citizens and aliens often coming into
verbal collision--sometimes physical--promptly suppressed by bored
policemen.

There was a "preparedness" parade; thousands of worthy citizens
marched in it, nervously aware, now, that the Great Republic's only
mobile military division was on the Mexican border, where also certain
Guard regiments were likely to be directed to reinforce the
regulars--pet regiments from the city, among whose corps of officers
and enlisted men everybody had some friend or relative.

But these regiments had not yet entrained. There were few soldiers to
be seen on the streets. Khaki began to be noticeable in New York only
when the Plattsburg camps opened. After that there was an interim of
the usual dull, unaccented civilian monotony, mitigated at rare
intervals by this dun-coloured ebb and flow from Plattsburg.

Like the first vague premonitions of a nightmare the first ominous
symptoms of depression were slowly possessing hearts already uneasy
under two years' burden of rumours unprintable, horrors incredible to
those aloof and pursuing the peaceful tenor of their ways.

A growing restlessness, unbelief, the incapacity to
understand--selfishness, rapacity, self-righteousness, complacency,
cowardice, even stupidity itself were being jolted and shocked into
something resembling a glimmer of comprehension as the hunnish U-boats,
made ravenous by the taste of blood, steered into western shipping lanes
like a vast shoal of sharks.

And always thicker and thicker came the damning tales of rape
and murder, of cowardly savagery, brutal vileness, degenerate
bestiality--clearer, nearer, distinctly audible, the sigh of a
ravaged and expiring civilisation trampled to obliteration by the
slavering, ferocious swine of the north.

       *       *       *       *       *

Fires among shipping, fires amid great stores of cotton and grain
destined for France or England, explosions of munitions of war ordered
by nations of the Entente, the clumsy propaganda or impudent sneers of
German and pro-German newspapers; reports of German meddling in
Mexico, in South America, in Japan; more sinister news concerning the
insolent activities of certain embassies--all these were beginning to
have their logical effect among a fat and prosperous people which
simply could not bear to be aroused from pleasant dreams of
brotherhood to face the raw and hellish truth.

       *       *       *       *       *

"For fifty years," remarked Barres to his neighbour, Esmé Trenor,
also a painter of somewhat eccentric portraits, "our national
characteristic has been a capacity for absorbing bunk and a fixed
determination to kid ourselves. There really is a war, Trenor, old
top, and we're going to get into it before very long."

Trenor, a tall, tired, exquisitely groomed young man, who once had
painted a superficially attractive portrait of a popular débutante,
and had been overwhelmed with fashionable orders ever since, was the
adored of women. He dropped one attenuated knee over the other and
lighted an attenuated cigarette.

"Fancy anybody bothering enough about anything to fight over it!" he
said languidly.

"We're going to _war_, Trenor," repeated Barres, jamming his brushes
into a bowl of black soap. "That's my positive conviction."

"Yours is so disturbingly positive a nature," remonstrated the other.
"Why ever raise a row? Nothing positive is of any real importance--not
even opinions."

Barres, vigorously cleaning his brushes in turpentine and black soap,
glanced around at Trenor, and in his quick smile there glimmered a
hint of good-natured malice. For Esmé Trenor was notoriously anything
except positive in his painting, always enveloping a lack of technical
knowledge with a veil of camouflage. Behind this pretty veil hid many
defects, perhaps even deformities--protected by vague, indefinite
shadows and the effrontery of an adroit exploiter of the restless
sex.

But Esmé Trenor was both clever and alert. He had not even missed that
slight and momentary glimmer of good-humoured malice in the pleasant
glance of Barres. But, like his more intelligent prototype, Whistler,
it was impossible to know whether or not discovery ever made any
particular difference to him. He tucked a lilac-bordered handkerchief
a little deeper into his cuff, glanced at his jewelled wrist-watch,
shook the long ash from his cigarette.

"To be positive in anything," he drawled, "is an effort; effort
entails exertion; exertion is merely a degree of violence; violence
engenders toxins; toxins dull the intellect. Quod erat, dear friend.
You see?"

"Oh, yes, I see," nodded Barres, always frankly amused at Trenor and
his ways.

"Well, then, if you see----" Trenor waved a long, bony, over-manicured
hand, expelled a ring or two of smoke, meditatively; then, in his
characteristically languid voice: "To be positive closes the door to
further observation and pulls down the window shades. Nothing remains
except to go to bed. Is there anything more uninteresting than to go
to bed? Is there anything more depressing than to know all about
something?"

"You do converse like an ass sometimes," remarked Barres.

"Yes--sometimes. Not now, Barres. I don't desire to know all about
anybody or anything. Fancy my knowing all about art, for example!"

"Yes, fancy!" repeated Barres, laughing.

"Or about anything specific--a woman, for example!" He shrugged
wearily.

"If you meet a woman and like her, don't you want to know all there is
to know about her?" inquired Barres.

"I should say not!" returned the other with languid contempt. "I don't
wish to know anything at all about her."

"Well, we differ about that, old top."

"Religiously. A woman can be only an incidental amusement in one's
career. You don't go to a musical comedy twice, do you? And any woman
will reveal herself sufficiently in one evening."

"Nice, kindly domestic instincts you have, Trenor."

"I'm merely fastidious," returned the other, dropping his cigarette
out of the open window. He rose, yawned, took his hat, stick and
gloves.

"Bye," he said languidly. "I'm painting Elsena Helmund this morning."

Barres said, with good-humoured envy:

"I've neither commission nor sitter. If I had, you bet I'd not stand
there yawning at my luck."

"It is you who have the luck, not I," drawled Trenor. "I give a
portion of my spiritual and material self with every brush stroke,
while you remain at liberty to flourish and grow fat in idleness. I
perish as I create; my life exhausts itself to feed my art. What you
call my good luck is my martyrdom. You see, dear friend, how fortunate
you are?"

"I see," grinned Barres. "But will your spiritual nature stand such a
cruel drain? Aren't you afraid your morality may totter?"

"Morality," mused Esmé, going; "that is one of those early Gothic
terms now obsolete, I believe----"

He sauntered out with his hat and gloves and stick, still murmuring:

"Morality? Gothic--very Gothic--"

Barres, still amused, sorted his wet brushes, dried them carefully one
by one on a handful of cotton waste, and laid them in a neat row
across the soapstone top of his palette-table.

"Hang it!" he muttered cheerfully. "I could paint like a streak this
morning if I had the chance--"

He threw himself back in his chair and sat there smoking for a while,
his narrowing eyes fixed on a great window which opened above the
court. Soft spring breezes stirred the curtains; sparrows were noisy
out there; a strip of cobalt sky smiled at him over the opposite
chimneys; an April cloud floated across it.

He rose, walked over to the window and glanced down into the court.
Several more hyacinths were now in blossom. The Prophet dozed
majestically, curled up on an Italian garden seat. Beside him sprawled
the snow white Houri, stretched out full length in the sun, her
wonderful blue eyes following the irrational gambols of the
tortoise-shell cat, Strindberg, who had gone loco, as usual, and was
tearing up and down trees, prancing sideways with flattened ears and
crooked tail, in terror at things invisible, or digging furiously
toward China amid the hyacinths.

Dulcie Soane came out into the court presently and expostulated with
Strindberg, who suffered herself to be removed from the hyacinth bed,
only to make a hysterical charge on her mistress's ankles.

"Stop it, you crazy thing!" insisted Dulcie, administering a gentle
slap which sent the cat bucketing and corvetting across the lawn,
where the eccentric course of a dead leaf, blown by the April wind,
instantly occupied its entire intellectual vacuum.

Barres, leaning on the window-sill, said, without raising his voice:

"Hello, Dulcie! How are you, after our party?"

The child looked up, smiled shyly her response through the pale glory
of the April sunshine.

"What are you doing to-day?" he inquired, with casual but friendly
interest.

"Nothing."

"Isn't there any school?"

"It's Saturday."

"That's so. Well, if you're doing nothing you're just as busy as I
am," he remarked, smiling down at her where she stood below his
window.

"Why don't you paint pictures?" ventured the girl diffidently.

"Because I haven't any orders. Isn't that sad?"

"Yes.... But you could paint a picture just to please yourself,
couldn't you?"

"I haven't anybody to paint from," he explained with amiable
indifference, lazily watching the effect of alternate shadow and
sunlight on her upturned face.

"Couldn't you find--somebody?" Her heart had suddenly begun to beat
very fast.

Barres laughed:

"Would you like to have your portrait painted?"

She could scarcely find voice to reply:

"Will you--let me?"

The slim young figure down there in the April sunshine had now
arrested his professional attention. With detached interest he
inspected her for a few moments; then:

"You'd make an interesting study, Dulcie. What do you say?"

"Do--do you mean that you _want_ me?"

"Why--yes! Would you like to pose for me? It's pin-money, anyway.
Would you like to try it?"

"Y-yes."

"Are you quite sure? It's hard work."

"Quite--sure----" she stammered. The little flushed face was lifted
very earnestly to his now, almost beseechingly. "I am quite sure," she
repeated breathlessly.

"So you'd really like to pose for me?" he insisted in smiling surprise
at the girl's visible excitement. Then he added abruptly: "I've half a
mind to give you a job as my private model!"

Through the rosy confusion of her face her grey eyes were fixed on him
with a wistful intensity, almost painful. For into her empty heart and
starved mind had suddenly flashed a dazzling revelation. Opportunity
was knocking at her door. Her chance had come! Perhaps it had been
inherited from her mother--God knows!--this deep, deep hunger for
things beautiful--this passionate longing for light and knowledge.

Mere contact with such a man as Barres had already made endurable a
solitary servitude which had been subtly destroying her child's
spirit, and slowly dulling the hunger in her famished mind. And now to
aid him--to feel that he was using her--was to arise from her rags of
ignorance and emerge upright into the light which filled that
wonder-house wherein he dwelt, and on the dark threshold of which her
lonely little soul had crouched so long in silence.

       *       *       *       *       *

She looked up almost blindly at the man who, in careless friendliness,
had already opened his door to her, had permitted her to read his
wonder-books, had allowed her to sit unreproved and silent from sheer
happiness, and gaze unsatiated upon the wondrous things within the
magic mansion where he dwelt.

And now to serve this man; to aid him, to creep into the light in
which he stood and strive to learn and see!--the thought already had
produced a delicate intoxication in the child, and she gazed up at
Barres from the sunny garden with her naked soul in her eyes. Which
confused, perplexed, and embarrassed him.

"Come on up," he said briefly. "I'll tell your father over the
'phone."

       *       *       *       *       *

She entered without a sound, closed the door which he had left open
for her, advanced across the thick-meshed rug. She still wore her blue
gingham apron; her bobbed hair, full of ruddy lights, intensified the
whiteness of her throat. In her arms she cradled the Prophet, who
stared solemnly at Barres out of depthless green eyes.

"Upon my word," thought Barres to himself, "I believe I have found a
model and an uncommon one!"

Dulcie, watching his expression, smiled slightly and stroked the
Prophet.

"I'll paint you that way! Don't stir," said the young fellow
pleasantly. "Just stand where you are, Dulcie. You're quite all right
as you are----" He lifted a half-length canvas, placed it on his heavy
easel and clamped it.

"I feel exactly like painting," he continued, busy with his brushes
and colours. "I'm full of it to-day. It's in me. It's got to come
out.... And you certainly are an interesting subject--with your big
grey eyes and bobbed red hair--oh, quite interesting constructively,
too--as well as from the colour point."

He finished setting his palette, gathered up a handful of brushes:

"I won't bother to draw you except with a brush----"

He looked across at her, remained looking, the pleasantly detached
expression of his features gradually changing to curiosity, to the
severity of increasing interest, to concentrated and silent
absorption.

"Dulcie," he presently concluded, "you are so unusually interesting
and paintable that you make me think very seriously.... And I'm hanged
if I'm going to waste you by slapping a technically adequate sketch of
you onto this nice new canvas ... which might give me pleasure while
I'm doing it ... and might even tickle my vanity for a week ... and
then be laid away to gather dust ... and be covered over next year and
used for another sketch.... No.... _No_!... You're worth more than
that!"

He began to pace the place to and fro, thinking very hard, glancing
around at her from moment to moment, where she stood, obediently
immovable on the blue meshed rug, clasping the Prophet to her breast.

"Do you want to become my private model?" he demanded abruptly. "I
mean seriously. Do you?"

"Yes."

"I mean a real model, from whom I can ask anything?"

"Oh, yes, please," pleaded the girl, trembling a little.

"Do you understand what it means?"

"Yes."

"Sometimes you'll be required to wear few clothes. Sometimes none. Did
you know that?"

"Yes. Mr. Westmore asked me once."

"You didn't care to?"

"Not for him."

"You don't mind doing it for me?"

"I'll do anything you ask me," she said, trying to smile and shivering
with excitement.

"All right. It's a bargain. You're my model, Dulcie. When do you
graduate from school?"

"In June."

"Two months! Well--all right. Until then it will be a half day through
the week, and all day Saturdays and Sundays, if I require you. You'll
have a weekly salary----" He smiled and mentioned the figure, and the
girl blushed vividly. She had, it appeared, expected nothing.

"Why, Dulcie!" he exclaimed, immensely amused. "You didn't intend to
come here and give me all your time for nothing, did you?"

"Yes."

"But why on earth should you do such a thing for me?"

She found no words to explain why.

"Nonsense," he continued; "you're a business woman now. Your father
will have to find somebody to cook for him and take the desk when he's
out at Grogan's. Don't worry; I'll fix it with him.... By the way,
Dulcie, supposing you sit down."

She found a chair and took the Prophet onto her lap.

"Now, this will be very convenient for me," he went on, inspecting her
with increasing satisfaction. "If I ever have any orders--any
sitters--you can have a vacation, of course. Otherwise, I'll always
have an interesting model at hand--I've got chests full of wonderful
costumes--genuine ones----" He fell silent, his eyes studying her.
Already he was planning half a dozen pictures, for he was just
beginning to perceive how adaptable the girl might be. And there was
about her that indefinable something which, when a painter discovers
it, interests him and arouses his intense artistic curiosity.

"You know," he said musingly, "you are something more than pretty,
Dulcie.... I could put you in eighteenth century clothes and you'd
look logical. Yes, and in seventeenth century clothes, too.... I could
do some amusing things with you in oriental garments.... A young
Herodiade ... Calypso ... Theodora.... She was a child, too, you know.
There's a portrait with bobbed hair--a young girl by Van Dyck.... You
know you are quite stimulating to me, Dulcie. You excite a painter's
imagination. It's rather odd," he added naïvely, "that I never
discovered you before; and I've known you over two years."

He had seated himself on the sofa while discoursing. Now he got up,
touched a bell twice. The Finnish maid, Selinda, with her high
cheek-bones, frosty blue eyes and colourless hair, appeared in cap and
apron.

"Selinda," he said, "take Miss Dulcie into my room. In a long, leather
Turkish box on the third shelf of my clothes closet is a silk and gold
costume and a lot of jade jewelry. Please put her into it."

So Dulcie Soane went away with her cat in her arms, beside the neat
and frosty-eyed Selinda; and Barres opened a portfolio of engravings,
where were gathered the lovely aristocrats of Van Dyck and Rubens and
Gainsborough and his contemporaries--a charmingly mixed company,
separated by centuries and frontiers, yet all characterised by a
common _something_--some inexplicable similarity which Barres
recognised without defining.

"It's rather amusing," he murmured, "but that kid, Dulcie, seems to
remind me of these people--somehow or other.... One scarcely looks for
qualities in the child of an Irish janitor.... I wonder who her mother
was...."

       *       *       *       *       *

When he looked up again Dulcie was standing there on the thick rug. On
her naked feet were jade bracelets, jade-set rings on her little toes;
a cascade of jade and gold falling over her breasts to the straight,
narrow breadth of peacock hue which fell to her ankles. And on her
childish head, clasping the ruddy bobbed hair, glittered the
jade-incrusted diadem of a fairy princess of Cathay.

[Illustration: "YOU LITTLE MIRACLE!"]

The Prophet, gathered close to her breast, stared back at Barres with
eyes that dimmed the splendid jade about him.

"That settles it," he said, the tint of excitement rising in his
cheeks. "I _have_ discovered a model and a wonder! And right here is
where I paint my winter Academy--right here and right now!... And I
call it 'The Prophets.' Climb up on that model stand and squat there
cross-legged, and stare at me--straight at me--the way your cat
stares!... There you are. That's right! Don't move. Stay put or I'll
come over and bow-string you!--you little miracle!"

"Do--you mean me?" faltered Dulcie.

"You bet, Sweetness! Do you know how beautiful you are? Well, never
mind----" He had begun already to draw with a wet brush, and now he
relapsed into absorbed silence.

The Prophet watched him steadily. The studio became intensely still.




VIII

DULCIE ANSWERS


The studio door bell rang while Barres was at breakfast one morning
late in June. Aristocrates leisurely answered the door, but shut it
again immediately and walked out into the kitchenette without any
explanation.

Selinda removed the breakfast cover and fetched the newspaper. Later,
Aristocrates, having washed his master's brushes, brought them into
the studio mincingly, upon a silver service-salver.

"No letters?" inquired Barres, glancing up over the morning paper and
laying aside his cigarette.

"No letters, suh. No co'espondence in any shape, fo'm or manner,
suh."

"Anybody to see me?" inquired Barres, always amused at Aristocrates'
flights of verbiage.

"Nobody, suh, excusin' a persistless 'viduality inquihin' fo' you,
suh."

"What persistless individuality was that?" asked Barres.

"A ve'y or-nary human objec', suh, pahshially afflicted with one bad
eye."

"That one-eyed man? He's been here several times, hasn't he? Why does
he come?"

"Fo' commercial puhposes, suh."

"Oh, a pedlar?"

"He mentions a desiah, suh, to dispose, commercially, of vahious
impo'ted materials requiahed by ahtists."

"Didn't you show him the sign in the hall, 'No pedlars allowed'?"

"Yaas, suh."

"What did he say?"

"I would not demean myse'f to repeat what this human objec' said,
suh."

"And what did you do then?"

"Mistuh Barres, suh, I totally igno'hed that man," replied Aristocrates
languidly.

"Quite right. But you tell Soane to enforce the rule against pedlars.
Every day there are two or three of them ringing at the studio, trying
to sell colours, laces, or fake oriental rugs. It annoys me. Selinda
can't hear the bell and I have to leave my work and open the door.
Tell that persistless one-eyed man to keep away. Tell Soane to bounce
him next time he enters Dragon Court. Do you understand?"

"Yaas, suh. But Soane, suh, he's a might friendly Irish. He's spo'tin'
'round Grogan's nights, 'longa this here one-eyed 'viduality. Yaas,
suh. I done seen 'em co-gatherin' on vahious occasionalities."

"Oho!" commented Barres. "It's graft, is it? This one-eyed pedlar
meets Soane at Grogan's and bribes him with a few drinks to let him
peddle colours in Dragon Court! That's the Irish of it, Aristocrates.
I began to suspect something like that. All right. I'll speak to Soane
myself.... Leave the studio door open; it's warm in here."

       *       *       *       *       *

The month of May was now turning somewhat sultry as it melted into
June. Every pivot-pane in the big studio window had been swung wide
open. The sun had already clothed every courtyard tree with dense and
tender foliage; hyacinth and tulip were gone and Soane's subscription
geraniums blazed in their place like beds of coals heaped up on the
grass plot of Dragon Court.

But blue sky, sunshine of approaching summer, gentle winds and
freshening rains brought only restlessness to New Yorkers that month
of May.

Like the first two years of the war, the present year seemed strange,
unreal; its vernal breezes brought no balm, its blue skies no content.
The early summer sunlight seemed almost uncanny in a world where,
beyond the sea, millions of men at arms swayed ceaselessly under sun
and moon alike, interlocked in one gigantic death grip!--a horrible
and blood-drenched human chain of butchery stretching half around the
earth.

Into every Western human eye had come strange and subtle shadows which
did not depart with moments of forgetful mirth, intervals of
self-absorption, hours filled with familiar interests--the passions,
hopes, perplexities of those years which were now no more.

Those years of yesterdays! A vast and depthless cleft already divided
them from to-day. They seemed as remote as dusty centuries--those days
of an ordered and tranquil world--those days of little obvious faiths
unshattered--even those days of little wars, of petty local strifes,
of an almost universal calm and peace and trust in brotherhood and in
the obligations of civilisation.

Familiar yesterday had vanished, its creeds forgotten. It was already
decades away, and fading like a legend in the ever-increasing glare of
the red and present moment.

And the month of May seemed strange, and its soft skies and sun seemed
out of place in a world full of dying--a world heavy with death--a
western world aloof from the raging hell beyond the seas, yet already
tense under the distant threat of three continents in flames--and all
aquiver before the deathly menace of that horde of blood-crazed demons
still at large, still unsubdued, still ranging the ruins of the planet
which they had so insanely set on fire.

Entire nations were still burning beyond the ocean; other nations had
sunk into cinders. Over the Eastern seas the furnace breath began to
be felt along the out-thrust coast lines of the Western World. Inland,
not yet; but every seaward city became now conscious of that first
faint warning wave of heat from hell. Millions of ears strained to
catch the first hushed whisper of the tumult. Silent in its suspense
the Great Republic listened. Only the priesthood of the deaf and
wooden gods continued voluble. But Israel had already begun to lift up
its million eyes; and its ancient faith began to glow again; and its
trust was becoming once more a living thing--the half-forgotten trust
of Israel in that half-forgotten Lord, who, in the beginning, had been
their helper and their shield.

       *       *       *       *       *

Through the open studio door came Dulcie Soane. The Prophet followed
at her slender heels, gently waving an urbane tail.

       *       *       *       *       *

After his first smiling greeting--he always rose, advanced, and took
her hand with that pleasant appearance of formality so adored by
femininity, youthful or mature--he resumed his seat and continued to
write his letters.

These finished, he stamped them, rang for Aristocrates, picked up his
palette and brushes, and pulled out the easel upon which was the
canvas for the morning.

Dulcie, still in the hands of Selinda, had not yet emerged. The
Prophet sat upright on the carved table, motionless as a cat of ebony
with green-jewelled eyes.

"Well, old sport," said Barres, stepping across the rug to caress the
cat, "you and your pretty mistress begin to look very interesting on
my canvas."

The Prophet received the blandishments with dignified gratitude. A
discreet and feathery purring filled the room as Barres stroked the
jet black, silky fur.

"Fine cat, you are," commented the young man, turning as Dulcie
entered.

She laid one hand on his extended arm and sprang lightly to the model
stand. And the next moment she was seated--a slim, gemmed thing
glimmering with imperial jade from top to toe.

Barres laid the Prophet in her arms, stepped back while Dulcie
arranged the docile cat, then retreated to his canvas.

"All right, Sweetness?"

"All right," replied the child happily. And the morning séance was
on.

Barres was usually inclined to ramble along conversationally in his
pleasant, detached way while at work, particularly if work went well.

"Where were we yesterday, Dulcie? Oh, yes; we were talking about the
Victorian era and its art; and we decided that it was not the barren
desert that the ultra-moderns would have us believe. That's what we
decided, wasn't it?"

"_You_ decided," she said.

"So did you, Dulcie. It was a unanimous decision. Because we both
concluded that some among the Victorians were full of that sweet,
clean sanity which alone endures. You recollect how our decision
started?"

"Yes. It was about my new pleasure in Tennyson, Browning, Morris,
Arnold, and Swinburne."

"Exactly. Victorian poets, if sometimes a trifle stilted and
self-conscious, wrote nobly; makers of Victorian prose displayed
qualities of breadth, imagination and vision and a technical
cultivation unsurpassed. The musical compositions of that epoch were
melodious and sometimes truly inspired; never brutal, never vulgar,
never degenerate. And the Victorian sculptors and painters--at first
perhaps austerely pedantic--became, as they should be, recorders of
the times and customs of thought, bringing the end of the reign of a
great Queen to an admirable renaissance."

Dulcie's grey eyes never left his. And if she did not quite understand
every word, already the dawning familiarity with his vocabulary and a
general comprehension of his modes of self-expansion permitted her to
follow him.

"A great Queen, a great reign, a great people," he rambled on,
painting away all the while. "And if in that era architecture declined
toward its lowest level of stupidity, and if taste in furniture and in
the plastic, decorative, and textile arts was steadily sinking toward
its lowest ebb, and if Mrs. Grundy trudged the Empire, paramount, dull
and smugly ferocious, while all snobbery saluted her and the humble
grovelled before her dusty brogans, yet, Dulcie, it was a great era.

"It was great because its faith had not been radically impaired; it
was sane because Germany had not yet inoculated the human race with
its porcine political vulgarities, its bestial degeneracy in art....
And if, perhaps, the sentimental in British art and literature
predominated, thank God it had not yet been tainted with the stark
ugliness, the swinish nakedness, the ferocious leer of things
Teutonic!"

He continued to paint in silence for a while. Presently the Prophet
yawned on Dulcie's knees, displaying a pink cavern.

"Better rest," he said, nodding smilingly at Dulcie. She released the
cat, who stretched, arched his back, yawned again gravely, and stalked
away over the velvety Eastern carpet.

Dulcie got up lithely and followed him on little jade-encrusted, naked
feet.

A box of bon-bons lay on the sofa; she picked up Rossetti's poems,
turned the leaves with jewel-laden fingers, while with the other hand
she groped for a bon-bon, her grey eyes riveted on the pages before
her.

During these intervals between poses it was the young man's custom to
make chalk sketches of the girl, recording swiftly any unstudied
attitude, any unconscious phase of youthful grace that interested
him.

Dulcie, in the beginning, diffidently aware of this, had now become
entirely accustomed to it, and no longer felt any responsibility to
remain motionless while he was busy with red chalk or charcoal.

When she had rested sufficiently, she laid aside her book, hunted up
the Prophet, who lazily endured the gentle tyranny, and resumed her
place on the model stand.

And so they worked away all the morning, until luncheon was served in
the studio by Aristocrates; and Barres in his blouse, and Dulcie in
her peacock silk, her jade, and naked feet, gravely or lightly as
their moods dictated, discussed an omelette and a pot of tea or
chocolate, and the ways and manners and customs of a world which
Dulcie now was discovering as a brand new and most enchanting planet.




IX

HER DAY


June was ending in a very warm week. Work in the studio lagged, partly
because Dulcie, preparing for graduation, could give Barres little
time; partly because, during June, that young man had been away
spending the week-ends with his parents and his sister at Foreland
Farms, their home.

From one of these visits he returned to the city just in time to read
a frantic little note from Dulcie Soane:

  "DEAR MR. BARRES, please, _please_ come to my graduation. I do
  want _somebody_ there who knows me. And my father is not well. Is
  it too much to ask of you? I hadn't the courage to speak to you
  about it when you were here, but I have ventured to write because
  it will be so lonely for me to graduate without having anybody
  there I know.

  "DULCIE SOANE."

It was still early in the morning; he had taken a night train to
town.

So when he had been freshened by a bath and change of linen, he took
his hat and went down stairs.

A heavy, pasty-visaged young woman sat at the desk in the entrance
hall.

"Where is Soane?" he inquired.

"He's sick."

"_Where_ is he?"

"In bed," she replied indifferently. The woman's manner just
verged on impertinence. He hesitated, then walked across to the
superintendent's apartments and entered without knocking.

Soane, in his own room, lay sleeping off the consequences of an
evening at Grogan's. One glance was sufficient for Barres, and he
walked out.

On Madison Avenue he found a florist, selected a bewildering bouquet,
and despatched it with a hasty note, by messenger, to Dulcie at her
school. In the note he wrote:

"I shall be there. Cheer up!"

He also sent more flowers to his studio, with pencilled orders to
Aristocrates.

In a toy-shop he found an appropriate decoration for the centre of the
lunch table.

Later, in a jeweller's, he discovered a plain gold locket, shaped like
a heart and inset with one little diamond. A slender chain by which to
suspend it was easily chosen; and an extra payment admitted him to the
emergency department where he looked on while an expert engraved upon
the locket: "Dulcie Soane from Garret Barres," and the date.

After that he went into the nearest telephone booth and called up
several people, inviting them to dine with him that evening.

It was nearly ten o'clock now. He took his little gift, stopped a
taxi, and arrived at the big brick high-school just in time to enter
with the last straggling parents and family friends.

The hall was big and austerely bare, except for the ribbons and flags
and palms which decorated it. It was hot, too, though all the great
blank windows had been swung open wide.

The usual exercises had already begun; there were speeches from
Authority; prayers by Divinity; choral effects by graduating
pulchritude.

The class, attired in white, appeared to average much older than
Dulcie. He could see her now, in her reconstructed communion dress,
holding the big bouquet which he had sent her, one madonna lily of
which she had detached and pinned over her breast.

Her features were composed and delicately flushed; her bobbed hair was
tucked up, revealing the snowy neck.

One girl after another advanced and read or spoke, performing the
particular parlour trick assigned her in the customary and perfectly
unremarkable manner characteristic of such affairs.

Rapturous parental demonstrations greeted each effort; piano, violin
and harp filled in nobly. A slight haze of dust, incident to
pedalistic applause, invaded the place; there was an odour of flowers
in the heated atmosphere.

Glancing at a programme which he had found on his seat, Barres read:
"Song: Dulcie Soane."

Looking up at her where she sat on the stage, among her comrades in white,
he noticed that her eyes were busy searching the audience--possibly
for him, he thought, experiencing an oddly pleasant sensation at the
possibility.

       *       *       *       *       *

The time at length arrived for Dulcie to do her parlour trick;
she rose and came forward, clasping the big, fragrant bouquet,
prettily flushed but self-possessed. The harp began a little minor
prelude--something Irish and not very modern. Then Dulcie's pure,
untrained voice stole winningly through the picked harp-strings'
hesitation:

      "Heart of a colleen,
  Where do you roam?
      Heart of a colleen,
  Far from your home?
  Laden with love you stole from her breast!
  Wandering dove, return to your nest!

      Sodgers are sailin'
  Away to the wars;
      Ladies are wailin'
  Their woe to the stars;
  Why is the heart of you straying so soon--
  Heart that was part of you, Eileen Aroon?

      Lost to a sodger,
  Gone is my heart!
      Lost to a sodger,
  Now we must part----
  I and my heart--for it journeys afar
  Along with the sodgers who sail to the war!

      Tears that near blind me
  My pride shall dry,----
      Wisha! don't mind me!
  Lave a lass cry!
  Only a sodger can whistle the tune
  That coaxes the heart out of Eileen Aroon!"

And Dulcie's song ended.

       *       *       *       *       *

Almost instantly the audience had divined in the words she sang a
significance which concerned them--a warning--perhaps a prophecy. The
69th Regiment of New York infantry was Irish, and nearly every seat in
the hall held a relative of some young fellow serving in its ranks.

The applause was impulsive, stormy, persistent; the audience was
demanding the young girl's recall; the noise they made became
overwhelming, checking the mediating music and baffling the next
embarrassed graduate, scheduled to read an essay, and who stood there
mute, her manuscript in her hand.

Finally the principal of the school arose, went over to Dulcie, and
exchanged a few words with her. Then he came forward, hand lifted in
appeal for silence.

"The music and words of the little song you have just heard," he said,
"were written, I have just learned, by the mother of the girl who sang
them. They were written in Ireland a number of years ago, when Irish
regiments were sent away for over-seas service. Neither words nor song
have ever been published. Miss Soane found them among her mother's
effects.

"I thought the story of the little song might interest you. For,
somehow, I feel--as I think you all feel--that perhaps the day may
come--may be near--when the hearts of our women, too, shall be given
to their soldiers--sons, brothers, fathers--who are 'sailin' away to
the wars.' But if that time comes--which God avert!--then I know that
every man here will do his duty.... And every woman.... And I know
that:

  'Tears that near blind you,
  Your pride shall dry!----'"

He paused a moment:

"Miss Soane has prepared no song to sing as an encore. In her behalf,
and in my own, I thank you for your appreciation. Be kind enough to
permit the exercises to proceed."

And the graduating exercises continued.

Barres waited for Dulcie. She came out among the first of those
departing, walking all alone in her reconstructed white dress, and
carrying his bouquet. When she caught sight of him, her face became
radiant and she made her way toward him through the crowd, seeking his
outstretched hand with hers, clinging to it in a passion of gratitude
and emotion that made her voice tremulous:

"My bouquet--it is so wonderful! I love every flower in it! Thank you
with all my heart. You are so kind to have come--so kind to me--so
k-kind----"

"It is I who should be grateful, Dulcie, for your charming little
song," he insisted. "It was fascinating and exquisitely done."

"Did you really like it?" she asked shyly.

"Indeed I did! And I quite fell in love with your voice, too--with
that trick you seem to possess of conveying a hint of tears through
some little grace-note now and then.... And there _were_ tears hidden
in the words; and in the melody, too.... And to think that your mother
wrote it!"

"Yes."

After a short interval of silence he released her hand.

"I have a taxi for you," he said gaily. "We'll drive home in state."

The girl flushed again with surprise and gratitude:

"Are--are _you_ coming, too?"

"Certainly I'm going to take you home. Don't you belong to me?" he
demanded laughingly.

"Yes," she said. But her forced little smile made the low-voiced
answer almost solemn.

"Well, then!" he said cheerfully. "Come along. What's mine I look
after. We'll have lunch together in the studio, if you are too proud
to pose for a poor artist this afternoon."

At this her sensitive face cleared and she laughed happily.

"The pride of a high-school graduate!" he commented, as he seated
himself beside her in the taxicab. "Can anything equal it?"

"Yes."

"What?"

"Her pride in your--friendship," she ventured.

Which unexpected reply touched and surprised him.

"You dear child!" he said; "I'm proud of your friendship, too. Nothing
ought to make a man prouder than winning a young girl's confidence."

"You are so kind," she sighed, touching the blossoms in her bouquet
with slender fingers that trembled a little. For she would have
offered him a flower from it had she found courage; but it seemed
presumptuous and she dropped her hand into her lap again.

       *       *       *       *       *

Aristocrates opened the door for them: Selinda took her away.

Barres had ordered flowers for the table. In the middle of it a doll
stood, attired in academic cap and gown, the Stars and Stripes in one
hand, in the other a green flag bearing a gold harp.

When Dulcie came in she stopped short, enchanted at the sight of the
decorated table. But when Aristocrates opened the kitchen door and her
three cats came trotting in, she was overcome.

For each cat wore a red, white and blue cravat on which was pinned a
silk shamrock; and although Strindberg immediately keeled over on the
rug and madly attacked her cravat with her hind toes, the general
effect remained admirable.

Aristocrates seated Dulcie. Upon her plate was the box containing
chain and locket. And the girl cast a swift, inquiring glance across
the centre flowers at Barres.

"Yes, it's for you, Dulcie," he said.

She turned quite pale at sight of the little gift. After a silence she
leaned on the table with both elbows, shading her face with her
hands.

He let her alone--let the first tense moment in her youthful life ebb
out of it; nor noticed, apparently, the furtive and swift touch of her
best handkerchief to her closed eyes.

Aristocrates brought her a little glass of frosted orange juice. After
an interval, not looking at Barres, she sipped it. Then she took the
locket and chain from the satin-lined box, read the inscription,
closed her lids for a second's silent ecstasy, opened them looking at
him through rapturous tears, and with her eyes still fixed on him
lifted the chain and fastened it around her slender neck.

The luncheon then proceeded, the Prophet gravely assisting from the
vantage point of a neighbouring chair, the Houri, more emotional,
promenading earnestly at the heels of Aristocrates. As for Strindberg,
she possessed neither manners nor concentration, and she alternately
squalled her desires for food or frisked all over the studio,
attempting complicated maneuvres with every curtain-cord and tassel
within reach.

Dulcie had found her voice again--a low, uncertain, tremulous little
voice when she tried to thank him for the happiness he had given
her--a clearer, firmer voice when he dexterously led the conversation
into channels more familiar and serene.

They talked of the graduating exercises, of her part in them, of her
classmates, of education in general.

She told him that since she was quite young she had learned to play
the piano by remaining for an hour every day after school, and
receiving instruction from a young teacher who needed a little extra
pin money.

As for singing, she had had no instruction. Her voice had never been
tried, never been cultivated.

"We'll have it tried some day," he said casually.

But Dulcie shook her head, explaining that it was an expensive process
and not to be thought of.

"How did you pay for your piano lessons?" he asked.

"I paid twenty-five cents an hour. My mother left a little money for
me when I was a baby. I spent it all that way."

"Every bit of it?"

"Yes. I had $500. It lasted me seven years--from the time I was ten to
now."

"_Are_ you seventeen? You don't look it."

"I know I don't. My teachers tell me that my mind is very quick but my
body is slow. It annoys me to be mistaken for a child of fifteen. And
I have to dress that way, too, because my dresses still fit me and
clothes are very expensive."

"Are they?"

Dulcie became confidential and loquacious:

"Oh, very. You don't know about girls' clothes, I suppose. But they
cost a very great deal. So I've had to wear out dresses I've had ever
since I was fourteen and fifteen. And so I can't put up my hair
because it would make my dresses look ridiculous; and that renders the
situation all the worse--to be obliged to go about with bobbed hair,
you see? There doesn't seem to be any way out of it," she ended, with
a despairing little laugh, "and I was seventeen last February!"

"Cheer up! You'll grow old fast enough. And now you're going to have a
jolly little salary as my model, and you ought to be able to buy
suitable clothes. Oughtn't you?"

She did not answer, and he repeated the question. And drew from her,
reluctantly, that her father, so far, had absorbed what money she had
earned by posing.

A dull red gathered under the young man's cheek-bones, but he said
carelessly:

"That won't do. I'll talk it over with your father. I'm very sure
he'll agree with me that you should bank your salary and draw out what
you need for your personal expenses."

Dulcie sat silent over her fruit and bon-bons. Reaction from the keen
emotions of the day had, perhaps, begun to have their effect.

They rose and reseated themselves on the sofa, where she sat in the
corner among gorgeous Chinese cushions, her reconstructed dress now
limp and shabby, the limp madonna lily hanging from her breast.

It had been for her the happiest day of her life. It had dawned the
loneliest, but under the magic of this man's kindness the day was
ending like a day in Paradise.

To Dulcie, however, happiness was less dependent upon receiving than
upon giving; and like all things feminine, mature and immature, she
desired to serve where her heart was enlisted--began to experience the
restless desire to give. What? And as the question silently presented
itself, she looked up at Barres:

"Could I pose for you?"

"On a day like this! Nonsense, Dulcie. This is your holiday."

"I'd really like to--if you want me----"

"No. Curl up here and take a nap. Slip off your gown so you won't muss
it and ask Selinda for a kimono. Because you're going to need your
gown this evening," he added smilingly.

"Why? _Please_ tell me why?"

"No. You've had enough excitement. Tell Selinda to give you a kimono.
Then you can lie down in my room if you like. Selinda will call you in
plenty of time. And after that I'll tell you how we're going to bring
your holiday to a gay conclusion."

She seemed disinclined to stir, curled up there, her eyes brilliant
with curiosity, her lips a trifle parted in a happy smile. She lay
that way for a few moments, looking up at him, her fingers caressing
the locket, then she sat up swiftly.

"Must I take a nap?"

"Certainly."

She sprang to her feet, flashed past him, and disappeared in the
corridor.

"Don't forget to wake me!" she called back.

"I won't forget!"

When he heard her voice again, conversing with Selinda, he opened the
studio door and went down stairs.

Soane, rather the worse for wear, was at the desk, and, standing
beside him, was a one-eyed man carrying two pedlar's boxes under his
arms. They both looked around quickly when Barres appeared. Before he
reached the desk the one-eyed man turned and walked out hastily into
the street.

"Soane," said Barres, "I've one or two things to say to you. The first
is this: if you don't stop drinking and if you don't keep away from
Grogan's, you'll lose your job here."

"Musha, then, Misther Barres----"

"Wait a moment; I'm not through. I advise you to stop drinking and to
keep away from Grogan's. That's the first thing. And next, go on and
graft as much as you like, only warn your pedlar-friends to keep away
from Studio No. 9. Do you understand?"

"F'r the love o' God----"

"Cut out the injured innocence, Soane. I'm telling you how to avoid
trouble, that's all."

"Misther Barres, sorr! As God sees me----"

"I can see you, too. I want you to behave, Soane. This is friendly
advice. That one-eyed pedlar who just beat it has been bothering me.
Other pedlars come ringing at the studio and interrupt and annoy me.
You know the rules. If the other tenants care to stand for it, all
right. But I'm through. Is that plain?"

"It is, sorr," said the unabashed delinquent. The faintest glimmer of
a grin came into his battered eyes. "Sorra a wan o' thim ever lays a
hand to No. 9 bell or I'll have his life!"

"One thing more," continued Barres, smiling in spite of himself at the
Irish of it all. "I am paying Dulcie a salary----"

"Wisha then----"

"Stop! I tell you that she's in my employment on a salary. Don't ever
touch a penny of it again."

"Sure the child's wages----"

"No, they _don't_ belong to the father. Legally, perhaps, but the law
doesn't suit me. So if you take the money that she earns, and blow it
in at Grogan's, I'll have to discharge her because I won't stand for
what you are doing."

"Would you do that, Mr. Barres?"

"I certainly would."

The Irishman scratched his curly head in frank perplexity.

"Dulcie needs clothes suitable to her age," continued Barres. "She
needs other things. I'm going to take charge of her savings so don't
you attempt to tamper with them. You wouldn't do such a thing, anyway,
Soane, if this miserable drink habit hadn't got a hold on you. If you
don't quit, it will down you. You'll lose your place here. You know
that. Try to brace up. This is a rotten deal you're giving yourself
and your daughter."

Soane wept easily. He wept now. Tearful volubility followed--picturesque,
lit up with Hibernian flashes, then rambling, and a hint of slyness in
it which kept one weeping eye on duty watching Barres all the while.

"All right; behave yourself," concluded Barres. "And, Soane, I shall
have three or four people to dinner and a little dancing afterward. I
want Dulcie to enjoy her graduating dance."

"Sure, Misther Barres, you're that kind to the child----"

"_Somebody_ ought to be. Do you know that there was nobody she knew to
see her graduate to-day, excepting myself?"

"Oh, the poor darling! Sure, I was that busy----"

"Busy sleeping off a souse," said Barres drily. "And by the way, who
is that stolid, German-looking girl who alternates with you here at
the desk?"

"Miss Kurtz, sorr."

"Oh. She seems stupid. Where did you dig her up?"

"A fri'nd o' mine riccominds her highly, sorr."

"Is that so? Who is he? One of your German pedlar friends at Grogan's?
Be careful, Soane. You Sinn Feiners are headed for trouble."

He turned and mounted the stairs. Soane looked after him with an
uneasy expression, partly humorous.

"Ah, then, Mr. Barres," he said, "don't be botherin' afther the likes
of us poor Irish. Is there anny harrm in a sup o' beer av a Dootchman
pays?"

Barres looked back at him:

"A one-eyed Dutchman?"

"Ah, g'wan, sorr, wid yer hokin' an' jokin'! Is it graft ye say? An'
how can ye say it, sorr, knowin' me as ye do, Misther Barres?"

The impudent grin on the Irishman's face was too much for the young
man. He continued to mount the stairs, laughing.




X

HER EVENING


As he entered the studio he heard the telephone ringing. Presently
Selinda marched in:

"A lady, sir, who will not giff her name, desires to spik to Mr.
Barres."

"I don't talk to anonymous people," he said curtly.

"I shall tell her, sir?"

"Certainly. Did you make Miss Dulcie comfortable?"

"Yess, sir."

"That's right. Now, take that dress of Miss Dulcie's, go out to some
shop on Fifth Avenue, buy a pretty party gown of similar dimensions,
and bring it back with you. Take a taxi both ways. Wait--take her
stockings and slippers, too, and buy her some fine ones. And some
underwear suitable." He went to a desk, unlocked it, and handed the
maid a flat packet of bank-notes. "Be sure the things are nice," he
insisted.

Selinda, starched, immaculate, frosty-eyed, marched out. She returned
a few moments later, wearing jacket and hat.

"Sir, the lady on the telephone hass called again. The lady would
inquire of Mr. Barres if perhaps he has recollection of the Fountain
of Marie de Médicis."

Barres reddened with surprise and pleasure:

"Oh! Yes, indeed, I'll speak to _that_ lady. Hang up the service
receiver, Selinda." And he stepped to the studio telephone.

"Nihla?" he exclaimed in a low, eager voice.

"C'est moi, Thessa! Have you a letter from me?"

"No, you little wretch! Oh, Thessa, you're certainly a piker! Fancy my
not hearing one word from you since April!--not a whisper, not a sign
to tell me that you are alive----"

"Garry, hush! It was not because I did not wish to see you----"

"Yes, it was! You knew bally well that I hadn't your address and that
you had mine! Is that what you call friendship?"

"You don't understand what you are saying. I wanted to see you. It has
been impossible----"

"You are not singing and dancing anywhere in New York. I watched the
papers. I even went to the Palace of Mirrors to enquire if you had
signed with them there."

"Wait! Be careful, please!----"

"Why?"

"Be careful what you say over the telephone. For my sake, Garry. Don't
use my former name or say anything to identify me with any place or
profession. I've been in trouble. I'm in trouble still. Had you no
letter from me this morning?"

"No."

"That is disquieting news. I posted a letter to you last night. You
should have had it in your morning mail."

"No letter has come from you. I had no letters at all in the morning
mail, and only one or two important business letters since."

"Then I'm deeply worried. I shall have to see you unless that letter
is delivered to you by evening."

"Splendid! But you'll have to come to me, Thessa. I've invited a few
people to dine here and dance afterwards. If you'll dine with us, I'll
get another man to balance the table. Will you?"

After a moment she said:

"Yes. What time?"

"Eight! This is wonderful of you, Thessa!" he said excitedly. "If
you're in trouble we'll clear it up between us. I'm so happy that you
will give me this proof of friendship."

"You dear boy," she said in a troubled voice. "I should be more of a
friend if I kept away from you."

"Nonsense! You promise, don't you?"

"Yes ... Do you realise that to-night another summer moon is to
witness our reunion?... I shall come to you once more under a full
June moon.... And then, perhaps, no more.... Never.... Unless after
the world ends I come to you through shadowy outer space--a ghost
drifting--a shred of mist across the moon, seeking you once
more!----"

"My poor child," he said laughing, "you must be in no end of low
spirits to talk that way."

"It does sound morbid. But I have plenty of courage, Garry. I shall
not snivel on the starched bosom of your evening shirt when we meet.
Donc, à bientôt, monsieur. Soyez tranquille! You shall not be ashamed
of me among your guests."

"Fancy!" he laughed happily. "Don't worry, Thessa. We'll fix up
whatever bothers you. Eight o'clock! Don't forget!"

"I am not likely to," she said.

       *       *       *       *       *

Until Selinda returned from her foray along Fifth Avenue, Barres
remained in the studio, lying in his armchair, still possessed by the
delightful spell, still excited by the prospect of seeing Thessalie
Dunois again, here, under his own roof.

But when the slant-eyed and spotlessly blond Finn arrived, he came
back out of his retrospective trance.

"Did you get some pretty things for Miss Soane?" he enquired.

"Yess, sir, be-ootiful." Selinda deposited on the table a sheaf of
paid bills and the balance of the bank-notes. "Would Mr. Barres be
kind enough to inspect the clothes for Miss Soane?"

"No, thanks. You say they're all right?"

"Yess, sir. They are heavenly be-ootiful."

"Very well. Tell Aristocrates to lay out my clothes after you have
dressed Miss Dulcie. There will be two extra people to dinner. Tell
Aristocrates. Is Miss Dulcie still asleep?"

"Yess, sir."

"All right. Wake her in time to dress her so she can come out here and
give me a chance----" He glanced at the clock "Better wake her now,
Selinda. It's time for her to dress and evacuate my quarters. I'll
take forty winks here until she's ready."

       *       *       *       *       *

Barres lay dozing on the sofa when Dulcie came in.

Selinda, enraptured by her own efficiency in grooming and attiring the
girl, marched behind her, unable to detach herself from her own
handiwork.

From crown to heel the transfiguration was absolute--from the point of
her silk slipper to the topmost curl on the head which Selinda had
dressed to perfection.

For Selinda had been a lady's maid in great houses, and also had a
mania for grooming herself with the minute and thorough devotion of a
pedigreed cat. And Dulcie emerged from her hands like some youthful
sea-nymph out of a bath of foam, snowy-sweet as some fresh and
slender flower.

With a shy courage born with her own transfiguration, she went to
Barres, where he lay on the sofa, and bent over him.

She had made no sound; perhaps her nearness awoke him, for he opened
his eyes.

"Dulcie!" he exclaimed.

"Do I please you?" she whispered.

He sat up abruptly.

"You wonderful child!" he said, frankly astonished. Whereupon he got
off the sofa, walked all around her inspecting her.

"What a get-up! What a girl!" he murmured. "You lovely little thing,
you astound me! Selinda, you certainly know a thing or two. Take it
from me, you do Miss Soane and yourself more credit in your way than I
do with paint and canvas."

Dulcie blushed vividly; the white skin of Selinda also reddened with
pleasure at her master's enthusiasm.

"Tell Aristocrates to fix my bath and lay out my clothes," he said.
"I've guests coming and I've got to hustle!" And to Dulcie: "We're
going to have a little party in honour of your graduation. That's what
I have to tell you, dear. Does it please you? Do your pretty clothes
please you?"

The girl, overwhelmed, could only look at him. Her lips, vivid and
slightly parted, quivered as her breath came irregularly. But she
found no words--nothing to say except in the passionate gratitude of
her grey eyes.

"You dear child," he said gently. Then, after a moment's silence, he
eased the tension with his quick smile: "Wonder-child, go and seat
yourself very carefully, and be jolly careful you don't rumple your
frock, because I want you to astonish one or two people this
evening."

Dulcie found her voice:

"I--I'm so astonished at myself that I don't seem real. I seem to be
somebody else--long ago!" She stepped close to him, opened her locket
for his inspection, holding it out to him as far as the chain
permitted. It framed a miniature of a red-haired, grey-eyed girl of
sixteen.

"Your mother, Dulcie?"

"Yes. How perfectly it fits into my locket! I carry it always in my
purse."

"It might easily be yourself, Dulcie," he said in a low voice. "You
are her living image."

"Yes. That is what astonishes me. To-night, for the first time in my
life, it occurred to me that I look like this girl picture of my
mother."

"You never thought so before?"

"Never." She stood looking down at the laughing face in the locket for
a few moments, then, lifting her eyes to his:

"I've been made over, in a day, to look like this.... You did it!"

"Nonsense! Selinda and her curling iron did it."

They laughed a little.

"No," she said, "you have made me. You began to make me all over three
months ago--oh, longer ago than that!--you began to remake me the
first time you ever spoke to me--the first time you opened your door
to me. That was nearly two years ago. And ever since I have been
slowly becoming somebody quite new--inside and outside--until
to-night, you see, I begin to look like my mother." She smiled at him,
drew a deep breath, closed the locket, dropped it on her breast.

"I mustn't keep you," she said. "I wanted to show the picture--so you
can understand what you have done for me to make me look like that."

       *       *       *       *       *

When Barres returned to the studio, freshened and groomed for the
evening, he found Dulcie at the piano, playing the little song she had
sung that morning, and singing the words under her breath. But she
ceased as he came up, and swung around on the piano-stool to confront
him with the most radiant smile he had ever seen on a human face.

"What a day this has been!" she said, clasping her hands tightly. "I
simply cannot make it seem real."

He laughed:

"It isn't ended yet, either. There's a night to every day, you know.
And your graduation party will begin in a few moments."

"I know. I'm fearfully excited. You'll stay near me, won't you?"

"You bet! Did I tell you who are coming? Well, then, you won't feel
strange, because I've merely asked two or three men who live in Dragon
Court--men you see every day--Mr. Trenor, Mr. Mandel, and Mr.
Westmore."

"Oh," she said, relieved.

"Also," he said, "I have asked Miss Souval--that tall, pretty girl who
sometimes sits for Mr. Trenor--Damaris Souval. You remember her?"

"Yes."

"Also," he continued, "Mr. Mandel wishes to bring a young married
woman who has developed a violent desire for the artistic and
informal, but who belongs in the Social Register." He laughed. "It's
all right if Corot Mandel wants her. Her name is Mrs. Helmund--Elsena
Helmund. Mr. Trenor is painting her."

Dulcie's face was serious but calm.

"And then, to even the table," concluded Barres smilingly, "I invited
a girl I knew long ago in Paris. Her name is Thessalie Dunois; and
she's very lovely to look upon, Dulcie. I am very sure you will like
her."

There was a silence; then the electric bell rang in the corridor,
announcing the arrival of the first guest. As Barres rose, Dulcie laid
her hand on his arm--a swift, involuntary gesture--as though the girl
were depending on his protection.

The winning appeal touched him and amused him, too.

"Don't worry, dear," he said. "You'll have the prettiest frock in the
studio--if you need that knowledge to reassure you----"

The corridor door opened and closed. Somebody went into his bedroom
with Selinda--that being the only available cloak-room for women.




XI

HER NIGHT


"Thessalie Dunois! This is charming of you!" said Barres, crossing the
studio swiftly and taking her hand in both of his.

"I'm so glad to see you, Garry--" she looked past him across the
studio at Dulcie, and her voice died out for a moment. "Who is that
girl?" she enquired under her breath.

"I'll present you----"

"Wait. _Who_ is she?"

"Dulcie Soane----"

"_Soane?_"

"Yes. I'll tell you about her later----"

"In a moment, Garry." Thessalie looked across the room at the girl for
a second or two longer, then turned a troubled, preoccupied gaze on
Barres. "Have you a letter from me? I posted it last night."

"Not yet."

The doorbell rang. He could hear more guests entering the corridor
beyond. A faint smile--the forced smile of courage--altered
Thessalie's features now, until it became a fixed and pretty mask.

"Contrive to give me a moment alone with you this evening," she
whispered. "My need is great, Garry."

"Whenever you say! Now?"

"No. I want to talk to that young girl first."

They walked over to where Dulcie stood by the piano, silent and
self-possessed.

"Thessa," he said, "this is Miss Soane, who graduated from high school
to-day, and in whose honour I am giving this little party." And to
Dulcie he said: "Miss Dunois and I were friends when I lived in
France. Please tell her about your picture, which you and I are
doing." He turned as he finished speaking, and went forward to welcome
Esmé Trenor and Damaris Souval, who happened to arrive together.

"Oh, the cunning little girl over there!" exclaimed the tall and
lovely Damaris, greeting Barres with cordial, outstretched hands.
"Where did you find such an engaging little thing?"

"You don't recognise her?" he asked, amused.

"I? No. Should I?"

"She's Dulcie Soane, the girl at the desk down-stairs!" said Barres,
delighted. "This is her party. She has just graduated from high
school, and she----"

"Belongs to Barres," interrupted Esmé Trenor in his drawling voice.
"Unusual, isn't she, Damaris?--logical anatomy, ornamental, vague
development; nice lines, not obvious--like yours, Damaris," he added
impudently. Then waving his lank hand with its over-polished nails: "I
like the indefinite accented with one ripping value. Look at that
hair!--lac and burnt orange rubbed in, smeared, then wiped off with
the thumb! You follow the intention, Barres?"

"You talk too much, Esmé," interrupted Damaris tartly. "Who is that
lovely being talking to the little Soane girl, Garry?"

"A friend of my Paris days--Thessalie Dunois----" Again he checked
himself to turn and greet Corot Mandel, subtle creator and director of
exotic spectacles--another tall and rather heavily built man, with a
mop of black and shiny hair, a monocle, and sanguine features slightly
oriental.

With Corot Mandel had come Elsena Helmund--an attractive woman of
thoroughbred origin and formal environment, and apparently fed up with
both. For she frankly preferred "grades" to "registered stock," and
she prowled through every art and theatrical purlieu from the Mews to
Westchester, in eternal and unquiet search for an antidote to the
sex-ennui which she erroneously believed to be an intellectual
necessity for self-expression.

"Who is that winning child with red hair?" she enquired, nodding
informal recognition to the other guests, whom she already knew.
"Don't tell me," she added, elevating a quizzing glass and staring at
Dulcie, "that this engaging infant has a history already! It isn't
possible, with that April smile in her child eyes!"

"You bet she hasn't a history, Elsena," said Barres, frowning;
"and I'll see that she doesn't begin one as long as she's in my
neighbourhood."

Corot Mandel, who had been heavily inspecting Dulcie through his
monocle, now stood twirling it by its frayed and greasy cord:

"I could do something for her--unless she's particularly yours,
Barres?" he suggested. "I've seldom seen a better type in New York."

"You idiot. Don't you recognise her? She's Dulcie Soane! You could
have picked her yourself if you'd had any flaire."

"Oh, hell," murmured Mandel, disgusted. "And I thought I possessed
flaire. Your private property, I suppose?" he added sourly.

"Absolutely. Keep off!"

"Watch me," murmured Corot Mandel, with a wry face, as they moved
forward to join the others and be presented to the little guest of the
evening.

Westmore came in at the same moment--a short, blond, vigorous young
man, who knew everybody except Thessalie, and proceeded to smash the
ice in characteristic fashion:

"Dulcie! You beautiful child! How are you, duckey?"--catching her by
both hands,--"a little salute for Nunky? Yes?"--kissing her heartily
on both cheeks. "I've a gift for you in my overcoat pocket. We'll
sneak out and get it after dinner!" He gave her hands a hearty
squeeze, turned to the others: "I ought to have been Miss Soane's
godfather. So I appointed myself as such. Where are the cocktails,
Garry?"

Road-to-ruin cocktails were served--frosted orange juice for Dulcie.
Everybody drank her health. Then Aristocrates gracefully condescended
to announce dinner. And Barres took out Dulcie, her arm resting light
as a snowflake on his sleeve.

There were flowers everywhere in the dining-room; table, buffet,
curtains, lustres were gay with early blossoms, exhaling the haunting
scent of spring.

"Do you like it, Dulcie?" he whispered.

She merely turned and looked at him, quite unable to speak, and he
laughed at her brilliant eyes and flushed cheeks, and, dropping his
right hand, squeezed hers.

"It's your party, Sweetness--all yours! You must have a good time
every minute!" And he turned, still smiling, to Thessalie Dunois on
his left:

"It's quite wonderful, Thessa, to have you here--to be actually seated
beside you at my own table. I shall not let you slip away from me
again, you enchanting ghost!--and leave me with a dislocated heart."

"Garry, that sounds almost sentimental. We're not, you know."

"How do I know? You never gave me a chance to be sentimental."

She laughed mirthlessly:

"Never gave you a chance? And our brief but headlong career together,
monsieur? What was it but a continuous cataract of chances?"

"But we were laughing our silly heads off every minute! I had no
opportunity."

That seemed to amuse her and awaken the ever-latent humour in her.

"Opportunity," she observed demurely, "should be created and taken,
not shyly awaited with eyes rolled upward and a sucked thumb."

They both laughed outright. Her colour rose; the old humorous
challenge was in her eyes again; the subtle mask was already slipping
from her features, revealing them in all their charming recklessness.

"You know my creed," she said; "to go forward--laugh--and accept what
Destiny sends you--still laughing!" Her smile altered again, became,
for a moment, strange and vague. "God knows that is what I am doing
to-night," she murmured, lifting her slim glass, in which the gush of
sunny bubbles caught the candlelight. "To Destiny--whatever it may be!
Drink with me, Garry!"

Around them the chatter and vivacity increased, as Damaris ended a
duel of wit with Westmore and prepared for battle with Corot Mandel.
Everybody seemed to be irresponsibly loquacious except Dulcie, who sat
between Barres and Esmé Trenor, a silent, smiling, reserved little
listener. For Barres was still conversationally involved with
Thessalie, and Esmé Trenor, languid and detached, being entirely
ignored by Damaris, whom he had taken out, awaited his own proper
modicum of worship from his silent little neighbour on his left--which
tribute he took for granted was his sacred due, and which, hitherto,
he had invariably received from woman.

But nobody seemed to be inclined to worship; Damaris scarcely deigned
to notice him, his impudence, perhaps, still rankling. Thessalie,
laughingly engaged with Barres, remained oblivious to the fashionable
portrait painter. As for Elsena Helmund, that youthful matron was
busily pretending to comprehend Corot Mandel's covert orientalisms,
and secretly wondering whether they were, perhaps, as improper as
Westmore kept whispering to her they were, urging her to pick up her
skirts and run.

Esmé Trenor permitted a few weary but slightly disturbed glances to
rest on Dulcie from time to time, but made no effort to entertain
her.

And she, on her part, evinced no symptoms of worshipping him. And all
the while he was thinking to himself:

"Can this be the janitor's daughter? Is she the same rather soiled,
impersonal child whom I scarcely ever noticed--the thin, immature,
negligible little drudge with a head full of bobbed red hair?"

His lack of vision, of finer discernment, deeply annoyed him. Her lack
of inclination to worship him, now that she had the God-sent
opportunity, irritated him.

"The silly little bounder," he thought, "how can she sit beside me
without timidly venturing to entertain me?"

He stole another profoundly annoyed glance at Dulcie. The child was
certainly beautiful--a slim, lovely, sensitive thing of qualities so
delicate that the painter of pretty women became even more surprised
and chagrined that it had taken Barres to discover this desirable girl
in the silent, shabby child of Larry Soane.

Presently he lurched part way toward her in his chair, and looked at
her with bored but patronising encouragement.

"Talk to me," he said languidly.

Dulcie turned and looked at him out of uninterested grey eyes.

"What?" she said.

"Talk to me," he repeated pettishly.

"Talk to yourself," retorted Dulcie, and turned again to listen to the
gay nonsense which Damaris and Westmore were exchanging amid peals of
general laughter.

But Esmé Trenor was thunderstruck. A deep and painful colour stained
his pallid features. Never before had mortal woman so flouted him. It
was unthinkable. It really wouldn't do. There must be some explanation
for this young girl's monstrous attitude toward offered opportunity.

"I say," he insisted, still very red, "are you bashful, by any
chance?"

Dulcie slowly turned toward him again:

"Sometimes I am bashful; not now."

"Oh. Then wouldn't you like to talk to me?"

"I don't think so."

"Fancy! And why not, Dulcie?"

"Because I haven't anything to say to you."

"Dear child, that is the incentive to all conversation--lack of
anything to say. You should practise the art of saying nothing
politely."

"_You_ should have practised it enough to say good morning to me
during these last five years," said Dulcie gravely.

"Oh, I say! You're rather severe, you know! You were just a little
thing running about underfoot!--I'm sorry you feel angry----"

"I do not. But how can I have anything to talk to you about, Mr.
Trenor, when you have never even noticed me all these years, although
often I have handed you your keys and your letters."

"It was quite stupid of me. I'm sorry. But a man, you see, doesn't
notice children----"

"Some men do."

"You mean Mr. Barres! That _is_ unkind. Why rub it in, Dulcie? I'm
rather an interesting fellow, after all."

"Are you?" she asked absently.

Her honest indifference to him was perfectly apparent to Esmé Trenor.
This would never do. She must be subdued, made sane, disciplined!

"Do you know," he drawled, leaning lankly nearer, dropping both arms
on the cloth, and fixing his heavy-lidded eyes intensely on her,"--do
you know--do you guess, perhaps, why I never spoke to you in all these
years?"

"You did not trouble yourself to speak to me, I imagine."

"You are wrong. I was _afraid_!" And he stared at her pallidly.

"Afraid?" she repeated, puzzled.

He leaned nearer, confidential, sad:

"Shall I tell you a precious secret, Dulcie? I am a coward. I am a
slave of fear. I am afraid of beauty! Isn't that a very strange thing
to say? Can you understand the subtlety of that indefinable
psychology? Fear is an emotion. Fear of the beautiful is still a
subtler emotion. Fear, itself, is beautiful beyond words. Beauty is
Fear. Fear is Beauty. Do you follow me, Dulcie?"

"No," said the girl, bewildered.

Esmé sighed:

"Some day you will follow me. It is my destiny to be followed,
pursued, haunted by loveliness impotently seeking to express itself to
me, while I, fearing it, dare only to express my fear with brush and
pencil!... _When_ shall I paint you?" he added with sad benevolence.

"What?"

"When shall I try to interpret upon canvas my subtle fear of you?"
And, as the girl remained mute: "When," he explained languidly, "shall
I appoint an hour for you to sit to me?"

"I am Mr. Barres's model," she said, flushing.

"I shall have to arrange it with him, then," he nodded, wearily.

"I don't think you can."

"Fancy! Why not?"

"Because I do not wish to sit to anybody except Mr. Barres," she said
candidly, "and what you paint does not interest me at all."

"Are you familiar with my work?" he asked incredulously.

She shook her head, shrugged, and turned to Barres, who had at last
relinquished Thessalie to Westmore.

"Well, Sweetness," he said gaily, "do you get on with Esmé Trenor?"

"He talked," she said in a voice perfectly audible to Esmé.

Barres glanced toward Esmé, secretly convulsed, but that young apostle
of Fear had swung one thin leg over the other and was now presenting
one shoulder and the back of his head to them both, apparently in
delightful conversation with Elsena Helmund, who was fed up on him and
his fears.

"You must always talk to your neighbours at dinner," insisted Barres,
still immensely amused. "Esmé is a very popular man with fashionable
women, Dulcie,--a painter in much demand and much adored.... Why do
you smile?"

Dulcie smiled again, deliciously.

"Anyway," continued Barres, "you must now give the signal for us to
rise by standing up. I'm so proud of you, Dulcie, darling!" he added
impulsively; "--and everybody is mad about you!"

"You made me--" she laughed mischievously, "--out of a rag and a bone
and a hank of hair!"

"You made yourself out of nothing, child! And everybody thinks you
delightful."

"Do _you_?"

"You dear girl!--of course I do. Does it make such a difference to
you, Dulcie--my affection for you?"

"Is it--_affection_?"

"It certainly is. Didn't you know it?"

"I didn't--know--what it was."

"Of course it is affection. Who could be with you as I have been and
not grow tremendously fond of you?"

"Nobody ever did except you. Mr. Westmore was always nice. But--but
you are so kind--I can't express--I--c-can't----" Her emotion checked
her.

"Don't try, dear!" he said hastily. "We're going in to have a jolly
dance now. You and I begin it together. Don't you let any other fellow
take you away!"

She looked up, laughed blissfully, gazing at him with brilliant eyes a
little dimmed.

"They'll all be at your heels," he said, beginning to comprehend the
beauty he had let loose on the world, "--every man-jack of them, mark
my prophecy! But ours is the first dance, Dulcie. Promise?"

"I do. And I promise you the next--please----"

"Well, I'm host," he said doubtfully, and a trifle taken aback. "We'll
have some other dances together, anyway. But I couldn't monopolise
you, Sweetness."

The girl looked at him silently, then her grey, intelligent eyes
rested directly on Thessalie Dunois.

"Will you dance with her?" she asked gravely.

"Yes, of course. And with the others, too. Tell me, Dulcie, did you
find Miss Dunois agreeable?"

"I--don't--know."

"Why, you ought to like her. She's very attractive."

"She is quite beautiful," said the girl, watching Thessalie across his
shoulder.

"Yes, she really is. What did you and she talk about?"

"Father," replied Dulcie, determined to have no further commerce with
Thessalie Dunois which involved a secrecy excluding Barres. "She asked
me if he were not my father. Then she asked me a great many stupid
questions about him. And about Miss Kurtz, who takes the desk when
father is out. Also, she asked me about the mail and whether the
postman delivered letters at the desk or in the box outside, and about
the tenants' mail boxes, and who distributed the letters through them.
She seemed interested," added the girl indifferently, "but I thought
it a silly subject for conversation."

Barres, much perplexed, sat gazing at Dulcie in silence for a moment,
then recollecting his duty, he smiled and whispered:

"Stand up, now, Dulcie. You are running this show."

The girl flushed and rose, and the others stood up. Barres took her to
the studio door, then returned to the table with the group of men.

"Well," he exclaimed happily, "what do you fellows think of Soane's
little girl now? Isn't she the sweetest thing you ever heard of?"

"A peach!" said Westmore, in his quick, hearty voice. "What's the
idea, Garry? Is it to be her career, this posing business? And where
is it going to land her? In the Winter Garden?"

"Where is it going to land _you_?" added Esmé impudently.

"Why, I don't know, myself," replied Barres, with a troubled smile.
"The little thing always appealed to me--her loneliness and neglect,
and--and something about the child--I can't define it----"

"Possibilities?" suggested Mandel viciously. "Take it from me, you're
some picker, Garry."

"Perhaps. Anyway, I've given her the run of my place for the last two
years and more. And she has been growing up all the while, and I
didn't notice it. And suddenly, this spring, I discovered her for the
first time.... And--well, look at her to-night!"

"She's your private model, isn't she?" persisted Mandel.

"Entirely," replied Barres drily.

"Selfish dog!" remarked Westmore, with his lively, wholesome laugh. "I
once asked her to sit for me--more out of good nature than anything
else. And a jolly fine little model she ought to make you, Garry.
She's beginning to acquire a figure."

"She's quite wonderful that way, too," nodded Barres.

"Undraped?" inquired Esmé.

"A miracle," nodded Barres absently. "Paint is becoming inadequate. I
shall model her this summer. I tell you I have never seen anything to
compare to her. Never!"

"What else will you do with her?" drawled Esmé. "You'll go stale on
her some day, of course. Am I next?"

"_No_!... I don't know what she'll do. It begins to look like a
responsibility, doesn't it? She's such a fine little girl," explained
Barres warmly. "I've grown quite fond of her--interested in her. Do
you know she has an excellent mind? And nice, fastidious instincts?
She _thinks_ straight. That souse of a father of hers ought to be
jailed for the way he neglects her."

"Are you thinking of adopting her?" asked Trenor, with the faintest of
sneers, which escaped Barres.

"Adopt a _girl_? Oh, Lord, no! I can't do anything like that. Yet--I
hate to think of her future, too ... unless somebody looks out for
her. But it isn't possible for _me_ to do anything for her except to
give her a good job with a decent man----"

"Meaning yourself," commented Mandel, acidly.

"Well, I _am_ decent," retorted Barres warmly, amid general laughter.
"You fellows know what chances she might take with some men," he
added, laughing at his own warm retort.

Esmé and Corot Mandel nodded piously, each perfectly aware of what
chance any attractive girl would run with his predatory neighbour.

"To shift the subject of discourse--that girl, Thessalie Dunois,"
began Westmore, in his energetic way, "is about the cleverest and
prettiest woman I've seen in New York outside the theatre district."

"I met her in France," said Barres, carelessly. "She really is
wonderfully clever."

"I shall let her talk to me," drawled Esmé, flicking at his cigarette.
"It will be a liberal education for her."

Mandel's slow, oriental eyes blinked contempt; he caressed his waxed
moustache with nicotine-stained fingers:

"I am going to direct an out-of-door spectacle--a sort of play--not
named yet--up your way, Barres--at Northbrook. It's for the
Belgians.... If Miss Dunois--unless," he added sardonically, "you have
her reserved, also----"

"Nonsense! You cast Thessalie Dunois and she'll make your show for
you, Mandel!" exclaimed Barres. "I know and I'm telling you. Don't
make any mistake: there's a girl who can make good!"

"Oh. Is she a professional?"

It was on the tip of Barres's tongue to say "Rather!" But he checked
himself, not knowing Thessalie's wishes concerning details of her
incognito.

"Talk to her about it," he said, rising.

The others laid aside cigars and followed him into the studio, where
already the gramophone was going and Aristocrates and Selinda were
rolling up the rugs.

       *       *       *       *       *

Barres and Dulcie danced until the music, twice revived, expired in
husky dissonance, and a new disc was substituted by Westmore.

"By heaven!" he said, "I'll dance this with my godchild or I'll murder
you, Garry. Back up, there!--you soulless monopolist!" And Dulcie,
half laughing, half vexed, was swept away in Westmore's vigorous arms,
with a last, long, appealing look at Barres.

The latter danced in turn with his feminine guests, as in duty
bound--in pleasure bound, as far as concerned Thessalie.

"And to think, to _think_," he repeated, "that you and I, who once
trod the moonlit way, June-mad, moon-mad, should be dancing here
together once more!"

"Alas," she said, "though this is June again, moon and madness are
lacking. So is the enchanted river and your canoe. And so is that gay
heart of mine--that funny, careless little heart which was once my
comrade, sending me into a happy gale of laughter every time it
counselled me to folly."

"What is the matter, Thessa?"

"Garry, there is so much the matter that I don't know how to tell
you.... And yet, I have nobody else to tell.... Is that maid of yours
German?"

"No, Finnish."

"You can't be certain," she murmured. "Your guests are all American,
are they not?"

"Yes."

"And the little Soane girl? Are her sympathies with Germany?"

"Why, certainly not! What gave you that idea, Thessa?"

The music ran down; Westmore, the indefatigable, still keeping
possession of Dulcie, went over to wind up the gramophone.

"Isn't there some place where I could be alone with you for a few
minutes?" whispered Thessalie.

"There's a balcony under the middle window. It overlooks the court."

She nodded and laid her hand on his arm, and they walked to the long
window, opened it, and stepped out.

Moonlight fell into the courtyard, silvering everything. Down there on
the grass the Prophet sat, motionless as a black sphynx in the lustre
of the moon.

Thessalie looked down into the shadowy court, then turned and glanced
up at the tiled roof just above them, where a chimney rose in
silhouette against the pale radiance of the sky.

Behind the chimney, flat on their stomachs, lay two men who had been
watching, through an upper ventilating pane of glass, the scene in
the brilliantly lighted studio below them.

The men were Soane and his crony, the one-eyed pedlar. But neither
Thessalie nor Barres could see them up there behind the chimney.

Yet the girl, as though some unquiet instinct warned her, glanced up
at the eaves above her head once more, and Barres looked up, too.

"What do you see up there?" he inquired.

"Nothing.... There could be nobody up there to listen, could there?"

He laughed:

"Who would want to climb up on the roof to spy on you or me----"

"Don't speak so loud, Garry----"

"What on earth is the trouble?"

"The same trouble that drove me out of France," she said in a low
voice. "Don't ask me what it was. All I can tell you is this: I am
followed everywhere I go. I cannot make a living. Whenever I secure an
engagement and return at the appointed time to fill it, something
happens."

"What happens?" he asked bluntly.

"They repudiate the agreement," she said in a quiet voice. "They give
no reasons; they simply tell me that they don't want me. Do you
remember that evening when I left the Palace of Mirrors?"

"Indeed, I do----"

"That was only one example. I left with an excellent contract, signed.
The next day, when I returned, the management took my contract out of
my hands and tore it up."

"What! Why, that's outrageous----"

"Hush! That is only one instance. Everywhere it is the same. I am
accepted after a try-out; then, without apparent reason, I am told
not to return."

"You mean there is some conspiracy----" he began incredulously, but
she interrupted him with a white hand over his, nervously committing
him to silence:

"Listen, Garry! Men have followed me here from Europe. I am constantly
watched in New York. I cannot shake off this surveillance for very
long at a time. Sooner or later I become conscious again of curious
eyes regarding me; of features that all at once become unpleasantly
familiar in the throng. After several encounters in street or car or
restaurant, I recognise these. Often and often instinct alone warns me
that I am followed; sometimes I am so certain of it that I take pains
to prove it."

"Do you prove it?"

"Usually."

"Well, what the devil----"

"Hush! I seem to be getting into deeper trouble than that, Garry. I
have changed my residence so many, many times!--but every time
people get into my room when I am away and ransack my effects.... And
now I never enter my room unless the landlady is with me, or the
janitor--especially after dark."

"Good Lord!----"

"Listen! I am not really frightened. It isn't fear, Garry. That word
isn't in my creed, you know. But it bewilders me."

"In the name of common sense," he demanded, "what reason has anybody
to annoy you----"

Her hand tightened on his:

"If I only knew who these people are--whether they are agents of the
Count d'Eblis or of the--the French Government! But I can't determine.
They steal letters directed to me; they steal letters which I write
and mail with my own hands. I wrote to you yesterday, because I--I
felt I couldn't stand this persecution--any--longer----"

Her voice became unsteady; she waited, gripping his hand, until
self-control returned. When she was mistress of herself again, she
forced a smile and her tense hand relaxed.

"You know," she said, "it is most annoying to have my little
love-letter to you intercepted."

But his features remained very serious:

"When did you mail that letter to me?"

"Yesterday evening."

"From where?"

"From a hotel."

He considered.

"I ought to have had it this morning, Thessa. But the mails, lately,
have been very irregular. There have been other delays. This is
probably an example."

"At latest," she said, "you should have my letter this evening."

"Y-yes. But the evening is young yet."

After a moment she drew a light sigh of relief, or perhaps of
apprehension, he was not quite sure which.

"But about this other matter--men following and annoying you," he
began.

"Not now, Garry. I can't talk about it now. Wait until we are sure
about my letter----"

"But, Thessa----"

"Please! If you don't receive it before I leave, I shall come to you
again and ask your aid and advice----"

"Will you come _here_?"

"Yes. Now take me in.... Because I am not quite certain about your
maid--and perhaps one other person----"

His expression of astonishment checked her for a moment, then the old
irresistible laughter rang out sweetly in the moonlight.

"Oh, Garry! It is funny, isn't it!--to be dogged and hunted day and
night by a pack of shadows? If I only knew who casts them!"

She took his arm gaily, with that little, courageous lifting of the
head:

"Allons! We shall dance again and defy the devil! And you may send
your servant down to see whether my letter has arrived--not that maid
with slanting eyes!--I have no confidence in her--but your marvellous
major-domo, Garry----"

Her smile was bright and untroubled as she stepped back into the
studio, leaning on his arm.

"You dear boy," she whispered, with the irresponsible undertone of
laughter ringing in her voice, "thank you for bothering with my woes.
I'll be rid of them soon, I hope, and then--perhaps--I'll lead you
another dance along the moonlit way!"

       *       *       *       *       *

On the roof, close to the chimney, the one-eyed man and Soane peered
down into the studio through the smeared ventilator.

In the studio Dulcie's first party was drawing to an early but jolly
end.

She had danced a dozen times with Barres, and her heart was full of
sheerest happiness--the unreasoning bliss which asks no questions, is
endowed with neither reason nor vision--the matchless delight which
fills the candid, unquestioning heart of Youth.

Nothing had marred her party for her, not even the importunity of Esmé
Trenor, which she had calmly disregarded as of no interest to her.

True, for a few moments, while Barres and Thessalie were on the
balcony outside, Dulcie had become a trifle subdued. But the wistful
glances she kept casting toward the long window were free from meaner
taint; neither jealousy nor envy had ever found lodging in the girl's
mind or heart. There was no room to let them in now.

Also, she was kept busy enough, one man after another claiming her for
a dance. And she adored it--even with Trenor, who danced extremely
well when he took the trouble. And he was taking it now with Dulcie;
taking a different tone with her, too. For if it _were_ true, as some
said, that Esmé Trenor was three-quarters charlatan, he was no fool.
And Dulcie began to find him entertaining to the point of a smile or
two, as her spontaneous tribute to Esmé's efforts.

That languid apostle said afterward to Mandel, where they were
lounging over the piano:

"Little devil! She's got a mind of her own, and she knows it. I've had
to make efforts, Corot!--efforts, if you please, to attract her mere
attention. I'm exhausted!--never before had to make any efforts--never
in my life!"

Mandel's heavy-lidded eyes of a big bird rested on Dulcie, where she
was seated. Her gaze was lifted to Barres, who bent over her in
jesting conversation.

Mandel, watching her, said to Esmé:

"I'm always ready to _train_--that sort of girl; always on the lookout
for them. One discovers a specimen once or twice in a decade.... Two
or three in a lifetime: that's all."

"Train them?" repeated Esmé, with an indolent smile. "Break them, you
mean, don't you?"

"Yes. The breaking, however, is usually mutual. However, that girl
could go far under my direction."

"Yes, she could go as far as hell."

"I mean artistically," remarked Mandel, undisturbed.

"As what, for example?"

"As anything. After all, I _have_ flaire, even if it failed me this
time. But _now_ I see. It's there, in her--what I'm always searching
for."

"What may that be, dear friend?"

"What Westmore calls 'the goods.'"

"And just what are they in her case?" inquired Esmé, persistent as a
stinging gnat around a pachyderm.

"I don't know--a voice, maybe; maybe the dramatic instinct--genius as
a dancer--who knows? All that is necessary is to discover it--whatever
it may be--and then direct it."

"Too late, O philanthropic Pasha!" remarked Esmé with a slight sneer.
"I'd be very glad to paint her, too, and become good friends with
her--so would many an honest man, now that she's been discovered--but
our friend Barres, yonder, isn't likely to encourage either you or me.
So"--he shrugged, but his languid gaze remained on Dulcie--"so you and
I had better kiss all hope good-bye and toddle home."

       *       *       *       *       *

Westmore and Thessalie still danced together; Mrs. Helmund and Damaris
were trying new steps in new dances, much interested, indulging in
much merriment. Barres watched them casually, as he conversed with
Dulcie, who, deep in an armchair, never took her eyes from his smiling
face.

"Now, Sweetness," he was saying, "it's early yet, I know, but your
party ought to end, because you are coming to sit for me in the
morning, and you and I ought to get plenty of sleep. If we don't, I
shall have an unsteady hand, and you a pair of sleepy eyes. Come on,
ducky!" He glanced across at the clock:

"It's very early yet, I know," he repeated, "but you and I have had
rather a long day of it. And it's been a very happy one, hasn't it,
Dulcie?"

As she smiled, the youthful soul of her itself seemed to be gazing up
at him out of her enraptured eyes.

"Fine!" he said, with deepest satisfaction. "Now, you'll put your hand
on my arm and we'll go around and say good-night to everybody, and
then I'll take you down stairs."

So she rose and placed her hand lightly on his arm, and together
they made her adieux to everybody, and everybody was cordially
demonstrative in thanking her for her party.

So he took her down stairs to her apartment, off the hall, noticing
that neither Soane nor Miss Kurtz was on duty at the desk, as they
passed, and that a pile of undistributed mail lay on the desk.

"That's rotten," he said curtly. "Will you have to change your
clothes, sort this mail, and sit here until the last mail is
delivered?"

"I don't mind," she said.

"But I wanted you to go to sleep. Where is Miss Kurtz?"

"It is her evening off."

"Then your father ought to be here," he said, irritated, looking
around the big, empty hallway.

But Dulcie only smiled and held out her slim hand:

"I couldn't sleep, anyway. I had really much rather sit here for a
while and dream it all over again. Good-night.... Thank you--I can't
say what I feel--but m-my heart is very faithful to you, Mr.
Barres--will always be--while I am alive ... because you are my first
friend."

He stooped impulsively and touched her hair with his lips:

"You dear child," he said, "I _am_ your friend."

Halfway up the western staircase he called back:

"Ring me up, Dulcie, when the last mail comes!"

"I will," she nodded, almost blindly.

Out of her lovely, abashed eyes she watched him mount the stairs, her
cheeks a riot of surging colour. It was some few minutes after he was
gone that she recollected herself, turned, and, slowly traversing the
east corridor, entered her bedroom.

Standing there in darkness, vaguely silvered by reflected moonlight,
she heard through her door ajar the guests of the evening descending
the western staircase; heard their gay adieux exchanged, distinguished
Esmé's impudent drawl, Westmore's lively accents, Mandel's voice, the
easy laughter of Damaris, the smooth, affected tones of Mrs. Helmund.

But Dulcie listened in vain for the voice which had haunted her ears
since she had left the studio--the lovely voice of Thessalie Dunois.

If this radiant young creature also had departed with the other
guests, she had gone away in silence.... _Had_ she departed? Or was
she still lingering upstairs in the studio for a little chat with the
most wonderful man in the world?... A very, very beautiful girl....
And the most wonderful man in the world. Why should they not linger
for a little chat together after the others had departed?

Dulcie sighed lightly, pensively, as one whose happiness lies in the
happiness of others. To be a witness seemed enough for her.

For a little while longer she remained standing there in the silvery
dusk, quite motionless, thinking of Barres.

The Prophet lay asleep, curled up on her bed; her alarm clock ticked
noisily in the darkness, as though to mimic the loud, fast rhythm of
her heart.

At last, and as in a dream, she groped for a match, lighted the gas
jet, and began to disrobe. Slowly, dreamily, she put from her slender
body the magic garments of light--_his_ gift to her.

But under these magic garments, clothing her newborn soul, remained
the radiant rainbow robe of that new dawn into which this man had led
her spirit. Did it matter, then, what dingy, outworn clothing covered
her, outside?

       *       *       *       *       *

Clad once more in her shabby, familiar clothes, and bedroom slippers,
Dulcie opened the door of her dim room, and crept out into the
whitewashed hall, moving as in a trance. And at her heels stalked the
Prophet, softly, like a lithe shape that glides through dreams.

Awaiting the last mail, seated behind the desk on the worn leather
chair, she dropped her linked fingers into her lap, and gazed straight
into an invisible world peopled with enchanting phantoms. And, little
by little, they began to crowd her vision, throng all about her,
laughing, rosy wraiths floating, drifting, whirling in an endless
dance. Everywhere they were invading the big, silent hall, where the
candle's grotesque shadows wavered across whitewashed wall and
ceiling. Drowsily, now, she watched them play and sway around her. Her
head drooped; she opened her eyes.

The Prophet sat there, staring back at her out of depthless orbs of
jade, in which all the wisdom and mysteries of the centuries seemed
condensed and concentrated into a pair of living sparks.




XII

THE LAST MAIL


The last mail had not yet arrived at Dragon Court.

Five people awaited it--Dulcie Soane, behind the desk in the entrance
hall, already wandering drowsily with Barres along the fairy
borderland of sleep; Thessalie Dunois in Barres' studio, her
rose-coloured evening cloak over her shoulders, her slippered foot
tapping the dance-scarred parquet; Barres opposite, deep in his
favourite armchair, chatting with her; Soane on the roof, half stupid
with drink, watching them through the ventilator; and, lurking in the
moonlit court, outside the office window, the dimly sinister figure of
the one-eyed man. He wore a white handkerchief over his face, with a
single hole cut in it. Through this hole his solitary optic was now
fixed upon the back of Dulcie's drowsy head.

As for the Prophet, perched on the desk top, he continued to gaze upon
shapes invisible to all things mortal save only such as he.

       *       *       *       *       *

The postman's lively whistle aroused Dulcie. The Prophet, knowing him,
observed his advent with indifference.

"Hello, girlie," he said;--he was a fresh-faced and flippant young
man. "Where's Pop?" he added, depositing a loose sheaf of letters on
the desk before her and sketching in a few jig steps with his feet.

"I don't know," she murmured, patting with one slim hand her pink and
yawning lips, and watching him unlock the post-box and collect the
outgoing mail. He lingered a moment to caress the Prophet, who endured
it without gratitude.

"You better go to bed if you want to grow up to be a big, sassy girl
some day," he advised Dulcie. "And hurry up about it, too, because I'm
going to marry you if you behave." And, with a last affable caress for
the Prophet, the young man went his way, singing to himself, and
slamming the iron grille smartly behind him.

Dulcie, rising from her chair, sorted the mail, sleepily tucking each
letter and parcel into its proper pigeon-hole. There was a thick
letter for Barres. This she held in her left hand, remembering his
request that she call him up when the last mail arrived.

This she now prepared to do--had already reseated herself, her right
hand extended toward the telephone, when a shadow fell across the
desk, and the Prophet turned, snarled, struck, and fled.

At the same instant grimy fingers snatched at the letter which she
still held in her left hand, twisted it almost free of her desperate
clutch, tore it clean in two at one violent jerk, leaving her with
half the letter still gripped in her clenched fist.

She had not uttered a sound during the second's struggle. But
instantly an ungovernable rage blazed up in her at the outrage, and
she leaped clean over the desk and sprang at the throat of the
one-eyed man.

His neck was bony and muscular; she could not compass it with her
slender hands, but she struck at it furiously, driving a sound out of
his throat, half roar, half cough.

"Give me my letter!" she breathed. "I'll kill you if you don't!" Her
furious little hands caught his clenched fist, where the torn letter
protruded, and she tore at it and beat upon it, her teeth set and her
grey Irish eyes afire.

Twice the one-eyed man flung her to her knees on the pavement, but she
was up again and clinging to him before he could tear free of her.

"My letter!" she gasped. "I shall kill you, I tell you--unless you
return it!"

His solitary yellow eye began to glare and glitter as he wrenched and
dragged at her wrists and arms about him.

"Schweinstück!" he panted. "Let los, mioche de malheur! Eh! Los!--or I
strike! No? Also! Attrape!--sale gallopin!----"

His blow knocked her reeling across the hall. Against the whitewashed
wall she collapsed to her knees, got up half stunned, the clang of the
outer grille ringing in her very brain.

With dazed eyes she gazed at the remnants of the torn letter, still
crushed in her rigid fingers. Bright drops of blood from her mouth
dripped slowly to the tessellated pavement.

Reeling still from the shock of the blow, she managed to reach the
outer door, and stood swaying there, striving to pierce with confused
eyes the lamplit darkness of the street. There was no sign of the
one-eyed man. Then she turned and made her way back to the desk,
supporting herself with a hand along the wall.

Waiting a few moments to control her breathing and her shaky limbs,
she contrived finally to detach the receiver and call Barres. Over the
wire she could hear the gramophone playing again in the studio.

"Please may I come up?" she whispered.

"Has the last mail come? Is there a letter for me?" he asked.

"Yes ... I'll bring you w-what there is--if you'll let me?"

"Thanks, Sweetness! Come right up!" And she heard him say: "It's
probably your letter, Thessa. Dulcie is bringing it up."

Her limbs and body were still quivering, and she felt very weak and
tearful as she climbed the stairway to the corridor above.

The nearer door of his apartment was open. Through it the music of the
gramophone came gaily; and she went toward it and entered the
brilliantly illuminated studio.

Soane, who still lay flat on the roof overhead, peeping through the
ventilator, saw her enter, all dishevelled, grasping in one hand the
fragments of a letter. And the sight instantly sobered him. He tucked
his shoes under one arm, got to his stockinged feet, made nimbly for
the scuttle, and from there, descending by the service stair, ran
through the courtyard into the empty hall.

"Be gorry," he muttered, "thot dommed Dootchman has done it now!" And
he pulled on his shoes, crammed his hat over his ears, and started
east, on a run, for Grogan's.

Grogan's was still the name of the Third Avenue saloon, though Grogan
had been dead some years, and one Franz Lehr now presided within that
palace of cherrywood, brass and pretzels.

Into the family entrance fled Soane, down a dim hallway past several
doors, from behind which sounded voices joining in guttural song; and
came into a rear room.

The one-eyed man sat there at a small table, piecing together
fragments of a letter.

"Arrah, then," cried Soane, "phwat th' devil did ye do, Max?"

The man barely glanced at him.

"Vy iss it," he enquired tranquilly, "you don'd vatch Nihla Quellen by
dot wentilator some more?"

"I axe ye," shouted Soane, "what t'hell ye done to Dulcie!"

"Vat I haff done already yet?" queried the one-eyed man, not looking
up, and continuing to piece together the torn letter. "Vell, I tell
you, Soane; dot kid she keep dot letter in her handt, und I haff to
grab it. Sacré saligaud de malheur! Dot letter she tear herself in
two. Pas de chance! Your kid she iss mad like tigers! Voici--all zat
rests me de la sacré-nom-de sacrèminton de lettre----"

"Ah, shut up, y'r Dootch head-cheese!--wid y'r gillipin' gallopin'
gabble!" cut in Soane wrathfully. "D'ye mind phwat ye done? It's not
petty larceny, ye omadhoun!--it's highway robbery ye done--bad cess to
ye!"

The one-eyed man shrugged:

"Pourtant, I must haff dot letter----" he observed, undisturbed by
Soane's anger; but Soane cut him short again fiercely:

"You an' y'r dommed letter! Phwat do you care if I'm fired f'r this
night's wurruk? Y'r letter, is it? An' what about highway robbery, me
bucko! An' me off me post! How'll I be explaining that? Ah, ye sicken
me entirely, ye Dootch square-head! Now, phwat'll I say to them? Tell
me that, Max Freund! Phwat'll I tell th' aygent whin he comes runnin'?
Phwat'll I tell th' po-lice? Arrah, phwat't'hell do you care,
anyway?" he shouted. "I've a mind f'r to knock the block off ye----"

"You shall say to dot agent you haff gone out to smell," remarked Max
Freund placidly.

"Smell, is it? Smell what, ye dom----"

"You smell some smoke. You haff fear of fire. You go out to see. Das
iss so simble, ach! Take shame, you Irish Sinn Fein! You behave like
rabbits!" He pointed to his arrangement of the torn letter on the
table: "Here iss sufficient already--regardez! Look once!" He laid one
long, soiled and bony finger on the fragments: "Read it vat iss
written!"

"G'wan, now!"

"I tell you, read!"

Soane, still cursing under his breath, bent over the table, reading as
Freund's soiled finger moved:

"Fein plots," he read. "German agents ... disloyal propa ... explo ...
bomb fac ... shipping munitions to ... arms for Ireland can be ...
destruction of interned German li ... disloyal newspapers which ...
controlled by us in Pari ... Ferez Bey ... bankers are duped.... I
need your advi ... hounded day and ni ... d'Eblis or Govern ... not
afraid of death but indignant ... Sinn Fei----"

Soane's scowl had altered, and a deeper red stained his brow and
neck.

"Well, by God!" he muttered, jerking up a chair from behind him and
seating himself at the table, but never taking his fascinated eyes off
the torn bits of written paper.

Presently Freund got up and went out. He returned in a few moments
with a large sheet of wrapping paper and a pot of mucilage. On this
paper, with great care, he arranged the pieces of the torn letter,
neatly gumming each bit and leaving a space between it and the next
fragment.

"To fill in iss the job of Louis Sendelbeck," remarked Freund, pasting
away industriously. "Is it not time we learn how much she knows--this
Nihla Quellen? Iss she sly like mice? I ask it."

Soane scratched his curly head.

"Be gorry," he said, "av that purty girrl is a Frinch spy she don't
look the parrt, Max."

Freund waved one unclean hand:

"Vas iss it to look like somedings? Nodding! Also, you Sinn Fein Irish
talk too much. Why iss it in Belfast you march mit drums und music? To
hold our tongues und vatch vat iss we Germans learn already first!
Also! Sendelbeck shall haff his letter."

"An' phwat d'ye mean to do with that girrl, Max?"

"Vatch her! Vy you don'd go back by dot wentilator already?"

"Me? Faith, I'm done f'r th' evenin', an' I thank God I wasn't pinched
on the leads!"

"Vait I catch dot Nihla somevares," muttered Freund, regarding his
handiwork.

"Ye'll do no dirty thrick to her? Th' Sinn Fein will shtand f'r no
burkin', mind that!"

"Ach, wass!" grunted Freund; "iss it your business vat iss done to
somebody by Ferez? If you Irish vant your rifles und machine guns,
leaf it to us Germans und dond speak nonsense aboud nodding!" He
leaned over and pushed a greasy electric button: "Now ve drink a glass
bier. Und after, you go home und vatch dot girl some more."

"Av Misther Barres an' th' yoong lady makes a holler, they'll fire me
f'r this," snarled Soane.

"Sei ruhig, mon vieux! Nihla Quellen keeps like a mouse quiet! Und she
keeps dot yoong man quiet! You see! No, no! Not for Nihla to make
some foolishness und publicity. French agents iss vatching for her
too--l'affaire du _Mot d'Ordre_. She iss vat you say, 'in Dutch'! Iss
she, vielleicht, a German spy? In France they believe it. Iss she a
French spy? Ach! Possibly some day; not yet! And it iss for us Germans
to know always vat she iss about. Dot iss my affair, not yours,
Soane."

A heavy jowled man in a soiled apron brought two big mugs of beer and
retired on felt-slippered feet.

"Hoch!" grunted Freund, burying his nose in his frothing mug.

Soane, wasting no words, drank thirstily. After a long pull he shoved
aside his sloppy stein, rose, cautiously unlatched the shutter of a
tiny peep-hole in the wall, and applied one eye to it.

"Bad luck!" he muttered, "there do be wan av thim secret service lads
drinkin' at the bar! I'll not go home yet, Max."

"Dot big vone?" inquired Freund, mildly interested.

"That's the buck! Him wid th' phony whiskers an' th' Dootch get-up!"

"Vell, vot off it? Can he do somedings?"

"And how should I know phwat that lad can do to th' likes o' me, or
phwat the divil brings him here at all, at all! Sure, he's been around
these three nights running----"

Freund laughed his contempt for all things American, including police
and secret service, and wiped his chin with the back of his hand.

"Look, once, Soane! Do these Yankees know vat it iss a police, a
gendarme, a military intelligence? Vat they call secret service, wass
iss it? I ask it? Schweinerei! Dummheit? Fantoches! Imbeciles! Of the
Treasury they haff a secret service; of the Justice Department also
another; and another of the Army, and yet another of the Posts! Vot
kind of foolish system iss it?--mitout no minister, no chef, no
centre, no head, no organisation--und everybody interfering in vot
efferybody iss doing und nobody knowing vot nobody is doing--ach wass!
Je m'en moque--I make mock myself at dot secret service which iss too
dam dumm!" He yawned. "Trop bête," he added indistinctly.

Soane, reassured, lowered the shutter, came back to the table, and
finished his beer with loud gulps.

"Lave us go up to the lodge till he goes out," he suggested. "Maybe
th' boys have news o' thim rifles."

Freund yawned again, nodded, and rose, and they went out to an
unlighted and ill-smelling back stairway. It was so narrow that they
had to ascend in single file.

Half way up they set off a hidden bell, by treading on some concealed
button under foot; and a man, dressed only in undershirt and trousers,
appeared at the top of the stairs, silhouetted against a bright light
burning on the wall behind him.

"Oh, all right," he said, recognising them, and turned on his heel
carelessly, pocketing a black-jack.

They followed to a closed door, which was made out of iron and painted
like quartered oak. In the wall on their right a small shutter slid
back noiselessly, then was closed without a sound; and the iron door
opened very gently in their faces.

The room they entered was stifling--all windows being closed--in
spite of a pair of electric fans whirling and droning on shelves. Some
perspiring Germans were playing skat over in a corner. One or two
other men lounged about a centre table, reading Irish and German
newspapers published in New York, Chicago, and Milwaukee. There
were also on file there copies of the _Evening Mail_, the _Evening
Post_, a Chicago paper, and a pile of magazines, including numbers
of _Pearson's_, _The Fatherland_, _The Masses_, and similar
publications.

Two lithograph portraits hung side by side over the fireplace--Robert
Emmet and Kaiser Wilhelm II. Otherwise, the art gallery included
photographs of Von Hindenburg, Von Bissing, and the King of Greece.

A large map, on which the battle-line in Europe had been pricked out
in red pins, hung on the wall. Also a map of New York City, on a very
large scale; another map of New York State; and a map of Ireland. A
dumb-waiter, on duty and astonishingly noiseless, slid into sight,
carrying half a dozen steins of beer and some cheese sandwiches, just
as Soane and Freund entered the room, and the silent iron door closed
behind them of its own accord and without any audible click.

The man who had met them on the stairs, in undershirt and trousers,
went over to the dumb-waiter, scribbled something on a slate which
hung inside the shelf, set the beer and sandwiches beside the skat
players, and returned to seat himself at the table to which Freund and
Soane had pulled up cane-bottomed chairs.

"Well," he said, in rather a pleasant voice, "did you get that letter,
Max?"

Freund nodded and leisurely sketched in the episode at Dragon Court.

The man, whose name was Franz Lehr, and who had been born in New York
of German parents, listened with lively interest to the narrative. But
he whistled softly when it ended:

"You took a few chances, Max," he remarked. "It's all right, of
course, because you got away with it, but----" He whistled again,
thoughtfully.

"Sendelbeck must haff his letter. Yess? Also!"

"Certainly. I guess that was the only way--if she was really going to
take it up to young Barres. And I guess you're right when you conclude
that Nihla won't make any noise about it and won't let her friend,
Barres, either."

"Sure, I'm right," grunted Freund. "We got the goots on her now. You
bet she's scared. You tell Ferez--yess?"

"Don't worry; he'll hear it all. You got that letter on you?"

Freund nodded.

"Hand it to Hochstein"--he half turned on his rickety chair and
addressed a squat, bushy-haired man with very black eyebrows and
large, angry blue eyes--"Louis, Max got that letter you saw Nihla
writing in the Hotel Astor. Here it is----" taking the pasted
fragments from Freund and passing them over to Hochstein. "Give it to
Sendelbeck, along with the blotter you swiped after she left the
writing room. Dave Sendelbeck ought to fix it up all right for Ferez
Bey."

Hochstein nodded, shoved the folded brown paper into his pocket, and
resumed his cards.

"Is thim rifles----" began Soane; but Lehr laid a hand on his
shoulder:

"Now, listen! They're on the way to Ireland now. I told you that. When
I hear they're landed I'll let you know. You Sinn Feiners don't
understand how to wait. If things don't happen the way you want and
when you want, you all go up in the air!"

"An' how manny hundred years would ye have us wait f'r to free th'
ould sod!" retorted Soane.

"You'll not free it with your mouth," retorted Lehr. "No, nor by
drilling with banners and arms in Cork and Belfast, and parading all
over the place!"

"Is--that--so!"

"You bet it's so! The way to make England sick is to stick her in the
back, not make faces at her across the Irish Channel. If your friends
in the Clan-na-Gael, and your poets and professors who call themselves
Sinn Feiners, will quit their childish circus playing and trust us,
we'll show you how to make the Lion yowl."

"Ah, bombs an' fires an' shtrikes is all right, too. An' proppygandy
is fine as far as it goes. But the Clan-na-Gael is all afire f'r to
start the shindy in Ireland----"

"You start it," interrupted Lehr, "before you're really ready, and
you'll see where it lands the Clan-na-Gael and the Sinn Fein! I tell
you to leave it to Berlin!"

"An' I tell ye lave it to the Clan-na-Gael!" retorted Soane,
excitedly. "Musha----"

"For why you yell?" yawned Freund, displaying a very yellow fang. "Dot
big secret service slob, he iss in the bar hinunter. Perhaps he hear
you if like a pig you push forth cries."

Lehr raised his eyebrows; then, carelessly:

"He's only a State agent. Johnny Klein is keeping an eye on him. What
does that big piece of cheese expect to get by hanging out in my
bar?"

Freund yawned again, appallingly; Soane said:

"I wonder is that purty Frinch girrl agin us Irish?"

"What does she care about the Irish?" replied Lehr. "Her danger to us
lies in the fact that she may blab about Ferez to some Frenchman, and
that he may believe her in spite of all the proof they have in Paris
against her. Max," he added, turning to Freund, "it's funny that Ferez
doesn't do something to her."

"I haff no orders."

"Maybe you'll get 'em when Ferez reads that letter. He's certainly
not going to let that girl go about blabbing and writing letters----"

Soane struck the table with doubled fist:

"Ye'll do no vi'lence to anny wan!" he cut in. "The Sinn Fein will
shtand for no dirrty wurruk in America! Av you set fires an' blow up
plants, an' kidnap ladies, an' do murther, g'wan, ye Dootch
scuts!--it's your business, God help us!--not ours.

"All we axe of ye is machine-goons, an' rifles, an' ships to land
them; an' av ye don't like it, phway th' divil d'ye come botherin' th'
likes of us Irish wid y'r proppygandy! Sorra the day," he added, "I
tuk up wid anny Dootchman at all at all----"

Lehr and Freund exchanged expressionless glances. The former dropped a
propitiating hand on Soane's shoulder.

"Can it," he said good-humouredly. "We're trying to help you Irish to
what you want. You want Irish independence, don't you? All right.
We're going to help you get it----"

A bell rang; Lehr sprang to his feet and hastened out through the iron
door, drawing his black-jack from his hip pocket as he went.

He returned in a few moments, followed by a very good-looking but
pallid man in rather careless evening dress, who had the dark eyes of
a dreamer and the delicate features of a youthful acolyte.

He saluted the company with a peculiarly graceful gesture, which
recognition even the gross creatures at the skat table returned with
visible respect.

Soane, always deeply impressed by the presence of Murtagh Skeel,
offered his chair and drew another one to the table.

Skeel accepted with a gently preoccupied smile, and seated himself
gracefully. All that is chivalrous, romantic, courteous, and brave in
an Irishman seemed to be visibly embodied in this pale man.

"I have just come," he said, "from a dinner at Sherry's. A common
hatred of England brought together the dozen odd men with whom I have
been in conference. Ferez Bey was there, the military attachés of the
German, Austrian, and Turkish embassies, one or two bankers, officials
of certain steamship lines, and a United States senator."

He sipped a glass of plain water which Lehr had brought him, thanked
him, then turning from Soane to Lehr:

"To get arms and munitions into Ireland in substantial quantities
requires something besides the U-boats which Germany seems willing to
offer.

"That was fully discussed to-night. Not that I have any doubt at all
that Sir Roger will do his part skilfully and fearlessly----"

"He will that!" exclaimed Soane, "God bless him!"

"Amen, Soane," said Murtagh Skeel, with a wistful and involuntary
upward glance from his dark eyes. Then he laid his hand of an
aristocrat on Soane's shoulder. "What I came here to tell you is this:
I want a ship's crew."

"Sorr?"

"I want a crew ready to mutiny at a signal from me and take over their
own ship on the high seas."

"Their own ship, sorr?"

"Their own ship. That is what has been decided. The ship to be
selected will be a fast steamer loaded with arms and munitions for the
British Government. The Sinn Fein and the Clan-na-Gael, between them,
are to assemble the crew. I shall be one of that crew. Through
powerful friends, enemies to England, it will be made possible to
sign such a crew and put it aboard the steamer to be seized.

"Her officers will, of course, be British. And I am afraid there may
be a gun crew aboard. But that is nothing. We shall take her over when
the time comes--probably off the Irish coast at night. Now, Soane, and
you, Lehr, I want you to help recruit a picked crew, all Irish, all
Sinn Feiners or members of the Clan-na-Gael.

"You know the sort. Absolutely reliable, fearless, and skilled men
devoted soul and body to the cause for which we all would so
cheerfully die.... Will you do it?"

There was a silence. Soane moistened his lips reflectively. Lehr,
intelligent, profoundly interested, kept his keen, pleasant eyes on
Murtagh Skeel. Only the droning electric fans, the rattle of a
newspaper, the slap of greasy cards at the skat table, the slobbering
gulp of some Teuton, guzzling beer, interrupted the sweltering quiet
of the room.

"Misther Murtagh, sorr," said Soane with a light, careless laugh,
"I've wan recruit f'r to bring ye."

"Who is he?"

"Sure, it's meself, sorr--av ye'll sign the likes o' me."

"Thanks; of course," said Skeel, with one of his rare smiles, and
taking Soane's hand in comradeship.

"I'll go," said Lehr, coolly; "but my name won't do. Call me Grogan,
if you like, and I'll sign with you, Mr. Skeel."

Skeel pressed the offered hand:

"A splendid beginning," he said. "I wanted you both. Now, see what you
can do in the Sinn Fein and Clan-na-Gael for a crew which, please God,
we shall require very soon!"




XIII

A MIDNIGHT TÊTE-À-TÊTE


When Dulcie had entered the studio that evening, her white face
smeared with blood and a torn letter clutched in her hand, the
gramophone was playing a lively two-step, and Barres and Thessalie
Dunois were dancing there in the big, brilliantly lighted studio, all
by themselves.

Thessalie caught sight of Dulcie over Barres's shoulder, hastily
slipped out of his arms, and hurried across the polished floor.

"What is the matter?" she asked breathlessly, a fearful intuition
already enlightening her as her startled glance travelled from the
blood on Dulcie's face to the torn fragments of paper in her rigidly
doubled fingers.

Barres, coming up at the same moment, slipped a firm arm around
Dulcie's shoulders.

"Are you badly hurt, dear? What has happened?" he asked very quietly.

She looked up at him, mute, her bruised mouth quivering, and held out
the remains of the letter. And Thessalie Dunois caught her breath
sharply as her eyes fell on the bits of paper covered with her own
handwriting.

"There was a man hiding in the court," said Dulcie. "He wore a white
cloth over his face and he came up behind me and tried to snatch your
letter out of my hand; but I held fast and he only tore it in two."

Barres stared at the sheaf of torn paper, lying crumpled up in his
open hand, then his amazed gaze rested on Thessalie:

"Is this the letter you wrote to me?" he inquired.

"Yes. May I have the remains of my letter?" she asked calmly.

He handed over the bits of paper without a word, and she opened her
gold-mesh bag and dropped them in.

There was a moment's silence, then Barres said:

"Did he strike you, Dulcie?"

"Yes, when he thought he couldn't get away from me."

"You hung on to him?"

"I tried to."

Thessalie stepped closer, impulsively, and framed Dulcie's pallid,
blood-smeared face in both of her cool, white hands.

"He has cut your lower lip inside," she said. And, to Barres: "Could
you get something to bathe it?"

Barres went away to his own room. When he returned with a finger-bowl
full of warm water, some powdered boric acid, cotton, and a soft
towel, Dulcie was lying deep in an armchair, her lids closed; and
Thessalie sat beside her on one of the padded arms, smoothing the
ruddy, curly hair from her forehead.

She opened her eyes when Barres appeared, giving him a clear but
inscrutable look. Thessalie gently washed the traces of battle from
her face, then rinsed her lacerated mouth very tenderly.

"It is just a little cut," she said. "Your lip is a trifle swelled."

"It is nothing," murmured Dulcie.

"Do you feel all right?" inquired Barres anxiously.

"I feel sleepy." She sat erect, always with her grey eyes on Barres.
"I think I will go to bed." She stood up, conscious, now, of her
shabby clothes and slippers; and there was a painful flush on her face
as she thanked Thessalie and bade her a confused good-night.

But Thessalie took the girl's hand and retained it.

"Please don't say anything about what happened," she said. "May I ask
it of you as a very great favour?"

Dulcie turned her eyes on Barres in silent appeal for guidance.

"Do you mind not saying anything about this affair," he asked, "as
long as Miss Dunois wishes it?"

"Should I not tell my father?"

"Not even to him," replied Thessalie gently. "Because it won't ever
happen again. I am very certain of that. Will you trust my word?"

Again Dulcie looked at Barres, who nodded.

"I promise never to speak of it," she said in a low, serious voice.

Barres took her down stairs. At the desk she pointed out, at his
request, the scene of recent action. Little by little he discovered,
by questioning her, what a dogged battle she had fought there alone in
the whitewashed corridor.

"Why didn't you call for help?" he asked.

"I don't know.... I didn't think of it. And when he got away I was
dizzy from the blow."

At her bedroom door he took both her hands in his. The gas-jet was
still burning in her room. On the bed lay her pretty evening dress.

"I'm so glad," she remarked naïvely, "that I had on my old clothes."

He smiled, drew her to him, and lightly smoothed the thick, bright
hair from her brow.

"You know," he said, "I am becoming very fond of you, Dulcie. You're
such a splendid girl in every way.... We'll always remain firm
friends, won't we?"

"Yes."

"And in perplexity and trouble I want you to feel that you can always
come to me. Because--you do like me, don't you, Dulcie?"

For a moment or two she sustained his smiling, questioning gaze, then
laid her cheek lightly against his hands, which still held both of
hers imprisoned. And for one exquisite instant of spiritual surrender
her grey eyes closed. Then she straightened herself up; he released
her hands; she turned slowly and entered her room, closing the door
very gently behind her.

       *       *       *       *       *

In the studio above, Thessalie, still wearing her rose-coloured cloak,
sat awaiting him by the window.

He crossed the studio, dropped onto the lounge beside her, and lighted
a cigarette. Neither spoke for a few moments. Then he said:

"Thessa, don't you think you had better tell me something about this
ugly business which seems to involve you?"

"I can't, Garry."

"Why not?"

"Because I shall not take the risk of dragging you in."

"Who are these people who seem to be hounding you?"

"I can't tell you."

"You trust me, don't you?"

She nodded, her face partly averted:

"It isn't that. And I had meant to tell you something concerning this
matter--tell you just enough so that I might ask your advice. In fact,
that is what I wrote you in that letter--being rather scared and
desperate.... But half my letter to you has been stolen. The people
who stole it are clever enough to piece it out and fill in what is
missing----"

She turned impulsively and took his hands between her own. Her face
had grown quite white.

"How much harm have I done to you, Garry? Have I already involved you
by writing as much as I did write? I have been wondering.... I
couldn't bear to bring anything like that into your life----"

"Anything like what?" he asked bluntly. "Why don't you tell me,
Thessa?"

"No. It's too complicated--too terrible. There are elements in it that
would shock and disgust you.... And perhaps you would not believe
me----"

"Nonsense!"

"The Government of a great European Power does not believe me to be
honest!" she said very quietly. "Why should you?"

"Because I know you."

She smiled faintly:

"You're such a dear," she murmured. "But you talk like a boy. What do
you really know about me? We have met just three times in our entire
lives. Do any of those encounters really enlighten you? If you were a
business man in a responsible position, could you honestly vouch for
me?"

"Don't you credit me with common sense?" he insisted warmly.

She laughed:

"No, Garry, dear, not with very much. Even I have more than you, and
that is saying very little. We are inclined to be irresponsible, you
and I--inclined to take the world lightly, inclined to laugh, inclined
to tread the moonlit way! No, Garry, neither you nor I possess very
much of that worldly caution born of hardened wisdom and sharpened
wits."

She smiled almost tenderly at him and pressed his hands between her
own.

"If I had been worldly wise," she said, "I should never have danced my
way to America through summer moonlight with you. If I had been wiser
still, I should not now be an exile, my political guilt established,
myself marked for destruction by a great European Power the instant I
dare set foot on its soil."

"I supposed your trouble to be political," he nodded.

"Yes, it is." She sighed, looked at him with a weary little smile.
"But, Garry, I am not guilty of being what that nation believes me to
be."

"I am very sure of it," he said gravely.

"Yes, you would be. You'd believe in me anyway, even with the terrible
evidence against me.... I don't suppose you'd think me guilty if I
tell you that I am not--in spite of what they might say about
me--might prove, apparently."

She withdrew her hands, clasped them, her gaze lost in retrospection
for a few moments. Then, coming to herself with a gesture of infinite
weariness:

"There is no use, Garry. I should never be believed. There are those
who, base enough to entrap me, now are preparing to destroy me because
they are cowardly enough to be afraid of me while I am alive. Yes,
trapped, exiled, utterly discredited as I am to-day, they are still
afraid of me."

"Who are you, Thessa?" he asked, deeply disturbed.

"I am what you first saw me--a dancer, Garry, and nothing worse."

"It seems strange that a European Government should desire your
destruction," he said.

"If I really were what this Government believes me to be, it would not
seem strange to you."

She sat thinking, worrying her under lip with delicate white teeth;
then:

"Garry, do you believe that your country is going to be drawn into
this war?"

"I don't know what to think," he said bitterly. "The _Lusitania_ ought
to have meant war between us and Germany. Every brutal Teutonic
disregard of decency since then ought to have meant war--every unarmed
ship sunk by their U-boats, every outrage in America perpetrated by
their spies and agents ought to have meant war. I don't know how much
more this Administration will force us to endure--what further
flagrant insult Germany means to offer. They've answered the
President's last note by canning Von Tirpitz and promising,
conditionally, to sink no more unarmed ships without warning. But they
all are liars, the Huns. So that's the way matters stand, Thessa, and
I haven't the slightest idea of what is going to happen to my
humiliated country."

"Why does not your country prepare?" she asked.

"God knows why. Washington doesn't believe in it, I suppose."

"You should build ships," she said. "You should prepare plans for
calling out your young men."

He nodded indifferently:

"There was a preparedness parade. I marched in it. But it only
irritated Washington. Now, finally, the latest Mexican insult is
penetrating official stupidity, and we are mobilising our State
Guardsmen for service on the border. And that's about all we are
doing. We are making neither guns nor rifles; we are building no
ships; the increase in our regular army is of little account; some of
the most vital of the great national departments are presided over by
rogues, clowns, and fools--pacifists all!--stupid, dull, grotesque and
impotent. And you ask me what my country is going to do. And I tell
you that I don't know. For real Americans, Thessa, these last two
years have been years of shame. For we should have armed and mobilised
when the first rifle-shot cracked across the Belgian frontier at
Longwy; and we should have declared war when the first Hun set his
filthy hoof on Belgian soil.

"In our hearts we real Americans know it. But we had no leader--nobody
of faith, conviction, vision, action, to do what was the only thing to
do. No; we had only talkers to face the supreme crisis of the
world--only the shallow noise of words was heard in answer to God's
own summons warning all mankind that hell's deluge was at hand."

The intense bitterness of what he said had made her very grave. She
listened silently, intent on his every expression. And when he ended
with a gesture of hopelessness and disgust, she sat gazing at him out
of her lovely dark eyes, deep in reflection.

"Garry," she said at length, "do you know anything about the European
systems of intelligence?"

"No--only what I read in novels."

"Do you know that America, to-day, is fairly crawling with German
spies?"

"I suppose there are some here."

"There are a hundred thousand paid German spies within an hour's
journey of this city."

He looked up incredulously.

"Let me tell you," she said, "how it is arranged here. The German
Ambassador is the master spy in America. Under his immediate
supervision are the so-called diplomatic agents--the personnel of the
embassy and members of the consular service. These people do not
class themselves as agents or as spies; they are the directors of
spies and agents.

"Agents gather information from spies who perform the direct work of
investigating. Spies usually work alone and report, through local
agents, to consular or diplomatic agents. And these, in turn, report
to the Ambassador, who reports to Berlin.

"It is all directed from Berlin. The personal source of all German
espionage is the Kaiser. He is the supreme master spy."

"Where have you learned these things, Thessa?" he asked in a troubled
voice.

"I have learned, Garry."

"Are you--a spy?"

"No."

"Have you been?"

"No, Garry."

"Then how----"

"Don't ask me; just listen. There are men here in your city who are
here for no good purpose. I do not mean to say that merely because
they seek also to injure me--destroy me, perhaps,--God knows what they
wish to do to me!--but I say it because I believe that your country
will declare war on Germany some day very soon. And that you ought to
watch these spies who move everywhere among you!

"Germany also believes that war is near. And this is why she strives
to embroil your country with Japan and Mexico. That is why she
discredits you with Holland, with Sweden. It is why she instructs her
spies here to set fires in factories and on ships, blow up powder
mills and great industrial plants which are manufacturing munitions
for the Allies of the Triple Entente.

"America may doubt that there is to be war between her and Germany,
but Germany does not doubt it.

"Let me tell you what else Germany is doing. She is spreading
insidious propaganda through a million disloyal Germans and pacifist
Americans, striving to poison the minds of your people against
England. She secretly buys, owns, controls newspapers which are used
as vehicles for that propaganda.

"She is debauching the Irish here who are discontented with England's
rule; she spends vast sums of money in teaching treachery in your
schools, in arousing suspicion among farmers, in subsidising
mercantile firms.

"Garry, I tell you that a Hun is always a Hun; a Boche is always a
Boche, call him what else you will.

"The Germans are the monkeys of the world; they have imitated the
human race. But, Garry, they are still what they always have been at
heart, barbarians who have no business in Europe.

"In their hearts--and for all their priests and clergymen and
cathedrals and churches--they still believe in their old gods which
they themselves created--fierce, bestial supermen, more cruel, more
powerful, more treacherous, more beastly than they themselves.

"That is the German. That is the Hun under all his disguises. No white
man can meet him on his own ground; no white man can understand him,
appeal to anything in common between himself and the Boche. He is
brutal and contemptuous to women; he is tyrannical to the weak,
cringing to the strong, fundamentally bestial, utterly selfish,
intolerant of any civilisation which is not his conception of
civilisation--his monkey-like conception of Christ--whom, in his pagan
soul, he secretly sneers at--not always secretly, now!"

She straightened up with a quick little gesture of contempt. Her face
was brightly flushed; her eyes brilliant with scorn.

"Garry, has not America heard enough of 'the good German,' the 'kindly
Teuton,' the harmless, sentimental and 'excellent citizen,' whose
morally edifying origin as a model emigrant came out of his own sly
mouth, and who has, by his own propaganda alone, become an accepted
type of good-natured thrift and erudition in your Republic?

"Let me say to you what a French girl thinks! A hundred years ago you
were a very small nation, but you were homogeneous and the average of
culture was far higher in America then than it is at present. For now,
your people's cultivation and civilisation is diluted by the ignorance
of millions of foreigners to whom you have given hospitality. And, of
these, the Germans have done you the most deadly injury, vulgarising
public taste in art and literature, affronting your clean, sane
intelligence by the new decadence and perversion in music, in
painting, in illustration, in fiction.

"Whatever the normal Hun touches he vulgarises; whatever the decadent
Boche touches he soils and degrades and transforms into a horrible
abomination. This he has done under your eyes in art, in literature,
in architecture, in modern German music.

"His filthy touch is even on your domestic life--this Barbarian who
feeds grossly, whose personal habits are a by-word among civilised and
cultured people, whose raw ferocity is being now revealed to the world
day by day in Europe, whose proverbial clumsiness and stupidity have
long furnished your stage with its oafs and clowns.

"This is the thing that is now also invading you with thousands of
spies, betraying you with millions of traitors, and which will one
day turn on you and tear you and trample you like an enraged hog,
unless you and your people awake to what is passing in the world you
live in!"

She was on her feet now, flushed, lovely, superb in her deep and
controlled excitement.

"I'll tell you this much," she said. "It is Germany that wishes my
destruction. Germany trapped me; Germany would have destroyed me in
the trap had I not escaped. Now, Germany is afraid of me, knowing what
I know. And her agents follow me, spy on me, thwart me, prevent me
from earning my living, until I--I can scarcely endure it--this
hounding and persecution----" Her voice broke; she waited to control
it:

"I am not a spy. I never was one. I never betrayed a human soul--no,
nor any living thing that ever trusted me! These people who hound me
know that I am not guilty of that for which another Government is
ready to try me--and condemn me. They fear that I shall prove to this
other Government my innocence. I can't. But they fear I can. And the
Hun is afraid of me. Because, if I ever proved my innocence, it would
involve the arrest and trial and certain execution of men high in rank
in the capital of this other country. So--the Hun dogs me everywhere I
go. I do not know why he does not try to kill me. Possibly he lacks
courage, so far. Possibly he has not had any good opportunity, because
I am very careful, Garry."

"But this--this is outrageous!" broke out Barres. "You can't stand
this sort of thing, Thessa! It's a matter for the police----"

"Don't interfere!"

"But----"

"Don't interfere! The last thing I want is publicity. The last thing I
wish for is that your city, state, or national government should
notice me at all or have any curiosity concerning me or any idea of
investigating my affairs."

"Why?"

"Because, although as soon as your country is at war with Germany, my
danger from Germany ceases, on the other hand another very deadly
danger begins at once to threaten me."

"What danger?"

"It will come from a country with which your country will be allied.
And I shall be arrested here as a _German_ spy, and I shall be sent
back to the country which I am supposed to have betrayed. And there
nothing in the world could save me."

"You mean--court-martial?"

"A brief one, Garry. And then the end."

"Death?"

She nodded.

After a few moments she moved toward the door. He went with her,
picking up his hat.

"I can't let you go with me," she said with a faint smile.

"Why not?"

"You are involved sufficiently already."

"What do I care for----"

"Hush, Garry. Do you wish to displease me?"

"No, but I----"

"Please! Call me a taxicab. I wish to go back alone."

In spite of argument she remained smilingly firm. Finally he rang up a
taxi for her. When it signalled he walked down stairs, through the dim
hall and out to the grilled gateway beside her.

"Good-bye," she said, giving her hand. He detained it:

"I can't bear to have you go alone----"

"I'm perfectly safe, mon ami. I've had a delightful time at your
party--really I have. This affair of the letter does not spoil it. I'm
accustomed to similar episodes. So now, good-night."

"Am I to see you again soon?"

"Soon? Ah, I can't tell you that, Garry."

"When it is convenient then?"

"Yes."

"And will you telephone me on your safe arrival home to-night?"

She laughed:

"If you wish. You're so sweet to me, Garry. You always have been.
Don't worry about me. I am not in the least apprehensive. You see I'm
rather a clever girl, and I know something about the Boche."

"You had your letter stolen."

"Only half of it!" she retorted gaily. "She is a gallant little thing,
your friend Dulcie. Please give her my love. As for your other
friends, they were amusing.... Mr. Mandel spoke to me about an
engagement."

"Why don't you consider it? Corot Mandel is the most important
producer in New York."

"Is he, really? Well, if I'm not interfered with perhaps I shall go to
call on Mr. Mandel." She began to laugh mischievously to herself:
"There was one man there who never gave me a moment's peace until I
promised to lunch with him at the Ritz."

"Who the devil----"

"Mr. Westmore," she said demurely.

"Oh, Jim Westmore! Well, Thessa, he's a corker. He's really a
splendid fellow, but look out for him! He's also a philanderer."

"Oh, dear. I thought he was just a sculptor and a rather strenuous
young man."

"I wasn't knocking him," said Barres, laughing, "but he falls in love
with every pretty woman he meets. I'm merely warning you."

"Thank you, Garry," she smiled. She gave him her hand again, pulled
the rose-coloured cloak around her bare shoulders, ran across the
sidewalk to the taxi, and whispered to the driver.

"You'll telephone me when you get home?" he reminded her, baffled but
smiling.

She laughed and nodded. The cab wheeled out into the street, backed,
turned, and sped away eastward.

       *       *       *       *       *

Half an hour later his telephone rang:

"Garry, dear?"

"Is it you, Thessa?"

"Yes. I'm going to bed.... Tell Mr. Westmore that I'm not at all sure
I shall meet him at the Ritz on Monday."

"He'll go, anyway."

"Will he? What devotion. What faith in woman! What a lively capacity
for hope eternal! What vanity! Well, then, tell him he may take his
chances."

"I'll tell him. But I think you might make a date with me, too, you
little fraud!"

"Maybe I will. Maybe I'll drop in to see you unexpectedly some
morning. And don't let me catch _you_ philandering in your studio with
some pretty woman!"

"No fear, Thessa."

"I'm not at all sure. And your little model, Dulcie, is dangerously
attractive."

"Piffle! She's a kid!"

"Don't be too sure of that, either! And tell Mr. Westmore that I _may_
keep my engagement. And then again I may not! Good-night, Garry,
dear!"

"Good-night!"

       *       *       *       *       *

Walking slowly back to extinguish the lights in the studio before
retiring to his own room for the night, Barres noticed a piece of
paper on the table under the lamp, evidently a fragment from the torn
letter.

The words "Ferez Bey" and "Murtagh" caught his eye before he realised
that it was not his business to decipher the fragment.

So he lighted a match, held the shred of letter paper to the flame,
and let it burn between his fingers until only a blackened cinder fell
to the floor.

But the two names were irrevocably impressed on his mind, and he found
himself wondering who these men might be, as he stood by his bed,
undressing.




XIV

PROBLEMS


The weather was turning hot in New York, and by the middle of the week
the city sweltered.

Barres, dropping his brushes and laying aside a dozen pictures in all
stages of incompletion; and being, otherwise, deeply bitten by the
dangerously enchanting art of Manship--dangerous as inspiration but
enchanting to gaze upon--was very busy making out of wax a diminutive
figure of the running Arethusa.

And Dulcie, poor child, what with being poised on the ball of one
little foot and with the other leg slung up in a padded loop, almost
perished. Perspiration spangled her body like dew powdering a rose;
sweat glistened on the features and shoulder-bared arms of the
impassioned sculptor, even blinding him at times; but he worked on in
a sort of furious exaltation, reeking of ill-smelling wax. And Dulcie,
perfectly willing to die at her post, thought she was going to, and
finally fainted away with an alarming thud.

Which brought Barres to his senses, even before she had recovered
hers; and he proclaimed a vacation for his overworked Muse and his
model, too.

"Do you feel better, Sweetness?" he enquired, as she opened her eyes
when Selinda exchanged a wet compress for an ice-bag.

Dulcie, flat on the lounge, swathed in a crash bathrobe, replied only
by a slight but reassuring flutter of one hand.

Esmé Trenor sauntered in for a gossip, wearing his celebrated
lilac-velvet jacket and Louis XV slippers.

"Oh, the devil," he drawled, looking from Dulcie to the Arethusa;
"she's worth more than your amateurish statuette, Garry."

"You bet she is. And here's where her vacation begins."

Esmé turned to Dulcie, lifting his eyebrows:

"You go away with him?"

The idea had never before entered Barres's head. But he said:

"Certainly; we both need the country for a few weeks."

"You'll go to one of those damned artists' colonies, I suppose,"
remarked Esmé; "otherwise, washed and unwashed would expel shrill
cries."

"Probably not in my own home," returned Barres, coolly. "I shall write
my family about it to-day."

Corot Mandel dropped in, also, that morning--he and Esmé were ever
prowling uneasily around Dulcie in these days--and he studied the
Arethusa through a foggy monocle, and he loitered about Dulcie's
couch.

"You know," he said to Barres, "there's nothing like dancing to
recuperate from all this metropolitan pandemonium. If you like, I can
let Dulcie in on that thing I'm putting on at Northbrook."

"That's up to her," said Barres. "It's her vacation, and she can do
what she likes with it----"

Esmé interposed with characteristic impudence:

"Barres imitates Manship with impunity; I'd like to have a plagiaristic
try at Sorolla and Zuloaga, if Dulcie says the word. Very agreeable job
for a girl in hot weather," he added, looking at Dulcie, "--an easy
swimming pose in some nice cool little Adirondack lake----"

"Seriously," interrupted Mandel, twirling his monocle impatiently by
its greasy string, "I mean it, Barres." He turned and looked at the
lithely speeding Arethusa. "If that is Dulcie, I can give her a good
part in----"

"You hear, Dulcie?" enquired Barres. "These two kind gentlemen have
what they consider attractive jobs for you. All I can offer you is
liberty to tumble around the hayfields at Foreland Farms, with my
sketching easel in the middle distance. Now, choose your job,
Sweetness."

"The hayfields and----"

Dulcie's voice faded to a whisper; Barres, seated beside her, leaned
nearer, bending his head to listen.

"And _you_," she murmured again, "--if you want me."

"I always want you," he whispered laughingly, in return.

Esmé regarded the scene with weariness and chagrin.

"Come on," he said languidly to Mandel, "we'll buy her some flowers
for the evil she does us. She'll need 'em; she'll be finished before
this amateur sculptor finishes his blooming Arethusa."

Mandel lingered:

"I'm going up to Northbrook in a day or two, Barres. If you
change--change Dulcie's mind for her, just call me up at the Adolf
Gerhardt's."

"Dulcie will call you up if she changes my mind."

Dulcie laughed.

When they had gone, Barres said:

"You know I haven't thought about the summer. What was your idea about
it?"

"My--idea?"

"Yes. You'd want a couple of weeks in the country somewhere, wouldn't
you?"

"I don't know. I never went away," she replied vaguely.

It occurred to him, now, that for all his pleasant toleration of
Soane's little daughter during the two years and more of his residence
in Dragon Court, he had never really interested himself in her
well-being, never thought to enquire about anything which might really
concern her. He had taken it for granted that most people have some
change from the stifling, grinding, endless routine of their
lives--some respite, some quiet interval for recovery and rest.

And so, returning from his own vacations, it never occurred to him
that the shy girl whom he permitted within his precincts, when
convenient, never knew any other break in the grey monotony--never
left the dusty, soiled, and superheated city from one year's summer to
another.

Now, for the first time, he realised it.

"We'll go up there," he said. "My family is accustomed to models I
bring there for my summer work. You'll be very comfortable, and you'll
feel quite at home. We live very simply at Foreland Farms. Everybody
will be kind and nobody will bother you, and you can do exactly as you
please, because we all do that at Foreland Farms. Will you come when
I'm ready to go up?"

She gave him a sweet, confused glance from her grey eyes.

"Do you think your family would mind?"

"Mind?" He smiled. "We never interfere with one another's affairs.
It's not like many families, I fancy. We take it for granted that
nobody in the family could do anything not entirely right. So we take
that for granted and it's a jolly sensible arrangement."

She turned her face on the pillow presently; the ice-bag slid off;
she sat up in her bathrobe, stretched her arms, smiled faintly:

"Shall I try again?" she asked.

"Oh, Lord!" he said, "_would_ you? Upon my word, I believe you would!
No more posing to-day! I'm not a murderer. Lie there until you're
ready to dress, and then ring for Selinda."

"Don't you want me?"

"Yes, but I want you alive, not dead! Anyway, I've got to talk to
Westmore this morning, so you may be as lazy as you like--lounge
about, read----" He went over to her, patted her cheek in the smiling,
absent-minded way he had with her: "Tell me, ducky, how are you
feeling, anyway?"

It confused her dreadfully to blush when he touched her, but she
always did; and she turned her face away now, saying that she was
quite all right again.

Preoccupied with his own thoughts, he nodded:

"That's fine," he said. "Now, trot along to Selinda, and when you're
fixed up you can have the run of the place to yourself."

"Could I have my slippers?" She was very shy even about her bare feet
when she was not actually posing.

He found her slippers for her, laid them beside the lounge, and
strolled away. Westmore rang a moment later, but when he blew in like
a noisy breeze Dulcie had disappeared.

"My little model toppled over," said Barres, taking his visitor's
outstretched hand and wincing under the grip. "I shall cut out work
while this weather lasts."

Westmore turned toward the Arethusa, laughed at the visible influence
of Manship.

"All the same, Garry," he said, "there's a lot in your running nymph.
It's nice; it's knowing."

"That is pleasant to hear from a sculptor."

"Sculptor? Sometimes I feel like a sculpin--prickly heat, you know."
He laughed heartily at his own witticism, slapped Barres on the
shoulder, lighted a pipe, and flung himself on the couch recently
vacated by Dulcie.

"This damned war," he said, "takes the native gaiety out of a
man--takes the laughter out of life. Over two years of it now, Garry;
and it's as though the sun is slowly growing dimmer every day."

"I know," nodded Barres.

"Sure you feel it. Everybody does. By God, I have periods of sickness
when the illustrated London periodicals arrive, and I see those dead
men pictured there--such fine, clean fellows--our own kind--half of
them just kids!--well, it hurts me to look at them, and, for the sheer
pain of it, I'm always inclined to shirk and turn that page quickly.
But I say to myself, 'Jim, they're dead fighting Christ's own battle,
and the least you can do is to read their names and ages, and look
upon their faces.'... And I do it."

"So do I," nodded Barres, sombrely gazing at the carpet.

After a silence, Westmore said:

"Well, the Boche has taken his medicine and canned Tirpitz--the wild
swine that he is. So I don't suppose we'll get mixed up in it."

"The Hun is a great liar," remarked Barres. "There's no telling."

"Are you going to Plattsburg again this year?" enquired Westmore.

"I don't know. Are you?"

"In the autumn, perhaps.... Garry, it's discouraging. Do you realise
what a gigantic task we have ahead of us if the Hun ever succeeds in
kicking us into this war? And what a gigantic mess we've made of two
years' inactivity?"

Barres, pondering, scowled at his own thoughts.

"And now," continued the other, "the Guard is off to the border, and
here we are, stripped clean, with the city lousy with Germans and
every species of Hun deviltry hatching out fires and explosions and
disloyal propaganda from the Atlantic to the Pacific, from the Lakes
to the Gulf!

"A fine mess!--no troops, nothing to arm them with, no modern
artillery, no preparations; the Boche growing more insolent, more
murderous, but slyer; a row on with Mexico, another brewing with
Japan, all Europe and Great Britain regarding us with contempt--I ask
you, can you beat it, Garry? Are there any lower depths for us?--any
sub-cellars of iniquity into which we can tumble, like the basket of
jelly-fish we seem to be!"

"It's a nightmare," said Barres. "Since Liège and the _Lusitania_,
it's been a bad dream getting worse. We'll have to wake, you know. If
we don't, we're of no more substance than the dream itself:--we _are_
the dream, and we'll end like one."

"I'm going to wait a bit longer," said Westmore restlessly, "and if
there's nothing doing, it's me for the other side."

"For me, too, Jim."

"Is it a bargain?"

"Certainly.... I'd rather go under my own flag, of course.... We'll
see how this Boche backdown turns out. I don't think it will last. I
believe the Huns have been stirring up the Mexicans. It wouldn't
surprise me if they were at the bottom of the Japanese menace. But
what angers me is to think that we have received with innocent
hospitality these hundreds of thousands of Huns in America, and that
now, all over the land, this vast, acclimated nest of snakes rises
hissing at us, menacing us with their filthy fangs!"

"Thank God our police is still half Irish," growled Westmore, puffing
at his pipe. "These dirty swine might try to rush the city if war
comes while the Guard is away."

"They're doing enough damage as it is," said Barres, "with their
traitorous press, their pacifists, their agents everywhere inciting
labour to strike, teaching disorganisation, combining commercially,
directing blackmail, bomb outrages, incendiaries, and infesting the
Republic with a plague of spies----"

The studio bell rang sharply. Barres, who stood near the door, opened
it.

"Thessa!" he exclaimed, astonished and delighted.




XV

BLACKMAIL


She came in swiftly, stirring the sultry stillness of the studio with
a little breeze from her gown, faintly fragrant.

"Garry, dear!--" She gave him both her hands and looked at him; and he
saw the pink tint of excitement in her cheeks and her dark eyes
brilliant.

"Thessa, this is charming of you----"

"No! I came----" She cast a swift glance around her, beheld Westmore,
gave him one hand as he came forward.

"How do you do?" she said, almost breathlessly, plainly controlling
some inward excitement.

But Westmore retained her hand and laid the other over it.

"You _said_ you'd come to the Ritz----"

"I'm sorry.... I have been--bothered--with matters--affairs----"

"You are bothered now," he said. "If you have something to say to
Garry, I'll go about my business.... Only I'm sorry it's not your
business, too."

He released her hand and reached for the door-knob: her dark eyes were
resting on him with a strained, intent expression. On impulse she
thrust out her arm and closed the door, which he had begun to open.

"Please--Mr. Westmore.... I do want to see you. I'm trying to think
clearly--" She turned and looked at Barres.

"Is it serious?" he said in a low voice.

"I--suppose so.... Garry, I wish to--to come here ... and stay."

"What!"

She nodded.

"Is it all right?"

"All right," he replied pleasantly, bewildered and almost inclined to
laugh.

She said in a low, tense voice.

"I'm really in trouble, Garry. I told you once that the word was not
in my vocabulary.... I've had to include it."

"I'm so sorry! Tell me all about----"

He checked himself: she turned to Westmore--a deeper flush came into
her cheeks--then she said gravely:

"I scarcely know Mr. Westmore, but if he is like you, Garry--your
sort--perhaps he----"

"He'd do anything for you, Thessa, if you'll let him. Have you
confidence in me?"

"You know I have."

"Then you can have the same confidence in Jim. I suggest it because I
have a hazy idea what your trouble is. And if you came to ask advice,
then I think that you'll get double value if you include Jim Westmore
in your confidence."

She stood silent and with heightened colour for a moment, then her
expression became humorous, and, partly turning, she put out her
gloved hand behind her and took hold of Westmore's sleeve. It was at
once an appeal and an impulsive admission of her confidence in this
young man whom she had liked from the beginning, and who must be
trustworthy because he was the friend of Garret Barres.

"I'm scared half to death," she remarked, without a quaver in her
voice, but her smile had now become forced, and a quick, uneven little
sigh escaped her as she passed her arms through Barres' and
Westmore's, and, moving across the carpet between them, suffered
herself to be installed among the Chinese cushions upon the lounge by
the open window.

In her distractingly pretty summer hat and gown, and with her white
gloves and gold-mesh purse in her lap--her fresh, engaging face and
daintily rounded figure--Thessalie Dunois seemed no more mature, no
more experienced in worldly wisdom, than the charming young girls one
passes on Fifth Avenue on a golden morning in early spring.

But Westmore, looking into her dark eyes, divined, perhaps, something
less inexperienced, less happy in their lovely, haunted depths. And,
troubled by he knew not what, he waited in silence for her to speak.

Barres said to her:

"You are being annoyed, Thessa, dear. I gather that much from what has
already happened. Can Jim and I do anything?"

"I don't know.... It's come to a point where I--I'm afraid--to be
alone."

Her gaze fell; she sat brooding for a few moments, then, with a quick
intake of breath:

"It humiliates me to come to you. Would you believe that of me, Garry,
that it has come to a point where I am actually afraid to be alone? I
thought I had plenty of what the world calls courage."

"You have!"

"I _had_. I don't know what's become of it--what has happened to
me.... I don't want to tell you more than I have to----"

"Tell us as much as you think necessary," said Barres, watching her.

"Thank you.... Well, then, some years ago I earned the enmity of a
man. And, through him, a European Government blacklisted me. It was a
terrible thing. I did not fully appreciate what it meant at the time."
She turned to Westmore in her pretty, impulsive way: "This European
Government, of which I speak, believes me to be the agent of another
foreign government--believes that I betrayed its interests. This man
whom I offended, to punish me and to cover his own treachery,
furnished evidence which would have convicted me of treachery and
espionage."

The excited colour began to dye her cheeks again; she stretched out
one arm in appeal to Westmore:

"Please believe me! I am no spy. I never was. I was too young, too
stupid, too innocent in such matters to know what this man was
about--that he had very cleverly implicated me in this abhorrent
matter. Do you believe me, Mr. Westmore?"

"Of course I do!" he said with a fervour not, perhaps, necessary. "If
you'll be kind enough to point out that gentleman----"

"Wait, Jim," interposed Barres, nodding to Thessalie to proceed.

She had been looking at Westmore, apparently much interested in his
ardour, but she came to herself when Barres interrupted, and sat
silent again as though searching her mind concerning what further she
might say. Slowly the forced smile curved her lips again. She said:

"I don't know just what that enraged European Government might have
done to me had I been arrested, because I ran away ... and came
here.... But the man whom I offended discovered where I was and never
for a day even have his agents ceased to watch me, annoy me----"

There was a quick break in her voice; she set her lips in silence
until the moment's emotion had passed, then, turning to Westmore with
winning dignity: "I am a dancer and singer--an entertainer of sorts,
by profession. I----"

"Tell Westmore a little more, Thessa," said Barres.

"If you think it necessary."

"I'll tell him. Miss Dunois was the most celebrated entertainer in
Europe when this happened. Since she came here the man she has
mentioned has, somehow, managed to interfere and spoil every business
arrangement which she has attempted." He looked at Thessa. "I don't
know whether, if Thessalie had cared to use the name under which she
was known all over Europe----"

"I didn't dare, Garry. I thought that, if some manager would only give
me a chance I could make a new name for myself. But wherever I went I
was dogged, and every arrangement was spoiled.... I had my jewels....
You remember some of them, Garry. I gave those away--I think I told
you why. _But_ I had other jewels--unset diamonds given to my mother
by Prince Haledine. Well, I sold them and invested the money.... And
my income is all I have--quite a tiny income, Mr. Westmore, but
enough. Only I could have done very well here, I think, if I had not
been interfered with."

"Thessa," said Barres, "why not tell us both a little more? We're
devoted to you."

The girl lifted her dark eyes, and unconsciously they were turned to
Westmore. And in that young man's vigorous, virile personality perhaps
she recognised something refreshing, subtlely compelling, for, still
looking at him, she began to speak quite naturally of things which
had long been locked within her lonely heart:

"I was scarcely more than a child when General Count Klingenkampf
killed my father. The Grand Duke Cyril hushed it up.

"I had several thousand roubles. I had--trouble with the Grand
Duke.... He annoyed me ... as some men annoy a woman.... And when I
put him in his place he insulted the memory of my mother because she
was a Georgian.... I slapped his face with a whip.... And then I had
to run away."

She drew a quick, uneven breath, smiling at Westmore from whose intent
gaze her own dark eyes never wandered.

"My father had been a French officer before he took service in
Russia," she said. "I was educated in Alsace and then in England. Then
my father sent for me and I returned to St. Peters--I mean Petrograd.
And because I loved dancing my father obtained permission for me to
study at the Imperial school. Also, I had it in me to sing, and I had
excellent instruction.

"And because I did such things in my own way, sometimes my father
permitted me to entertain at the gay gatherings patronised by the
Grand Duke Cyril."

She smiled in reminiscence, and her gaze became remote for a moment.
Then, coming back, she lifted her eyes once more to Westmore's:

"I ran away from Cyril and went to Constantinople, where Von-der-Goltz
Pasha and others whom I had met at the Grand Duke's parties, when
little more than a child, were stationed. I entertained at the German
Embassy, and at the Yildiz Palace.... I was successful. And my success
brought me opportunities--of the wrong kind. Do you understand?"

Westmore nodded.

"So," she continued, with a slight movement of disdain, "I didn't
quite see how I was to get to Paris all alone and begin a serious
career. And one evening I entertained at the German Embassy--tell me,
do you know Constantinople?"

"No."

"Well, it is nothing except a vast mass of gossip and intrigue. One
breakfasts on rumours, lunches on secrets, and dines on scandals. And
my maid told me enough that day to make certain matters quite clear to
me.

"And so I entertained at the Embassy.... Afterward it was no surprise
when his Excellency whispered to me that an honest career was assured
me if I chose, and that I might be honestly launched in Paris without
paying the price which I would not pay.

"Later I was not surprised, either, when Ferez Bey, a friend of my
father, and a man I had known since childhood, presented me
to--to----" She glanced at Barres; he nodded; she concluded to name
the man: "--the Count d'Eblis, a Senator of France, and owner of the
newspaper called _Le Mot d'Ordre_."

After a silence she stole another glance at Barres; a smile hovered on
her lips. He, also, smiled; for he, too, was thinking of that moonlit
way they travelled together on a night in June so long ago.

Her glance asked:

"Is it necessary to tell Mr. Westmore this?"

He shook his head very slightly.

"Well," she went on, her eyes reverting again to Westmore, "the Count
d'Eblis, it appeared, had fallen in love with me at first sight.... In
the beginning he misunderstood me.... When he realised that I would
endure no nonsense from any man he proved to be sufficiently
infatuated with me to offer me marriage."

She shrugged:

"At that age one man resembled another to me. Marriage was a
convention, a desirable business arrangement. The Count was in a
position to launch me into a career. Careers begin in Paris. And I
knew enough to realise that a girl has to pay in one way or another
for such an opportunity. So I said that I would marry him if I came to
care enough for him. Which merely meant that if he were ordinarily
polite and considerate and companionable I would ultimately become his
wife.

"That was the arrangement. And it caused much trouble. Because I was
a--" she smiled at Barres, "--a success from the first moment. And
d'Eblis immediately began to be abominably jealous and unreasonable.
Again and again he broke his promise and tried to interfere with my
career. He annoyed me constantly by coming to my hotel at inopportune
moments; he made silly scenes if I ventured to have any friends or if
I spoke twice to the same man; he distrusted me--he and Ferez Bey, who
had taken service with him. Together they humiliated me, made my life
miserable by their distrust.

"I warned d'Eblis that his absurd jealousy and unkindness would not
advance him in my interest. And for a while he seemed to become
more reasonable. In fact, he apparently became sane again, and I had
even consented to our betrothal, when, by accident, I discovered
that he and Ferez were having me followed everywhere I went. And
that very night was to have been a gay one--a party in honour of our
betrothal--the night I discovered what he and Ferez had been doing
to me.

"I was so hurt, so incensed, that--" She cast an involuntary glance at
Barres; he made a slight movement of negation, and she concluded her
sentence calmly: "--I quarrelled with d'Eblis.... There was a very
dreadful scene. And it transpired that he had sold a preponderating
interest in _Le Mot d'Ordre_ to Ferez Bey, who was operating the paper
in German interests through orders directly from Berlin. And d'Eblis
thought I knew this and that I meant to threaten him, perhaps
blackmail him, to shield some mythical lover with whom, he declared, I
had become involved, and who was betraying him to the British
Ambassador."

She drew a deep, long breath:

"Is it necessary for me to say that there was not a particle of truth
in his hysterical accusations?--that I was utterly astounded? But my
amazement became anger and then sheer terror when I learned from his
own lips that he had cunningly involved me in his transactions with
Ferez and with Berlin. So cunningly, so cleverly, so seriously had he
managed to compromise me as a German agent that he had a mass of
evidence against me sufficient to have had me court-martialled and
shot had it been in time of war.

"To me the situation seemed hopeless. I never would be believed by the
French Government. Horror of arrest overwhelmed me. In a panic I took
my unset jewels and fled to Belgium. And then I came here."

She paused, trembling a little at the memory of it all. Then:

"The agents of d'Eblis and Ferez discovered me and have given me no
peace. I do not appeal to the police because that would stir up secret
agents of the French Government. But it has come now to a place
where--where I don't know what to do.... And so--being afraid at
last--I am here to--to ask--advice----"

She waited to control her voice, then opened her gold-mesh bag and
drew from it a letter.

"Three weeks ago I received this," she said. "I ignored it. Two weeks
ago, as I opened the door of my room to go out, a shot was fired at
me, and I heard somebody running down stairs.... I was badly scared.
But I went out and did my shopping, and then I went to the writing
room of a hotel and wrote to Garry.... Somebody watching me must have
seen me write it, because an attempt was made to steal the letter. A
man wearing a handkerchief over his face tried to snatch it out of the
hands of Dulcie Soane. But he got only half of the letter.

"And when I got home that same evening I found that my room had been
ransacked.... That was why I did not go to meet you at the Ritz; I was
too upset. Besides, I was busy moving my quarters.... But it was no
use. Last night I was awakened by hearing somebody working at the lock
of my bedroom. And I sat up till morning with a pistol in my hand....
And--I don't think I had better live entirely alone--until it is
safer. Do you, Garry?"

"I should think not!" said Westmore, turning red with anger.

"Did you wish us to see that letter?" asked Barres.

She handed it to him. It was typewritten; and he read it aloud,
leisurely and very distinctly, pausing now and then to give full
weight to some particularly significant and sinister sentence:

  "MADEMOISELLE:

  "For two years and more it has been repeatedly intimated to you
  that your presence in America is not desirable to certain people,
  except under certain conditions, which conditions you refuse to
  consider.

  "You have impudently ignored these intimations.

  "Now, you are beginning to meddle. Therefore, this warning is sent
  to you: _Mind your business and cease your meddling!_

  "Moreover, you are invited to leave the United States at your
  early convenience.

  "France, England, Russia, and Italy are closed to you. Without
  doubt you understand that. Also, doubtless you have no desire to
  venture into Germany, Austria, Bulgaria, or Turkey. Scandinavia
  remains open to you, and practically no other country except
  Spain, because we do not permit you to go to Mexico or to Central
  or South America. Do you comprehend? _We_ do not permit it.

  "Therefore, hold your tongue and control your _furor scribendi_
  while in New York. And make arrangements to take the next Danish
  steamer for Christiania.

  "This is a friendly warning. For if you are still here in the
  United States two weeks after you have received this letter, other
  measures will be taken in your regard which will effectually
  dispose of your troublesome presence.

  "The necessity which forces us to radical action in this affair is
  regrettable, but entirely your own fault.

  "You have, from time to time during the last two years, received
  from us overtures of an amicable nature. You have been approached
  with discretion and have been offered every necessary guarantee to
  cover an understanding with us.

  "You have treated our advances with frivolity and contempt. And
  what have you gained by your defiance?

  "Our patience and good nature has reached its limits. We shall ask
  nothing further of you; we deliver you our orders hereafter. And
  our orders are to leave New York immediately.

  "Yet, even now, at the eleventh hour, it may not be too late for
  us to come to some understanding if you change your attitude
  entirely and show a proper willingness to negotiate with us in all
  good faith.

  "But that must be accomplished within the two weeks' grace given
  you before you depart.

  "You know how to proceed. If you try to play us false you had
  better not have been born. If you deal honestly with us your
  troubles are over.

  "This is final.

  "THE WATCHER."




XVI

THE WATCHER


"The Watcher," repeated Barres, studying the typewritten signature for
a moment longer. Then he looked at Westmore: "What do you think of
that, Jim?"

Westmore, naturally short tempered, became very red, got to his feet,
and began striding about the studio as though some sudden blaze of
inward anger were driving him into violent motion.

"The thing to do," he said, "is to catch this 'Watcher' fellow and
beat him up. That's the way to deal with blackmailers--catch 'em and
beat 'em up--vermin of this sort--this blackmailing fraternity!--I
haven't anything to do; I'll take the job!"

"We'd better talk it over first," suggested Barres. "There seem to be
several ways of going about it. One way, of course, is to turn
detective and follow Thessa around town. And, as you say, spot any man
who dogs her and beat him up very thoroughly. That's your way, Jim.
But Thessa, unfortunately, doesn't desire to be featured, and you
can't go about beating up people in the streets of New York without
inviting publicity."

Westmore came back and stood near Thessalie, who looked up at him from
her seat on the Chinese couch with visible interest:

"Mr. Westmore?"

"Yes?"

"Garry is quite right about the way I feel. I don't want notoriety. I
can't afford it. It would mean stirring up every French Government
agent here in New York. And if America should ever declare war on
Germany and become an ally of France, then your own Secret Service
here would instantly arrest me and probably send me to France to stand
trial."

She bent her pretty head, adding in a quiet voice:

"Extradition would bring a very swift end to my career. With the lying
evidence against me and a Senator of France to corroborate it by
perjury--ask yourselves, gentlemen, how long it would take a military
court to send me to the parade in the nearest caserne!"

"Do you mean they'd shoot you?" demanded Westmore, aghast.

"Any court-martial to-day would turn me over to a firing squad!"

"You see," said Barres, turning to Westmore, "this is a much more
serious matter than a case of ordinary blackmail."

"Why not go to our own Secret Service authorities and lay the entire
business before them?" asked Westmore excitedly.

But Thessalie shook her head:

"The evidence against me in Paris is overwhelming. My dossier alone,
as it now stands, would surely condemn me without corroborative
evidence. Your people here would never believe in me if the French
Government forwarded to them a copy of my dossier from the secret
archives in Paris. As for my own Government----" She merely shrugged.

Barres, much troubled, glanced from Thessalie to Westmore.

"It's rather a rotten situation," he said. "There must be, of course,
some sensible way to tackle it, though I don't quite see it yet. But
one thing is very plain to me: Thessa ought to remain here with us for
the present. Don't you think so, Jim?"

"How can I, Garry?" she asked. "You have only one room, and I couldn't
turn you out----"

"I can arrange that," interposed Westmore, turning eagerly to Barres
with a significant gesture toward the door at the end of the studio.
"There's the solution, isn't it?"

"Certainly," agreed Barres; and to Thessalie, in explanation:
"Westmore's two bedrooms adjoin my studio--beyond that wall. We have
merely to unlock those folding doors and throw his apartment into
mine, making one long suite of rooms. Then you may have my room and
I'll take his spare room."

She still hesitated.

"I am very grateful, Garry, and I admit that I am becoming almost
afraid to remain entirely alone, but----"

"Send for your effects," he insisted cheerfully. "Aristocrates will
move my stuff into Westmore's spare room. Then you shall take my
quarters and be comfortable and well guarded with Aristocrates and
Selinda on one side of you, and Jim and myself just across the
studio." He cast a sombre glance at Westmore: "I suppose those rats
will ultimately trail her to this place."

Westmore turned to Thessalie:

"Where are your effects?" he asked.

She smiled forlornly:

"I gave up my lodgings this morning, packed everything, and came here,
rather scared." A little flush came over her face and she lifted her
dark eyes and met Westmore's intent gaze. "You are very kind," she
said. "My trunks are at the Grand Central Station--if you desire to
make up my disconcerted mind for me. Do you really want me to come
here and stay a few days?"

Westmore suppressed himself no longer:

"I won't _let_ you go!" he said. "I'm worried sick about you!" And to
Barres, who sat slightly amazed at his friend's warmth:

"Do you suppose any of those dirty dogs have traced the trunks?"

Thessalie said:

"I've never yet been able to conceal anything from them."

"Probably, then," said Barres, "they have traced your luggage and are
watching it."

"Give me your checks, anyway," said Westmore. "I'll go at once and get
your baggage and bring it here. If they're watching for you it will
jolt them to see a man on the job."

Barres nodded approval; Thessalie opened her purse and handed Westmore
the checks.

"You both are so kind," she murmured. "I have not felt so sheltered,
so secure in many, many months."

Westmore, extremely red again, controlled his emotions--whatever they
were--with a visible effort:

"Don't worry for one moment," he said. "Garry and I are going to
settle this outrageous business for you. Now, I'm off to find your
trunks. And if you could give me a description of any of these fellows
who follow you about----"

"Please--you are not to beat up anybody!" she reminded him, with a
troubled smile.

"I'll remember. I promise you not to."

Barres said:

"I think one of them is a tall, bony, one-eyed man, who has been
hanging around here pretending to peddle artists' materials."

Thessalie made a quick gesture of assent and of caution:

"Yes! His name is Max Freund. I have found it impossible to conceal my
whereabouts from him. This man, with only one eye, appears to be a
friend of the superintendent, Soane. I am not certain that Soane
himself is employed by this gang of blackmailers, but I believe that
his one-eyed friend may pay him for any scraps of information
concerning me."

"Then we had better keep an eye on Soane," growled Westmore. "He's no
good; he'll take graft from anybody."

"Where is his daughter, Dulcie?" asked Thessalie. "Is she not your
model, Garry?"

"Yes. She's in my room now, lying down. This morning it was pretty hot
in here, and Dulcie fainted on the model stand."

"The poor child!" exclaimed Thessalie impulsively. "Could I go in and
see her?"

"Why, yes, if you like," he replied, surprised at her warm-hearted
interest. He added, as Thessalie rose: "She is really all right again.
But go in if you like. And you might tell Dulcie she can have her
lunch in there if she wants it; but if she's going to dress she ought
to be about it, because it's getting on toward the luncheon hour."

So Thessalie went swiftly away down the corridor to knock at the door
of the bedroom, and Barres walked out with Westmore as far as the
stairs.

"Jim," he said very soberly, "this whole business looks ugly to me.
Thessa seems to be seriously entangled in the meshes of some
blackmailing spider who is sewing her up tight."

"It's probably a tighter web than we realise," growled Westmore. "It
looks to me as though Miss Dunois has been caught in the main net of
German intrigue. And that the big spider in Berlin did the spinning."

"That's certainly what it looks like," admitted the other in a grave
voice. "I don't believe that this is merely a local matter--an affair
of petty, personal vengeance: I believe that the Hun is actually
afraid of her--afraid of the evidence she might be able to furnish
against certain traitors in Paris."

Westmore nodded gloomily:

"I'm pretty sure of it, too. They've tried, apparently, to win her
over. They've tried, also, to drive her out of this country. Now, they
mean to force her out, or perhaps kill her! Good God! Garry, did you
ever hear of such filthy impudence as this entire German propaganda in
America?"

"Go and get her trunks," said Barres, deeply worried. "By the time you
fetch 'em back here, lunch will be ready. Afterward, we'd all better
get together and talk over this unpleasant situation."

Westmore glanced at his watch, turned and went swinging away in his
quick, energetic stride. Barres walked slowly back to the studio.

There was nobody there. Thessalie had not yet returned from her visit
to Dulcie Soane.

The Prophet, however, came in presently, his tail politely hoisted. An
agreeable aroma from the kitchen had doubtless allured him; he made an
amicable remark to Barres, suffered himself to be caressed, then
sprang to the carved table--his favourite vantage point for
observation--and gazed solemnly toward the dining-room.

For half an hour or more, Barres fussed and pottered about in the
rather aimless manner of all artists, shifting canvases and stacking
them against the wall, twirling his wax Arethusa around to inspect her
from every possible and impossible angle, using clouds of fixitive on
such charcoal studies as required it, scraping away meditatively at a
too long neglected palette.

He was already frankly concerned about Thessalie, and the more he
considered her situation the keener grew his apprehension.

Yet he, like all his fellow Americans, had not yet actually persuaded
himself to believe in spies.

Of course he read about them and their machinations in the daily
papers; the spy scare was already well developed in New York; yet, to
him and to the great majority of his fellow countrymen, people who
made a profession of such a dramatic business seemed unreal--abstract
types, not concrete examples of the human race--and he could not
believe in them--could neither visualise such people nor realise that
they existed outside melodrama or the covers of a best-seller.

There is an incredulity which knows yet refuses to believe in its own
knowledge. It is very American and it represented the paradoxical
state of mind of this deeply worried young man, as he stood there in
the studio, scraping away mechanically at his crusted palette.

Then, as he turned to lay it aside, through the open studio door he
saw a strange, bespectacled man looking in at him intently.

An unpleasant shock passed through him, and his instinct started him
toward the open door to close it.

"Excuse," said he of the thick spectacles; and Barres stopped short:

"Well, what is it?" he asked sharply.

The man, who was well dressed and powerfully built, squinted through
his spectacles out of little, inflamed and pig-like eyes.

"Miss Dunois iss here?" he enquired politely. "I haff a message----"

"What is your name?"

"Excuse, please. My name iss not personally known to Miss Dunois----"

"Then what is your business with Miss Dunois?"

"Excuse, please. It iss of a delicacy--of a nature quite private, iff
you please."

Barres inspected him in hostile silence for a moment, then came to a
swift conclusion.

"Very well. Step inside," he said briefly.

"I thank you, I will wait here----"

"Step inside!" snapped Barres.

Startled into silence, the man only blinked at him. Under the other's
searching, suspicious gaze, the small, pig-like eyes were now shifting
uneasily; then, as Barres took an abrupt step forward, the man shrank
away and stammered out something about a letter which he was to
deliver to Miss Dunois in private.

"You say you have a letter for Miss Dunois?" demanded Barres, now
determined to get hold of him.

"I am instructed to giff it myself to her in private, all alone----"

"Give it to _me_!"

"I am instruc----"

"Give it to me, I tell you!--and come inside here! Do you hear what
I'm saying to you?"

The spectacled man lost most of his colour as Barres started toward
him.

"Excuse!" he faltered, backing off down the corridor. "I giff you the
letter!" And he hastily thrust his hand into the side pocket of his
coat. But it was a pistol he poked under the other's nose--a shiny,
lumpy weapon, clutched most unsteadily.

"Hands up and turn me once around your back!" whispered the man
hoarsely. "Quick!--or I shoot you!"--as the other, astounded, merely
gazed at him. The man had already begun to back away again, but as
Barres moved he stopped and cursed him:

"Put them up your hands!" snarled the spectacled man, with a final
oath. "Keep your distance or I kill you!"

Barres heard himself saying, in a voice not much like his own:

"You can't do this to me and get away with it! It's nonsense! This
sort of thing doesn't go in New York!"

Suddenly his mind grew coldly, terrible clear:

"No, you _can't_ get away with it!" he concluded aloud, in the calm,
natural voice of conviction. "Your stunt is scaring women! You try to
keep clear of men--you dirty, blackmailing German crook! I've got your
number! You're the 'Watcher'!--you murderous rat! You're afraid to
shoot!"

It was plain that the spectacled man had not discounted anything of
this sort--plain now, to Barres, that if, indeed, murder actually had
been meant, it was not his own murder that had been planned with that
big, blunt, silver-plated pistol, now wavering wildly before his
eyes.

"I blow your face off!" whispered the stranger, beginning to back away
again, and ghastly pale.

"Keep out of thiss! I am not looking for you. Get you back; step once
again inside that door away!----"

But Barres had already jumped for him, had almost caught him, was
reaching for him--when the man hurled the pistol straight at his face.
The terrific impact of the heavy weapon striking him between the eyes
dazed him; he stumbled sideways, colliding with the wall, and he
reeled around there a second.

But that second's leeway was enough for the bespectacled stranger. He
turned and ran like a deer. And when Barres reached the staircase the
whitewashed hall below was still echoing with the slam of the street
grille.

Nevertheless, he hurried down, but found the desk-chair empty and
Soane nowhere visible, and continued on to the outer door, more or
less confused by the terrific blow on the head.

Of course the bespectacled man had disappeared amid the noonday
foot-farers now crowding both sidewalks east and west, on their way to
lunch.

Barres walked slowly back to the desk, still dazed, but now thoroughly
enraged and painfully conscious of a heavy swelling where the blow had
fallen on his forehead.

In the superintendent's quarters he found Soane, evidently just
awakened after a sodden night at Grogan's, trying to dress.

Barres said:

"There is nobody at the desk. Either you or Miss Kurtz should be on
duty. That is the rule. Now, I'm going to tell you something: If I
ever again find that desk without anybody behind it, I shall go to the
owners of this building and tell them what sort of superintendent you
are! And maybe I'll tell the police, also!"

"Arrah, then, Misther Barres----"

"That's all!" said Barres, turning on his heel. "Anything more from
you and you'll find yourself in trouble!"

And he went up stairs.

The lumpy pistol still lay there in the corridor; he picked it up and
took it into the studio. The weapon was fully loaded. It seemed to be
of some foreign make--German or Austrian, he judged by the marking
which had been almost erased, deliberately obliterated, it appeared to
him.

He placed it in his desk, seated himself, explored his bruises
gingerly with cautious finger-tips, concluded that the bridge of his
nose was not broken, then threw himself back in his armchair for some
grim and concentrated thinking.




XVII

A CONFERENCE


The elegantly modulated accents of Aristocrates, announcing the
imminence of luncheon, aroused Barres from disconcerted but wrathful
reflections.

As he sat up and tenderly caressed his battered head, Thessalie and
Dulcie came slowly into the studio together, their arms interlaced.

Both exclaimed at the sight of the young man's swollen face, but he
checked their sympathetic enquiries drily:

"Bumped into something. It's nothing. How are you, Dulcie? All right
again?"

She nodded, evidently much concerned about his disfigured forehead; so
to terminate sympathetic advice he went away to bathe his bruises in
witch hazel, and presently returned smelling strongly of that
time-honoured panacea, and with a saturated handkerchief adorning his
brow.

At the same time, there came a considerable thumping and bumping from
the corridor; the bell rang, and Westmore appeared with the
trunks--five of them. These a pair of brawny expressmen rolled into
the studio and carried thence to the storeroom which separated the
bedroom and bath from the kitchen.

"Any trouble?" enquired Barres of Westmore, when the expressmen had
gone.

"None at all. Nobody looked at me twice. What's happened to your
noddle?"

"Bumped it. Lunch is ready."

Thessalie came over to him:

"I have included Dulcie among my confidants," she said in a low
voice.

"You mean you've told her----"

"Everything. And I am glad I did."

Barres was silent; Thessalie passed her arm around Dulcie's waist; the
two men walked behind together.

The table was a mass of flowers, over which netted sunlight played.
Three cats assisted--the Prophet, always dignified, blinked pleasantly
from a window ledge; the blond Houri, beside him, purred loudly. Only
Strindberg was impossible, chasing her own tail under the patient feet
of Aristocrates, or rolling over and over beneath the table in a
mindless assault upon her own hind toes.

Seated there in the quiet peace and security of the pleasant room,
amid familiar things, with Aristocrates moving noiselessly about,
sunlight lacing wall and ceiling, and the air aromatic with the scent
of brilliant flowers, Barres tried in vain to realise that murder
could throw its shadow over such a place--that its terrible menace
could have touched his threshold, even for an instant.

No, it was impossible. The fellow could not have intended murder. He
was merely a blackmailer, suddenly detected and instantly frightened,
pulling a gun in a panic, and even then failing in the courage to
shoot.

It enraged Barres to even think about it, but he could not bring
himself to attach any darker significance to the incident than just
that--a blackmailer, ready to display a gun, but not to use it, had
come to bully a woman; had found himself unexpectedly trapped, and had
behaved according to his kind.

Barres had meant to catch him. But he admitted to himself that he had
gone about it very unskilfully. This added disgust to his smouldering
wrath, but he realised that he ought to tell the story.

And after the rather subdued luncheon was ended, and everybody had
gone out to the studio, he did tell it, deliberately including Dulcie
in his audience, because he felt that she also ought to know.

"And this is the present state of affairs," he concluded, lighting a
cigarette and flinging one knee across the other, "----that my friend,
Thessalie Dunois, who came here to escape the outrageous annoyance of
a gang of blackmailers, is followed immediately and menaced with
further insult on my very threshold.

"This thing must stop. It's going to be stopped. And I suggest that we
discuss the matter now and decide how it ought to be handled."

After a silence, Westmore said:

"You had your nerve, Garry. I'm wondering what I might have done under
the muzzle of that pistol."

Dulcie's grey eyes had never left Barres. He encountered her gaze now;
smiled at its anxious intensity.

"I made a botch of it, Sweetness, didn't I?" he said lightly. And, to
Westmore: "The moment I suspected him he was aware of it. Then, when I
tried to figure out how to get him into the studio, it was too late. I
made a mess of it, that's all. And it's too bad, Thessa, that I
haven't more sense."

She gently shook her head:

"You haven't any sense, Garry. That man might easily have killed you,
in spite of your coolness and courage----"

"No. He was just a rat----"

"In a corner! You couldn't tell what he'd do----"

"Yes, I could. He _didn't_ shoot. Moreover, he legged it, which was
exactly what I was certain he meant to do. Don't worry about me,
Thessa; if I didn't have brains enough to catch him, at least I was
clever enough to know it was safe to try." He laughed. "There's
nothing of the hero about me; don't think it!"

"I think that Dulcie and I know what to call your behaviour," she said
quietly, taking the silent girl's hand in hers and resting it in her
lap.

"Sure; it was bull-headed pluck," growled Westmore. "The drop is the
drop, Garry, and you're no mind-reader."

But Barres persisted in taking it humorously:

"I read that gentleman's mind correctly, and his character, too."
Then, to Thessalie: "You say you don't recognise him from my
description?"

She shook her head thoughtfully.

"Garry," said Westmore impatiently, "if we're going to discuss various
ways of putting an end to this business, what way do you suggest?"

Barres lighted another cigarette:

"I've been thinking. And I haven't a notion how to go about it, unless
we turn over the matter to the police. But Thessa doesn't wish
publicity," he added, "so whatever is to be done we must do by
ourselves."

Thessalie leaned forward from her seat on the lounge by Dulcie:

"I don't ask that of you," she remonstrated earnestly. "I only wanted
to stay here for a little while----"

"You shall do that too," said Westmore, "but this matter seems to
involve something more than annoyance and danger to you. Those
miserable rascals are Germans and they are carrying on their impudent
intrigues, regardless of American laws and probably to the country's
detriment. How do we know what they are about? What else may they be
up to? It seems to me that somebody had better investigate their
activities--this one-eyed man, Freund--this handy gunman in
spectacles--and whoever it was who took a shot at you the other
day----"

"Certainly," said Barres, "and you and I are going to investigate. But
how?"

"What about Grogan's?"

"It's a German joint now," nodded Barres. "One of us might drop in
there and look it over. Thessa, how do you think we ought to go about
this affair?"

Thessalie, who sat on the sofa with Dulcie's hand clasped in both
of hers--a new intimacy which still surprised and pleasantly
perplexed Barres--said that she could not see that there was
anything in particular for them to do, but that she herself intended
to cease living alone for a while and refrain from going about town
unaccompanied.

Then it suddenly occurred to Barres that if he and Dulcie went to
Foreland Farms, Thessalie should be invited also; otherwise, she'd be
alone again, except for the servants, and possibly Westmore. And he
said so.

"This won't do," he insisted. "We four ought to remain in touch with
one another for the present. If Dulcie and I go to Foreland Farms, you
must come, too, Thessa; and you, Jim, ought to be there, too."

Nobody demurred; Barres, elated at the prospect, gave Thessalie a
brief sketch of his family and their home.

"There's room for a regiment in the house," he added, "and you will
feel welcome and entirely at home. I'll write my people to-night, if
it's settled. Is it, Thessa?"

"I'd adore it, Garry. I haven't been in the country since I left
France."

"And you, Jim?"

"You bet. I always have a wonderful time at Foreland."

"Now, this is splendid!" exclaimed Barres, delighted. "If you
disappear, Thessa, those German rats may become discouraged and give
up hounding you. Anyway, you'll have a quiet six weeks and a complete
rest; and by that time Jim and I ought to devise some method of
handling these vermin."

"Nobody," said Thessalie, smiling, "has asked Dulcie's opinion as to
how this matter ought to be handled."

Barres turned to meet Dulcie's shy gaze.

"Tell us what to do, Sweetness!" he said gaily. "It was stupid of me
not to ask for your views."

For a few moments the girl remained silent, then, the lovely tint
deepening in her cheeks, she suggested diffidently that the people who
were annoying Thessalie had been hired to do it by others more easy to
handle, if discovered.

There was a moment's silence, then Barres struck his palm with doubled
fist:

"_That_," he said with emphasis, "is the right way to approach this
business! Hired thugs can be handled in only two ways--beat 'em up or
call in the police. And we can do neither.

"But the men higher up--the men who inspire and hire these rats--they
can be dealt with in other ways. You're right, Dulcie! You've started
us on the only proper path!"

Considerably excited, now, as vague ideas crowded in upon him, he sat
smiting his knees, his brows knit in concentrated thought, aware that
they were on the right track, but that the track was but a blind trail
so far.

Dulcie ventured to interrupt his frowning cogitation:

"People of position and influence who hire men to do unworthy things
are cowards at heart. To discover them is to end the whole matter, I
think."

"You're absolutely right, Sweetness! Wait! I begin to see--to see
things--see something--interesting----"

He looked up at Thessalie:

"D'Eblis, Ferez Bey, Von-der-Goltz Pasha, Excellenz, Berlin--all these
were mixed up with this German-American banker, Adolf Gerhardt, were
they not?"

"It was Gerhardt's money, I am sure, that bought the _Mot d'Ordre_
from d'Eblis for Ferez--that is, for Berlin," she said.

"Do you mean," asked Westmore, "the New York banker, Adolf Gerhardt,
of Gerhardt, Klein & Schwartzmeyer, who has that big show place at
Northbrook?"

Barres smiled at him significantly:

"What do you know about that, Jim! If we go to Foreland we're certain
to be asked to the Gerhardt's! They're part of the Northbrook set;
they're received everywhere. They entertain the personnel of the
German and Austrian Embassies. Probably their place, Hohenlinden, is a
hotbed of German intrigue and propaganda! Thessa, how about you? Would
you care to risk recognition in Gerhardt's drawing-room, and see what
information you could pick up?"

Thessalie's cheeks grew bright pink, and her dark eyes were full of
dancing light:

"Garry, I'd adore it! I told you I had never been a spy. And that is
absolutely true. But if you think I am sufficiently intelligent to do
anything to help my country, I'll try. And I don't care how I do it,"
she added, with her sweet, reckless little laugh, and squeezed
Dulcie's hand tightly between her fingers.

"Do you suppose Gerhardt would remember you?" asked Westmore.

"I don't think so. I don't believe anybody would recollect me. If
anybody there ever saw Nihla Quellen, it wouldn't worry me, because
Nihla Quellen is merely a memory if anything, and only Ferez and
d'Eblis know I am alive and here----"

"And their hired agents," added Westmore.

"Yes. But such people would not be guests of Adolf Gerhardt at
Northbrook."

"Ferez Bey might be his guest."

"What of it!" she laughed. "I was never afraid of Ferez--never! He is
a jackal always. A threatening gesture and he flees! No, I do not
fear Ferez Bey, but I think he is horribly afraid of me.... I
think, perhaps, he has orders to do me very serious harm--and dares
not. No, Ferez Bey comes sniffing around after the fight is over. He
does no fighting, not Ferez! He slinks outside the smoke. When it
clears away and night comes he ventures forth to feed furtively on
what is left. That is Ferez--my Ferez on whom I would not use a
dog-whip--no!--merely a slight gesture--and he is gone like a swift
shadow in the dark!"

Fascinated by the transformation in her, the other three sat gazing at
Thessalie in silence. Her colour was high, her dark eyes sparkled, her
lips glowed. And the superb young figure so celebrated in Europe, so
straight and virile, seemed instinct with the reckless gaity and
courage which rang out in her full-throated laughter as she ended with
a gesture and a snap of her white fingers.

"For my country--for France, whose generous mind has been poisoned
against me--I would do anything--anything!" she said. "If you think,
Garry, that I have wit enough to balk d'Eblis, check Ferez, confuse
the plotters in Berlin--well, then!--I shall try. If you say it is
right, then I shall become what I never have been--a spy!"

She sat for a moment smiling in her flushed excitement. Nobody spoke.
Then her expression altered, subtlely, and her dark eyes grew
pensive.

"Perhaps," she said wistfully, "if I could serve my country in some
little way, France might believe me loyal.... I have sometimes wished
I might have a chance to prove it. There is nothing I would not risk
if only France would come to believe in me.... But there seemed to be
no chance for me. It is death for me to go there now, with that
dossier in the secret archives and a Senator of France to swear my
life away----"

"If you like," said Westmore, very red again, "I'll go into the
business, too, and help you nail some of these Hun plotters. I've
nothing better to do; I'd be delighted to help you land a Hun or
two."

"I'm with you both, heart and soul!" said Barres. "The whole country
is rotten with Boche intrigue. Who knows what we may uncover at
Northbrook?"

Dulcie rose and came over to where Barres sat, and he reached up
without turning around, and gave her hand a friendly little squeeze.

She bent over beside him:

"Could I help?" she asked in a low voice.

"You bet, Sweetness! Did you think you were being left out?" And he
drew her closer and passed one arm absently around her as he began
speaking again to Westmore:

"It seems to me that we ought to stumble on something at Northbrook
worth following up, if we go about it circumspectly, Jim--with all
that Austrian and German Embassy gang coming and going during the
summer, and this picturesque fellow, Murtagh Skeel, being lionised
by----"

Dulcie's sudden start checked him and he looked up at her.

"Murtagh Skeel, the Irish poet and patriot," he repeated, "who wants
to lead a Clan-na-Gael raid into Canada or head a death-battalion to
free Ireland. You've read about him in the papers, Dulcie?"

"Yes ... I want to talk to you alone----" She blushed and dropped a
confused little curtsey to Thessalie: "Would you please pardon my
rudeness----"

"You darling!" said Thessalie, blowing her a swift, gay kiss. "Go and
talk to your best friend in peace!"

Barres rose and walked away slowly beside Dulcie. They stood still
when out of earshot. She said:

"I have a few of my mother's letters.... She knew a young man whose
name was Murtagh Skeel.... He was her dear friend. But only in secret.
Because I think her father and mother disliked him.... It would seem
so from her letters and his.... And she was--in love with him.... And
he with mother.... Then--I don't know.... But she came to America with
father. That is all I know. Do you believe he can be the same man?"

"Murtagh Skeel," repeated Barres. "It's an unusual name. Possibly he
is the same man whom your mother knew. I should say he might have been
about your mother's age, Dulcie. He is a romantic figure now--one of
those dreamy, graceful, impractical patriots--an enthusiast with one
idea and that an impossible one!--the freedom of Ireland wrenched by
force from the traditional tyrant, England."

He thought a moment, then:

"Whatever the fault, and wherever lies the blame for Ireland's unrest
to-day, this is no time to start rebellion. Who strikes at England now
strikes at all Freedom in the world. Who conspires against England
to-day conspires with barbarism against civilisation.

"My outspoken sympathy of yesterday must remain unspoken to-day. And
if it be insisted on, then it will surely change and become hostility.
No, Dulcie; the line of cleavage is clean: it is Light against
Darkness, Right against Might, Truth against Falsehood, and Christ
against Baal!

"This man, Murtagh Skeel, is a dreamer, a monomaniac, and a dangerous
fanatic, for all his winning and cultivated personality and the
personal purity of his character.... It is an odd coincidence if he
was once your mother's friend--and her suitor, too."

Dulcie stood before him, her head a trifle lowered, listening to what
he said. When he ended, she looked up at him, then across the studio
where Westmore had taken her place on the sofa beside Thessalie. They
both seemed to be absorbed in a conversation which interested them
immensely.

Dulcie hesitated, then ventured to take possession of Barres' arm:

"Could you and I sit down over here by ourselves?" she asked.

He smiled, always amused by her increasing confidence and affection,
and always a little touched by it, so plainly she revealed herself, so
quaintly--sometimes very quietly and shyly, sometimes with an ardent
impulse too swift for self-conscious second thoughts which might have
checked her.

So they seated themselves in the carved compartments of an ancient
choir-stall and she rested one elbow on the partition between them
and set her rounded chin in her palm.

"You pretty thing," he said lightly.

At that she blushed and smiled in the confused way she had when
teased. And at such times she never looked at him--never even
pretended to sustain his laughing gaze or brave out her own
embarrassment.

"I won't torment you, Sweetness," he said. "Only you ought not to let
me, you know. It's a temptation to make you blush; you do it so
prettily."

"Please----" she said, still smiling but vividly disconcerted again.

"There, dear! I won't. I'm a brute and a bully. But honestly, you
ought not to let me."

"I don't know how to stop you," she admitted, laughing. "I could kill
myself for being so silly. Why is it, do you suppose, that I blu----"

She checked herself, scarlet now, and sat motionless with her head
bent over her clenched palm, and her lip bitten till it quivered.
Perhaps a flash of sudden insight had answered her own question before
she had even finished asking it. And the answer had left her silent,
rigid, as though not daring to move. But her bitten lip trembled, and
her breath, which had stopped, came swiftly now, desperately
controlled. But there seemed to be no control for her violent little
heart, which was racing away and setting every pulse a faster pace.

Barres, more uneasy than amused, now, and having before this very
unwillingly suspected Dulcie of an exaggerated sentiment concerning
him, inspected her furtively and sideways.

"I won't tease you any more," he repeated. "I'm sorry. But you
understand, Sweetness; it's just a friendly tease--just because we're
such good friends."

"Yes," she nodded breathlessly. "Don't notice me, please. I don't seem
to know how to behave myself when I'm with you----"

"What nonsense, Dulcie! You're a wonderful comrade. We have bully
times when we're together. Don't we?"

"Yes."

"Well, then, for the love of Mike! What's a little teasing between
friends? Buck up, Sweetness, and don't ever let me upset you again."

"No." She turned and looked at him, laughed. But there was a wonderful
beauty in her grey eyes and he noticed it.

"You little kiddie," he said, "your eyes are all starry like a baby's!
You are not growing up as fast as you think you are!"

She laughed again deliciously:

"How wise you are," she said.

"Aha! So you're joshing me, now!"

"But aren't you very, very wise?" she asked demurely.

"You bet I am. And I'm going to prove it."

"How, please?"

"Listen, irreverent youngster! If you are going to Foreland Farms with
me, you will require various species of clothes and accessories."

At that she was frankly dismayed:

"But I can't afford----"

"Piffle! I advance you sufficient salary. Thessalie had better advise
you in your shopping----" He hesitated, then: "You and Thessa seem to
have become excellent friends rather suddenly."

"She was so sweet to me," explained Dulcie. "I hadn't cared for her
very much--that evening of the party--but to-day she came into your
room, where I was lying on the bed, and she stood looking at me for a
moment and then she said, 'Oh, you darling!' and dropped on her knees
and drew me into her arms.... Wasn't that a curious thing to happen?
I--I was too surprised to speak for a minute; then the loveliest
shiver came over me and I--I cuddled up close to her--because I had
never remembered being in mother's arms--and it seemed wonderful--I
had wanted it so--dreamed sometimes--and awoke and cried myself to
sleep again.... She was so sweet to me.... We talked.... She told me,
finally, about the reason of her visit to you. Then she told me about
herself.... So I became her friend very quickly. And I am sure that I
am going to love her dearly.... And when I love"--she looked steadily
away from him--"I would die to serve--my friend."

The girl's quiet ardour, her simplicity and candour, attracted and
interested him. Always he had seemed to be aware, in her, of hidden
forces--of something fresh and charmingly impetuous held in leash--of
controlled impulses, restless, uneasy, bitted, curbed, and reined in.

Pride, perhaps, a natural reticence in the opposite sex--perhaps the
habit of control in a girl whose childhood had had no outlet--some of
these, he concluded, accounted for her subdued air, her restraint from
demonstration. Save for the impulsive little hand on his arm at times,
the slightest quiver of lip and voice, there was no sign of the
high-strung, fresh young force that he vaguely divined within her.

"Dulcie," he said, "how much do you know about the romance of your
mother?"

She lifted her grey eyes to his:

"What romance?"

"Why, her marriage."

"Was that a romance?"

"I gather, from your father, that your mother was very much above him
in station."

"Yes. He was a gamekeeper for my grandfather."

"What was your mother's name?"

"Eileen."

"I mean her family name."

"Fane."

He was silent. She remained thoughtful, her chin resting between two
fingers.

"Once," she murmured, as though speaking to herself, "when my father
was intoxicated, he said that Fane is my name, not Soane.... Do you
know what he meant?"

"No.... His name is Soane, isn't it?"

"I suppose so."

"Well, what do you suppose he meant, if he meant anything?"

"I don't quite know."

"He _is_ your father, isn't he?"

She shook her head slowly:

"Sometimes, when he is intoxicated, he says that he isn't. And once he
added that my name is not Soane but Fane."

"Did you question him?"

"No. He only cries when he is that way.... Or talks about Ireland's
wrongs."

"Ask him some time."

"I have asked him when he was sober. But he denied ever saying it."

"Then ask him when he's the other way. I--well, to be frank, Dulcie,
you haven't the slightest resemblance to your father--not the
slightest--not in any mental or physical particular."

"He says I'm like mother."

"And her name was Eileen Fane," murmured Barres. "She must have been
beautiful, Dulcie."

"She was----" A bright blush stained her face, but this time she
looked steadily at Barres and neither of them smiled.

"She was in love with Murtagh Skeel," said Dulcie. "I wonder why she
did not marry him."

"You say her family objected."

"Yes, but what of that, if she loved him?"

"But even in those days he may have been a troublemaker and
revolutionist----"

"Does that matter if a girl is in love?"

In Dulcie's voice there was again that breathless tone through which
something rang faintly--something curbed back, held in restraint.

"I suppose," he said, smiling, "that if one is in love nothing else
matters."

"Nothing matters," she said, half to herself. And he looked askance at
her, and looked again with increasing curiosity.

Westmore called across the room:

"Thessalie and I are going shopping! Any objections?"

A sudden and totally unexpected dart seemed to penetrate the heart
region of Garret Barres. It was jealousy and it hurt.

"No objection at all," he said, wondering how the devil Westmore had
become so familiar with her name in such a very brief encounter.

Thessalie rose and came over:

"Dulcie, will you come with us?" she asked gaily.

"That's a first rate idea," said Barres, cheering up. "Dulcie, tell
her what things you have and she'll tell you what you need for
Foreland Farms."

"Indeed I will," cried Thessalie. "We'll make her perfectly adorable
in a most economical manner. Shall we, dear?"

And she held out her hand to Dulcie, and, smiling, turned her head and
looked across the room at Westmore.

Which troubled Barres and left him rather silent there in the studio
after they had gone away. For he had rather fancied himself as the
romance in Thessalie's life, and, at times, was inclined to
sentimentalise a little about her.

And now he permitted himself to wonder how much there really might be
to that agreeable sentiment he entertained for, perhaps, the prettiest
girl he had ever met in his life, and, possibly, the most delightful.




XVIII

THE BABBLER


The double apartment in Dragon Court, swept by such vagrant July
breezes as wandered into the heated city, had become lively with
preparations for departure.

Barres fussed about, collecting sketching paraphernalia, choosing
brushes, colours, canvases, field kits, and costumes from his
accumulated store, and boxing them for transportation to Foreland
Farms, with the languid assistance of Aristocrates.

Westmore had only to ship a modelling stand, a handful of sculptors'
tools, and a ton or two of Plasteline, an evil-smelling composite
clay, very useful to work with.

But the storm centre of preparation revolved around Dulcie. And
Thessalie, enchanted with her new rôle as adviser, bargainer, and
purchaser, and always attaching either Westmore or Barres to her
skirts when she and Dulcie sallied forth, was selecting and
accumulating a charming and useful little impedimenta. For the young
girl had never before owned a single pretty thing, except those first
unpremeditated gifts of Barres', and her happiness in these
expeditions was alloyed with trepidation at Thessalie's extravagance,
and deep misgivings concerning her ultimate ability to repay out of
the salary allowed her as a private model.

Intoxicated by ownership, she watched Thessalie and Selinda laying
away in her brand-new trunk the lovely things which had been
selected. And one day, thrilled but bewildered, she went into the
studio, where Barres sat opening his mail, and confessed her fear that
only lifelong devotion in his service could ever liquidate her
overwhelming financial obligations to him.

He had begun to laugh when she opened the subject:

"Thessa is managing it," he said. "It looks like a lot of expense, but
it isn't. Don't worry about it, Sweetness."

"I _do_ worry----"

"Now, what a ridiculous thing to do!" he interrupted. "It's merely
advanced salary--your own money. I told you to blow it; I'm
responsible. And I shall arrange it so you won't notice that you are
repaying the loan. All I want you to do is to have a good time about
it."

"I am having a good time--when it doesn't scare me to spend so much
for----"

"Can't you trust Thessa and me?"

The girl dropped to her knees beside his chair in a swift passion of
gratitude:

"Oh, I trust you--I do----" But she could not utter another word, and
only pressed her face against his arm in the tense silence of emotions
which were too powerful to express, too deep and keen to comprehend or
to endure.

And she sprang to her feet, flushed, confused, turning from him as he
retained one hand and drew her back:

"Dear child," he said, in his pleasant voice, "this is really a
very little thing I do for you, compared to the help you have
given me by hard, unremitting, uncomplaining physical labour and
endurance. There is no harder work than holding a pose for painter
or sculptor--nothing more cruelly fatiguing. Add to that your
cheerfulness, your willingness, your quiet, loyal, unobtrusive
companionship--and the freshness and inspiration and interest ever
new which you always awake in me--tell me, Sweetness, are you really
in my debt, or am I in yours?"

"I am in yours. You made me."

"You always say that. It's foolish. You made yourself, Dulcie. You are
making yourself all the while. Why, good heavens!--if you hadn't had
it in you, somehow, to ignore your surroundings--take the school
opportunities offered you--close your eyes and ears to the sights and
sounds and habits of what was supposed to be your home----"

He checked himself, thinking of Soane, and his brogue, and his
ignorance and his habits.

"How the devil you escaped it all I can't understand," he muttered to
himself. "Even when I first knew you, there was nothing resembling
your--your father about you--even if you were almost in rags!"

"I had been with the Sisters until I went to high school," she
murmured. "It makes a difference in a child's mind what is said and
thought by those around her."

"Of course. But, Dulcie, it is usually the unfortunate rule that the
lower subtly contaminates the higher, even in casual association--that
the weaker gradually undermines the stronger until it sinks to lesser
levels. It has not been so with you. Your clear mind remained
untarnished, your aspiration uncontaminated. Somewhere within you had
been born the quality of recognition; and when your eyes opened on
better things you recognised them and did not forget after they
disappeared----"

Again he ceased speaking, aware, suddenly, that for the first time he
was making the effort to analyse this girl for his own information.
Heretofore, he had accepted her, sometimes curious, sometimes amused,
puzzled, doubtful, even uneasy as her mind revealed itself by degrees
and her character glimmered through in little fitful gleams from that
still hidden thing, herself.

He began to speak again, before he knew he was speaking--indeed, as
though within him somewhere another man were using his lips and voice
as vehicles:

"You know, Dulcie, it's not going to end--our companionship. Your real
life is all ahead of you; it's already beginning--the life which is
properly yours to shape and direct and make the most of.

"I don't know what kind of life yours is going to be; I know, merely,
that your career doesn't lie down stairs in the superintendent's
lodgings. And this life of ours here in the studio is only temporary,
only a phase of your development toward clearer aims, higher
aspiration, nobler effort.

"Tranquillity, self-respect, intelligent responsibility, the
happiness of personal independence are the prizes: the path on which
you have started leads to the only pleasure man has ever really
known--labour."

He looked down at her hand lying within his own, stroked the slender
fingers thoughtfully, noticing the whiteness and fineness of them, now
that they had rested for three months from their patient martyrdom in
Soane's service.

"I'll talk to my mother and sister about it," he concluded. "All you
need is a start in whatever you're going to do in life. And you bet
you're going to get it, Sweetness!"

He patted her hand, laughed, and released it. She couldn't speak just
then--she tried to as she stood there, head averted and grey eyes
brilliant with tears--but she could not utter a sound.

Perhaps aware that her overcharged heart was meddling with her voice,
he merely smiled as he watched her moving slowly back to Thessalie's
room, where the magic trunk was being packed. Then he turned to his
letters again. One was from his mother:

  "Garry darling, anybody you bring to Foreland is always welcome,
  as you know. Your family never inquires of its members concerning
  any guests they may see fit to invite. Bring Miss Dunois and
  Dulcie Soane, your little model, if you like. There's a world of
  room here; nobody ever interferes with anybody else. You and your
  guests have two thousand acres to roam about in, ride over, fish
  over, paint over. There's plenty for everybody to do, alone or in
  company.

  "Your father is well. He looks little older than you. He's fishing
  most of the time, or busy reforesting that sandy region beyond the
  Foreland hills.

  "Your sister and I ride as usual and continue to improve the
  breeds of the various domestic creatures in which we are
  interested and you are not.

  "The pheasants are doing well this year, and we're beginning to
  turn them out with their foster-mothers.

  "Your father wishes me to tell you and Jim Westmore that the trout
  fishing is still fairly good, although it was better, of course,
  in May and June.

  "The usual parties and social amenities continue in Northbrook.
  Everybody included in that colony seems to have arrived, also the
  usual influx of guests, and there is much entertaining, tennis,
  golf, dances--the invariable card always offered there.

  "Claire and I go enough to keep from being too completely
  forgotten. Your father seldom bothers himself.

  "Also, the war in Europe has made us, at Foreland, disinclined to
  frivolity. Others, too, of the older society in Northbrook are
  more subdued than usual, devote themselves to quieter pursuits.
  And those among us who have sons of military age are prone to
  take life soberly in these strange, oppressive days when even
  under sunny skies in this land aloof from war, all are conscious
  of the tension, the vague foreboding, the brooding stillness that
  sometimes heralds storms.

  "But all north-country folk do not feel this way. The Gerhardts,
  for example, are very gay with a house full of guests and
  overflowing week-ends. The German Embassy, as always, is well
  represented at Hohenlinden. Your father won't go there at all now.
  As for Claire and myself, we await political ruptures before we
  indulge in social ones. And it doesn't look like war, now that Von
  Tirpitz has been sent to Coventry.

  "This, Garry darling, is my budget of news. Bring your guests
  whenever you please. You wouldn't bring anybody you oughtn't to;
  your family is liberal, informal, pleasantly indifferent, and
  always delightfully busy with its individual manias and fads; so
  come as soon as you please--sooner, please--because, strange as it
  may seem, your mother would like to see you."

The letter was what he had expected. But, as always, it made him very
grateful.

"Wonderful mother I have," he murmured, opening another letter from
his father:

  "DEAR GARRET:

  "Why the devil don't you come up? You've missed the cream of the
  fishing. There's nothing doing in the streams now, but at sunrise
  and toward evening they're breaking nicely in the lake.

  "I've put in sixty thousand three-year transplants this year on
  that sandy stretch. They are white, Scotch and Austrian. Your
  children will enjoy them.

  "The dogs are doing well. There's one youngster, the litter-tyrant
  of Goldenrod's brood, who ought to make a field winner. But
  there's no telling. You and I'll have 'em out on native woodcock.

  "There are some grouse, but we ought to let them alone for the
  next few years. As for the pheasants, they're everywhere now, in
  the brake, silver-grass, and weeds, peeping, scurrying,
  creeping--cunning little beggars and growing wild as quail.

  "The horses are all right. The crops promise well. Labour is
  devilish scarce, and unsatisfactory when induced to accept
  preposterous wages. What we need are coolies, if these lazy,
  native slackers continue to handicap the farmers who have to
  employ them. The American 'hired man'! He makes me sick. With few
  exceptions, he is incredibly stupid, ignorant, unwilling, lazy.

  "He's sometimes a crook, too; he takes pay for what he doesn't do;
  he steals your time; he cares absolutely nothing about your
  interests or convenience; he will leave you stranded in harvest
  time, without any notice at all; decent treatment he does not
  appreciate; he'll go without a warning even, leaving your horses
  unfed, your cattle unwatered, your crops rotting!

  "He's a degenerate relic of those real men who broke up the
  primæval wilderness. He is the reason for high prices, the cause
  of agricultural and industrial distress, the inert, sodden,
  fermenting, indigestible mass in the belly of the body-politic!

  "The American hired man! If the country doesn't spew him up, he'll
  kill it!

  "Perhaps you've heard me before on this subject, Garret. I'm
  likely to air my views, you know.

  "Well, my son, I look forward to your arrival. I am glad that
  Westmore is coming with you. As for your other guests, they are
  welcome, of course.

  "Your father,

  "REGINALD BARRES."

He laughed; this letter so perfectly revealed his father.

"Dad and his trout and his birds and his pines and his eternally
accursed hired help," he said to himself, "Dad and his monocle and his
immaculate attire--the finest man who ever fussed!" And he laughed
tenderly to himself as he broke the seal of his sister's brief note:

  "Garry dear, I've been so busy schooling horses and dancing that
  I've had no time for letter writing. So glad you're coming at
  last. Bring along any good novels you see. My best to Jim. Your
  guests can be well mounted, if they ride. Father is wild because
  there are more foxes than usual, but he's promised not to treat
  them as vermin, and the Northbrook pack is to hunt our territory
  this season, after all. Poor Dad! He is a brick, isn't he?"

  "Affectionately,

  "LEE."

Barres pocketed his sheaf of letters and began to stroll about the
studio, whistling the air of some recent musical atrocity.

Westmore, in his own room, composing verses--a secret vice unsuspected
by Barres--bade him "Shut up!"--the whistling no doubt ruining his
metre.

But Barres, with politest intentions, forgot himself so many times
that the other man locked up his "Lines to Thessalie when she was
sewing on a button for me," and came into the studio.

"Where is she?" he inquired naïvely.

"Where's who?" demanded Barres, still sensitive over the increasing
intimacy of this headlong young man and Thessalie Dunois.

"Thessa."

"In there fussing with Dulcie's togs. Go ahead in, if you care to."

"Is your stuff packed up?"

Barres nodded:

"Is yours?"

"Most of it. How many trunks is Thessa taking?"

"How do I know?" said Barres, with a trace of irritation. "She's at
liberty to take as many as she likes."

Westmore didn't notice the irritation; his mind was entirely occupied
by Thessalie--an intellectual condition which had recently become
rather painfully apparent to Barres, and, doubtless, equally if not
painfully apparent to Thessalie herself.

Probably Dulcie noticed it, too, but gave no sign, except when the
serious grey eyes stole toward Barres at times, as though vaguely
apprehensive that he might not be entirely in sympathy with Westmore's
enchanted state of mind.

As for Thessalie, though Westmore's naïve and increasing devotion
could scarcely escape her notice, it was utterly impossible to tell
how it affected her--whether, indeed, it made any impression at all.

For there seemed to be no difference in her attitude toward these two
men; it was plain enough that she liked them both--that she believed
in them implicitly, was happy with them, tranquil now in her new
security, and deeply penetrated with gratitude for their kindness to
her in her hour of need.

       *       *       *       *       *

"Come on in," coaxed Westmore, linking his arm in Barres', and
counting on the latter to give him countenance.

The arm of Barres remained rigid and unresponsive, but his legs were
reluctantly obliging and carried him along with Westmore to what had
been his own room before Thessalie had installed herself there.

And there she was on her knees, amid a riot of lingerie and feminine
effects, while Dulcie lovingly smoothed out and folded object after
object which Selinda placed between layers of pale blue tissue paper
in the trunks.

"How are things going, Thessa?" inquired Westmore, in the hearty,
cheerful voice of the intruder who hopes to be made welcome. But her
attitude was discouraging.

"You know you are only in the way," she said. "Drive him out,
Dulcie!"

Dulcie laughed and looked at them both with shyly friendly eyes:

"Is my trousseau not beautiful?" she asked. "If you'll step outside
I'll put on a hat and gown for you----"

"Oh, Dulcie!" protested Thessalie, "I want you to dawn upon them, and
a dress rehearsal would spoil it all!"

Westmore tiptoed around amid lovely, frail mounds of fabrics, until
ordered to an empty chair and forbidden further motion. It was all the
same to him, so long as his fascinated gaze could rest on Thessalie.

Which further annoyed Barres, and he backed out and walked to the
studio, considerably disturbed in his mind.

"That man," he thought, "is making an ass of himself, hanging around
Thessa like a half-witted child. She can't help noticing it, but she
doesn't seem to do anything about it. I don't know why she doesn't
squelch him--unless she likes it----" But the idea was so unpleasant
to Barres that he instantly abandoned that train of thought and
prepared for himself a comfortable nest on the lounge, a pipe, and an
uncut volume of flimsy summer fiction.

In the middle of these somewhat sullen preparations, there came a ring
at his studio door. Only the superintendent or strangers rang that
bell as a rule, and Barres went to his desk, slipped his loaded pistol
into his coat pocket, then walked to the door and opened it.

Soane stood there, his face a shiny-red from drink, his legs steady
enough. As usual when drunk, he was inclined to be garrulous.

"What's the matter?" inquired Barres in a low voice.

"Wisha, Misther Barres, sorr, av ye're not too busy f'r to----"

"S-h-h! Don't bellow at the top of your voice. Wait a moment!"

He picked up his hat and came out into the corridor, closing the
studio door behind him so that Dulcie, if she appeared on the scene,
should not be humiliated before the others.

Soane began again, but the other cut him short:

"Don't start talking here," he said. "Come down to your own quarters
if you're going to yell your head off!" And he led the way,
impatiently, down the stairs, past the desk where Miss Kurtz sat
stolid and mottled-faced as a lump of uncooked sausage, and into
Soane's quarters.

"Now, you listen to me first!" he said when Soane had entered and he
had closed the door behind them. "You keep out of my apartment and out
of Dulcie's way, too, when you're drunk! You're not going to last very
long on this job; I can see that plainly----"

"Faith, sorr, you're right! I'm fired out entirely this blessed
minute!"

"You've been discharged?"

"I have that, sorr!"

"What for? Drunkenness?"

"Th' divil do I know phwat for! Wisha, then, Misther Barres, is there
anny harrm av a man----"

"Yes, there is! I told you Grogan's would do the trick for you. Now
you're discharged without a reference, I suppose."

Soane smiled airily:

"Misther Barres, dear, don't lave that worrit ye! I want no riference
from anny landlord. Sure, landlords is tyrants, too! An' phwat the
divil should I be wantin'----"

"What are you going to do then?"

Soane hooked both thumbs into the armholes of his vest, and swaggered
about the room:

"God bless yer kind heart, sorr, I've a-plenty to do and more for good
measure!" He came up to confront Barres, and laid a mysterious finger
alongside his over-red nose and began to brag:

"There's thim in high places as looks afther the likes o' me, sorr.
There's thim that thrusts me, thim that depinds on me----"

"Have you another job?"

Soane's scorn was superb:

"A job is ut? Misther Barres, dear, I was injuced f'r to accept a
_position_ of grave importance!"

"Here in town?"

"Somewhere around tin thousand miles away or thereabouts," remarked
Soane airily.

"Do you mean to take Dulcie with you?"

"Musha, then, Misther Barres, 'tis why I come to ye above f'r to ax ye
will ye look afther Dulcie av I go away on me thravels?"

"Yes, I will!... Where are you going? What is all this stuff you're
talking, anyway----"

"Shtuff? God be good to you, it's no shtuff I talk, Misther Barres!
Sure, can't a decent man thravel f'r to see the wurruld as God made it
an' no harrm in----"

"Be careful what company you travel in," said Barres, looking at him
intently. "You have been travelling around New York in very suspicious
company, Soane. I know more about it than you think I do. And it
wouldn't surprise me if you have a run-in with the police some day."

"The po-lice, sorr! Arrah, then, me fut in me hand an' me tongue in me
cheek to the likes o' thim! An' lave them go hoppin' afther me av
they like. The po-lice is ut! Open y'r two ears, asthore, an' listen
here!--there'll be nary po-lice, no nor constabulary, nor excise, nor
landlords the day that Ireland flies her flag on Dublin Castle! Sure,
that will be the grand sight, with all the rats a-runnin', an' all the
hurryin' and scurryin' an' the futther and mutther----"

"_What_ are you gabbling about, Soane? What's all this boasting
about?"

"Gabble is ut? Is it boastin' I am? Sorra the day! An' there do be
grand gintlemen and gay ladies to-day that shall look for a roof an' a
sup o' tay this day three weeks, when th' fut o' the tyrant is lifted
from the neck of Ireland an' the landlords is runnin' for their
lives----"

"I thought so!" exclaimed Barres, disgusted.

"An' phwat was ye thinkin', sorr?"

"That your German friends at Grogan's are stirring up trouble among
the Irish. What's all this nonsense, anyway? Are they trying to
persuade you to follow the old Fenian tactics and raid Canada? Or is
it an armed expedition to the Irish coast? You'd better be careful;
they'll only lock you up here, but it's a hanging matter over there!"

"Is it so?" grinned Soane.

"It surely is."

"Well, then, be aisy, Misther Barres, dear. Av there's hangin' to be
done this time, 'twill not be thim as wears the green that hangs!"

Barres slowly shook his head:

"This is German work. You're sticking your neck into the noose."

"Lave the noose for the Clan-na-Gael to pull, sorr, an' 'twill
shqueeze no Irish neck!"

"You're a fool, Soane! These Germans are exploiting such men as you.
Where's your common sense? Can't you see you're playing a German game?
What do they care what becomes of you or of Ireland? All they want is
for you to annoy England at any cost. And the cost is death! Do you
dream for an instant that you and your friends stand a ghost of a
chance if you are crazy enough to invade Canada? Do you suppose it
possible to land an expedition on the Irish coast?"

Soane deliberately winked at him. Then he burst into laughter and
stood rocking there on heel and toe while his mirth lasted.

But the inevitable Celtic reaction presently sobered him and switched
him into a sombre recapitulation of Erin's wrongs. And this tragic
inventory brought the inevitable tears in time. And Woe awoke in him
the memory of the personal and pathetic.

The world had dealt him a wretched hand. He had sat in a crooked game
from the beginning. The cards had been stacked; the dice were cogged.
And now he meant to make the world disgorge--pay up the living that it
owed him.

Barres attempted to stem the flow of volubility, but it instantly
became a torrent.

Nobody knew the sorrows of Ireland or of the Irish. Tyranny had marked
them for its own. As for himself--once a broth of a boy--he had been
torn from the sacred precincts of his native shanty and consigned to a
loveless, unhappy marriage.

Then Barres listened without interrupting. But the woes of Soane
became vague at that point. Veiled references to being "thrampled on,"
to "th' big house," to "thim that was high an' shtiff-necked,"
abounded in an unconnected way. There was something about being a
servant at the fireside of his own wife--a footstool on the hearth of
his own home--other incomprehensible plaints and mutterings, many
scalding tears, a blub or two, and a sort of whining silence.

Then Barres said:

"Who is Dulcie, Soane?"

The man, seated now on his bed, lifted a congested and stupid visage
as though he had not comprehended.

"Is Dulcie your daughter?" demanded Barres.

Soane's blue eyes wandered wildly in an agony of recollection:

"Did I say she was _not_, sorr?" he faltered. "Av I told ye that, may
the saints forgive me----"

"Is it true?"

"Ah, what was I afther sayin', Misther----"

"Never mind what you said or left unsaid! I want to ask you another
question. Who was Eileen Fane?"

Soane bounded to his feet, his blue eyes ablaze:

"Holy Mother o' God! What have I said!"

"Was Eileen Fane your wife?"

"Did I say her blessed name!" shouted Soane. "Sorra the sup I tuk that
loosed the tongue o' me this cursed day! 'Twas the dommed whishkey
inside o' me that told ye that--not me--not Larry Soane! Wurra the day
I said it! An' listen, now, f'r the love o' God! Take pride to
yourself, sorr, for all the goodness ye done to Dulcie.

"An' av I go, and I come no more to vex her, I thank God 'tis in a
gintleman's hands the child do be----" He choked; his marred hands
dropped by his side, and he stared dumbly at Barres for a moment.
Then:

"Av I come no more, will ye guard her?"

"Yes."

"Will ye do fair by her, Misther Barres?"

"Yes."

"Call God to hear ye say ut!"

"So--help me--God."

Soane dropped on to the bed and took his battered face and curly head
between his hands.

"I'll say no more," he said thickly. "Nor you nor she shall know no
more. An' av ye have guessed it out, kape it locked in. I'll say no
more.... I was good to her--in me own way. But ye cud see--anny wan
with half a cock-eye cud see.... I was--honest--with her mother....
She made the bargain.... I tuk me pay an' held me tongue.... 'Tis
whishkey talks, not me.... I tuk me pay an' I kept to the bargain....
Wan year.... Then--she was dead of it--like a flower, sorr--like the
rose ye pull an' lave lyin' in the sun.... Like that, sorr--in a
year.... An' I done me best be Dulcie.... I done me best. An' held to
the bargain.... An' done me best be Dulcie--little Dulcie--the wee
baby that had come at last--_her_ baby--Dulcie Fane!..."




XIX

A CHANCE ENCOUNTER


A single shaded lamp illuminated the studio, making the shapes of
things vague where outline and colour were lost in the golden dusk.
Dulcie, alone at the piano, accompanied her own voice with soft,
scarcely heard harmonies, as she hummed, one after another, old
melodies she had learned from the Sisters so long ago--"The Harp,"
"Shandon Bells," "The Exile," "Shannon Water"--songs of that sort and
period:

    "_The Bells of Shandon,
    Then sound so grand on
  The pleasant waters of the River Lee._"

Thessalie sat by the open window and Westmore squatted at her feet on
the sill of the little balcony, doing, as usual, all the talking while
she lay deep in her armchair waving her fan, listening, responding
with a low-voiced laugh or word now and again.

Dulcie sang:

    "_On the banks of the Shannon
  When Mary was nigh._"

From that she changed to a haunting, poignant little song; and Barres
looked up from his desk under the lamp. Then he sealed and stamped the
three letters which he had written to his Foreland kinfolk, and,
holding them in one hand, took his hat from the table with the other,
as though preparing to rise. Dulcie half turned her head, her hands
still idling over the shadowy keys:

"Are you going out?"

"Just to the corner."

"Why don't you mail your letters down stairs?"

"I'll step around to the branch post office; they'll go quicker....
What was that air you were playing just now?"

"It is called 'Mea Culpa.'"

"Play it again."

She turned to the keys, recommenced the Celtic air, and sang in a
clear, childish voice:

  "Wake, little maid!
  Red dawns the morn,
  The last stars fade,
  The day is born;
  Now the first lark wings high in air,
  And sings the Virgin's praises there!

  "I am afraid
  To see the morn;
  I lie dismayed
  Beside the thorn.
  Gazing at God with frightened eyes,
  Where larks are singing in the skies.

      II

  "Why, mourn, dear maid,
  Alone, forlorn,
  White and afraid
  Beside the thorn,
  With weeping eyes and sobbing breath
  And fair sweet face as pale as death?

  "For love repayed
  By Mary's scorn,
  I weep, betrayed
  By one unborn!
  Where can a poor lass hide her head
  Till day be done and she be dead!"

The voice and playing lingered among the golden shadows, hushed to a
whisper, ceased.

"Is it very old, that sad little song?" he asked at last.

"My mother wrote it.... There is the _Mea Culpa_, still, which ends
it. Shall I sing it?"

"Go on," he nodded.

So she sang the _Mea Culpa_:

      III

    "Winds in the whinns
     Shall kene for me--
  (_For Love is Love though men be men!_)
     Till all my sins
     Forgiven be--
  (_Maxima culpa, Lord. Amen._)
     And Mary's grace my fault shall purge,
     While skylarks plead my cause above,
     And breezy rivers sing my dirge,
     Because I loved and died of Love.
  (_I love, and die of Love!_)
               Amen."

When the soft cadence of the last notes was stilled, Dulcie turned
once more toward him in the uncertain light.

"It's very lovely," he said, "and dreadfully triste. The air alone is
enough to break your heart."

"My mother, when she wrote it, was unhappy, I imagine----" She swung
slowly around to face the keys again.

"Do you know why she was so unhappy?"

"She fell in love," said the girl over her shoulder. "And it saddened
her life, I think."

He sat motionless for a while. Dulcie did not turn again. Presently he
rose and walked slowly out and down stairs, carrying his letters with
him.

The stolid, mottled-faced German girl was on duty at the desk, and she
favoured him with a sour look, as usual.

"There was a gen'l'man to see you," she mumbled.

"When?"

"Just now. I didn't know you was in."

"Well, why didn't you ring up the apartment and find out?" he
demanded.

She gave him a sullen look:

"Here's his card," she said, shoving it across the desk.

Barres picked up the card. "Georges Renoux, Architect," he read.
"Hotel Astor" was pencilled in the corner.

Barres knit his brows, trying to evoke in his memory a physiognomy to
fit a name which seemed hazily familiar.

"Did the gentleman leave any message?" he asked.

"No."

"Well, please don't make another mistake of this kind," he said.

She stared at him like a sulky sow, her little eyes red with malice.

"Where is Soane?" he inquired.

"Out."

"Where did he go?"

"I didn't ask him," she replied, with a slight sneer.

"I wish to see him," continued Barres patiently. "Could you tell me
whether he was likely to go to Grogans?"

"What's Grogan's?"

"Grogan's Café on Third Avenue--where Soane hangs out," he managed to
explain calmly. "You know where it is. You have called him up there."

"I don't know nothin' about it," she grunted, resuming the greasy
novel she had been reading.

But when Barres, now thoroughly incensed, turned to leave, her small,
pig-like eyes peeped slyly after him. And after he had disappeared
through the corridor into the street she hastily unhooked the
transmitter and called Grogan's.

"This is Martha.... Martha Kurtz. Yes, I want Frank Lehr.... Is that
you, Frank?... The artist, Barres, who was pumping Soane the other
night, is after him again. I told you how I listened at the door, and
how I heard that Irish souse blabbing and bragging.... What?...
Sure!... Barres was at the desk just now inquiring if Soane had gone
to Grogan's.... You bet!... Barres is leery since _K17_ hit him with a
gun. Sure; he's stickin' his nose into everything.... Look out for
him, if he comes around Grogan's askin' for Soane.... And say; there
was a French guy here callin' on Barres. I knew he was in, but I said
he was out. I was just goin' to call you when Barres came down....
Yes, I got his name.... Wait, I copied it out.... Here it is, 'Georges
Renoux, Architect.' And he wrote 'Hotel Astor' in the corner.

"Yes, he said tell Barres to call him up. Naw, I didn't give him the
message.... You don't say! Is that right? He's one o' them nosey
Frenchman? _A captain_?... Gee!... What's his lay?... In New York?
Well, you better watch out then.... Sure, I'll ring you if he comes
back!... No, there ain't no news.... Yes, I was to the Astor grille
last night, and I talked to _K17_.... There was a guy higher up there.
I don't know who. He looked like he was a dark complected Jew....
_Ferez Bey_?... Gee!... You expect Skeel? To-night? Doin' _what_? You
think this man Renoux is watchin' the Clan-na-Gael? Well, you better
tell Soane to shut his mouth then.

"Yes, that Dunois girl is here still. It's a pity _K17_ lost his
nerve.... Well, you better look out for her and for Barres, too.
They're as thick as last year honey!

"All right, I'll let you know anything. Bye-bye."

       *       *       *       *       *

Barres, walking leisurely up the street, kept watching for Soane
somewhere along the block; but could see nobody in the darkness,
resembling him.

Outdoors the July night was cooler; young girls, hatless, in summer
frocks, gathered on stoops or strolled through the lamplit dark.
Somewhere a piano sounded, not unpleasantly.

In the branch post office he mailed his letters, turned to go out, and
caught sight of Soane passing along the sidewalk just outside.

And with him was the one-eyed man, Max Freund--the man who, perhaps,
had robbed Dulcie of half the letter.

His first emotion was sheer anger, and it started him toward the door,
bent on swift but unconsidered vengeance.

But before this impulse culminated in his collaring the one-eyed man,
sufficient common sense came to the rescue. A row meant publicity, and
an inquiry by authority would certainly involve the writer of the
partly stolen letter--Thessalie Dunois.

Cool and collected now, but mad all through, Barres continued to
follow Soane and Freund, dropping back several yards to keep out of
sight, and trying to make up his mind what he ought to do.

The cross street was fairly well lighted; there seemed to be plenty of
evening strollers abroad, so that he was not particularly conspicuous
on the long block between Sixth and Fifth Avenues.

The precious pair, arriving at Fifth Avenue, halted, blocked by the
normal rush of automobiles, unchecked now by a traffic policeman.

So Barres halted, too, and drew back alongside a shop window.

And, as he stopped and stepped aside, he saw a man pause on the
sidewalk across the street and move back cautiously into the shadow of
a façade opposite.

There was nothing significant in the occurrence; Barres merely
happened to notice it; then he turned his eyes toward Soane and
Freund, who now were crossing Fifth Avenue. And he went after them,
with no definite idea in his head.

Soane and Freund walked on eastward; a tramcar on Madison Avenue
stopped them once more; and, as Barres also halted behind them and
stepped aside into the shadows, there, just across the street, he saw
the same man again halt, retire, and stand motionless in a recess
between two shop windows.

Barres tried to keep one eye on him and the other on Soane and Freund.
The two latter were crossing Madison Avenue; and as soon as they had
crossed, still headed east, the man on the other side of the street
came out of his shadowy recess and started eastward, too.

Then Barres also started, but now he was watching the man across the
street as well as keeping Soane and Freund in view--watching the
former solitary individual with increasing curiosity.

Was that man keeping an eye on him? Was he following Soane and Freund?
Was he, in fact, following anybody, and had the lively imagination of
Barres begun to make something out of nothing?

At Park Avenue Freund and Soane paused, not apparently because of any
vehicular congestion impeding their progress, but they seemed to be
engaged in vehement conversation, Soane's excitable tones reaching
Barres, where he had halted again beside the tradesmen's gate of a
handsome private house.

And once more, across the street the solitary figure also halted and
stood unstirring under a porte-cochère.

Barres, straining his eyes, strove to make out details of his features
and dress. And presently he concluded that, though the man did turn
and glance in his direction occasionally, his attention was
principally fixed on Soane and Freund.

His movements, too, seemed to corroborate this idea, because as soon
as they started across Park Avenue the man on the opposite side of the
street was in instant motion. And Barres, now intensely curious,
walked eastward once more, following all three.

At Lexington Avenue Soane sheered off and, despite the clutch of
Freund, went into a saloon. Freund finally followed.

As usual, across the street the solitary figure had stopped. Barres,
also immobile, kept him in view. Evidently he, too, was awaiting the
reappearance of Soane and Freund.

Suddenly Barres made up his mind to have a good look at him. He walked
to the corner, walked over to the south side of the street, turned
west, and slowly sauntered past the man, looking him deliberately in
the face.

As for the stranger, far from shrinking or avoiding the scrutiny, he
on his part betrayed a very lively interest in the physiognomy of
Barres; and as that young man approached he found himself scanned by a
brilliant and alert pair of eyes, as keen as a fox-terrier's.

In frank but subtly hostile curiosity their glances met and crossed.
Then, in an instant, a rather odd smile glimmered in the stranger's
eyes, twitched at his pleasant mouth, just shaded by a tiny
moustache:

"If you please, sir," he said in a low, amused voice, "you will
not--as they say in New York--butt in."

Barres, astonished, stood quite still. The young man continued to
regard him with a very intelligent and slightly ironical expression:

"I do not know, of course," he said, "whether you are of the city
police, the State service, the Post Office, the Department of Justice,
the Federal Secret Service"--he shrugged expressive shoulders--"but
this I do know very well, that through lack of proper coordination in
the branches of all your departments of City, State, and Federal
surety, there is much bungling, much working at cross purposes, much
interference, and many blunders.

"Therefore, I beg of you not to do anything further in the matter
which very evidently occupies you." And he bowed and glanced across at
the saloon into which Soane and Freund had disappeared.

Barres was thinking hard. He drew out his cigarette case, lighted a
cigarette, came to his conclusions:

"You are watching Freund and Soane?" he asked bluntly.

"And you, sir? Are you observing the stars?" inquired the young man,
evidently amused at something or other unperceived by Barres.

The latter said, frankly and pleasantly:

"I _am_ following those two men. It is evident that you are, also. So
may I ask, have you any idea where they are going?"

"I can guess, perhaps."

"To Grogan's?"

"Of course."

"Suppose," said Barres quietly, "I put myself under your orders and go
along with you."

The strange young man was much diverted:

"In your kind suggestion there appears to be concealed a germ of
common sense," he said. "In which particular service are you employed,
sir?"

"And you?" inquired Barres, smilingly.

"I imagine you may have guessed," said the young man, evidently
greatly amused at something or other.

Sheer intuition prompted Barres, and he took a chance.

"Yes, I have ventured to guess that you are an Intelligence Officer in
the French service, and secretly on duty in the United States."

The young man winced but forced a very bland smile.

"My compliments, whether your guess is born of certainty or not. And
you, sir? May I inquire your status?"

"I'm merely a civilian with a season's Plattsburg training as my only
professional experience. I'm afraid you won't believe this, but it's
quite true. I'm not in either Municipal, State, or Federal service.
But I don't believe I can stand this Hun business much longer without
enlisting with the Canadians."

"Oh. May I ask, then, why you follow that pair yonder?"

"I'll tell you why. I am a painter. I live at Dragon Court. Soane, an
Irishman, is superintendent of the building. I have reason to believe
that German propagandists have been teaching him disloyalty under
promise of aiding Ireland to secure political independence.

"Coming out of the branch post office this evening, where I had taken
some letters, I saw Soane and that fellow, Freund. I really couldn't
tell you exactly what my object was in following them, except that I
itched to beat up the German and refrained because of the inevitable
notoriety that must follow.

"Perhaps I had a vague idea of following them to Grogan's, where I
knew they were bound, just to look over the place and see for myself
what that German rendezvous is like.

"Anyway, what kept me on their trail was noticing _you_; and your
behaviour aroused my curiosity. That is the entire truth concerning
myself and this affair. And if you believe me, and if you think I can
be of any service to you, take me along with you. If not, then I shall
certainly not interfere with whatever you are engaged in."

For a few moments the young Intelligence Officer looked intently at
Barres, the same amused, inexplicable smile on his face. Then:

"Your name," he said, with malicious gaiety, "is Garret Barres."

At that Barres completely lost countenance, but the other man began to
laugh:

"Certainly you are Garry Barres, a painter, a celebrated Beaux Arts
man of----"

"Good heavens!" exclaimed Barres, "_you_ are Renoux! You are little
Georges Renoux, of the atelier Ledoux!--on the architect's side!--you
are that man who left his card for me this evening! I've seen you
often! You were a little devil of a nouveau!--but you were always the
centre of every bit of mischief in the rue Bonaparte! You put the
whole Quarter en charette! I saw you do it."

"I saw _you_," laughed Renoux, "on one notorious occasion, teaching
jiu-jitsu to a policeman! Don't talk to me about my escapades!"

Cordially, firmly, in grinning silence, they shook hands. And for a
moment the intervening years seemed to melt away; the golden past
became the present; and Renoux even thrilled a little at the
condescension of Barres in shaking hands with him--the _nouveau_
honoured by the _ancien_!--the reverence never entirely forgotten.

"What are you, anyway, Renoux?" asked Barres, still astonished at the
encounter, but immensely interested.

"My friend, you have already guessed. I am Captain: Military
Intelligence Department. You know? There are no longer architects or
butchers or bakers in France, only soldiers. And of those soldiers I
am a very humble one."

"On secret duty here," nodded Barres.

"I need not ask an old Beaux Arts comrade to be discreet and loyal."

"My dear fellow, France is next in my heart after my own country. Tell
me, you are following that Irishman, Soane, and his boche friend, Max
Freund, are you not?"

"It happens to be as you say," admitted Renoux, smilingly. "A job for
a 'flic,' is it not?"

"Shall I tell you what I know about those two men?--what I suspect?"

"I should be very glad----" But at that moment Soane came out of the
saloon across the way, and Freund followed.

"May I come with you?" whispered Barres.

"If you care to. Yes, come," nodded Renoux, keeping his clear,
intelligent eyes on the two across the street, who now stood under a
lamp-post, engaged in some sort of drunken altercation.

Renoux, watching them all the while, continued in a low voice:

"Remember, Barres, if we chance to meet again here in America, I am
merely Georges Renoux, an architect and a fellow Beaux Arts man."

"Certainly.... Look! They're starting on, those two!"

"Come," whispered Renoux.

Soane, unsteady of leg and talkative, was now making for Third Avenue
beside Freund, who had taken him by the arm, in hopes, apparently, of
steadying them both.

As Renoux and Barres followed, the latter cautiously requested any
instructions which Renoux might think fit to give.

Renoux said in his cool, agreeable voice:

"You know it's rather unusual for an officer to bother personally with
this sort of thing. But my people--even the renegade Germans in our
service--have been unable to obtain necessary information for us in
regard to Grogan's.

"It happened this afternoon that certain information was brought to me
which suggested that I myself take a look at Grogan's. And that is
what I was going to do when I saw you on the street, carefully
stalking two well-known suspects."

They both laughed cautiously.

Grogan's was now in sight on the corner, its cherrywood magnificence
and its bilious imitation of stained glass aglow with electricity. And
into its "Family Entrance" swaggered Soane, followed by the lank
figure of Max Freund.

Renoux and Barres had halted fifty yards away. Neither spoke. And
presently came to them a short, dark, powerfully built man, who
strolled up casually, puffing a large, rank cigar.

Renoux named him to Barres:

"Emile Souchez, one of my men." He added: "Anybody gone in yet?"

"Otto Klein, of Gerhardt, Klein & Schwartzmeyer went in an hour ago,"
replied Souchez.

"Oho," nodded Renoux softly. "That signifies something really
interesting. Who else went in?"

"Small fry--Dave Sendelbeck, Louis Hochstein, Terry Madigan, Dolan,
McBride, Clancy--all Clan-na-Gael men."

"Skeel?"

"No. He's still at the Astor. Franz Lehr came out about half an hour
ago and took a taxi west. Jacques Alost is following in another."

Renoux thought a moment:

"Lehr has probably gone to see Skeel at the Hotel Astor," he
concluded. "We're going to have our chance, I think."

Then, turning to Barres:

"We've decided to take a sport-chance to-night. We have most reliable
information that this man Lehr, who now owns Grogan's, will carry here
upon his person papers of importance to my Government--and to yours,
too, Barres.

"The man from whom he shall procure these papers is an Irish gentleman
named Murtagh Skeel, just arrived from Buffalo and stopping overnight
at the Hotel Astor.

"Lehr, we were informed, was to go personally and get those papers....
Do you really wish to help us?"

"Certainly."

"Very well. I expect we shall have what you call a mix-up. You will
please, therefore, walk into Grogan's--not by the family entrance, but
by the swinging doors on Lexington Avenue. Kindly refresh yourself
there with some Munich beer; also eat a sandwich at my expense, if you
care to. Then you will give yourself the pains to inquire the way to
the wash-room. And there you will possess your soul in amiable
patience until you shall hear me speak your name in a very quiet,
polite tone."

Barres, recognising the familiar mock seriousness of student days in
Paris, began to smile. Renoux frowned and continued his instructions:

"When you hear me politely pronounce your name, mon vieux, then you
shall precipitate yourself valiantly to the aid of Monsieur Souchez
and myself--and perhaps Monsieur Alost--and help us to hold, gag and
search the somewhat violent German animal whom we corner inside the
family entrance of Herr Grogan!"

Barres had difficulty in restraining his laughter. Renoux was very
serious, with the delightful mock gravity of a witty and perfectly
fearless Frenchman.

"Lehr?" inquired Barres, still laughing.

"That is the animal under discussion. There will be a taxicab awaiting
us----" He turned to Souchez: "Dis, donc, Emile, faut employer ton
coup du Pêre François pour nous assurer de cet animal là."

"B'en sure," nodded Souchez, fishing furtively in the side pocket of
his coat and displaying the corner of a red silk handkerchief. He
stuffed it into his pocket again; Renoux smiled carelessly at Barres.

"Mon vieux," he said, "I hope it will be like a good fight in the
Quarter--what with all those Irish in there. You desire to get your
head broken?"

"You bet I do, Renoux!"

"Bien! So now, if you are quite ready?" he suggested. "Merci,
monsieur, et à bientôt!" He bowed profoundly.

Barres, still laughing, walked to Lexington Avenue, crossed northward,
and entered the swinging doors of Grogan's, perfectly enchanted to
have his finger in the pie at last, and aching for an old-fashioned
Latin Quarter row, the pleasures of which he had not known for several
too respectable years.




XX

GROGAN'S


The material attraction of Grogan's was principally German beer; the
æsthetic appeal of the place was also characteristically Teutonic and
consisted of peculiarly offensive decorations, including much red
cherry, much imitation stained glass, many sprawling brass fixtures,
and many electric lights. Only former inmates of the Fatherland could
have conceived and executed the embellishments of Grogan's.

There was a palatial bar, behind which fat, white-jacketed Teutons
served slopping steins of beer upon a perforated brass surface. There
was a centre table, piled with those barbarous messes known to the
undiscriminating Hun as "delicatessen"--raw fish, sour fish, smoked
fish, flabby portions of defunct pig in various guises--all naturally
nauseating to the white man's olfactories and palate, and all equally
relished by the beer-swilling boche.

A bartender with Pekinese and apoplectic eyes and the scorbutic facial
symptoms of a Strassburg liver, took the order from Barres and set
before him a frosty glass of Pilsner, incidentally drenching the bar
at the same time with swipes, which he thriftily scraped through the
perforated brass strainer into a slop-bucket underneath.

Being a stranger there, Barres was furtively scrutinised at first, but
there seemed to be nothing particularly suspicious about a young man
who stopped in for a glass of Pilsner on a July night, and nobody
paid him any further attention.

Besides, two United States Secret Service men had just gone out,
followed, as usual, by one Johnny Klein; and the Germans at the tables
at the bar, and behind the bar were still sneeringly commenting on the
episode--now a familiar one and of nightly occurrence.

So only very casual attention was paid to Barres and his Pilsner and
his rye-bread and sardine sandwich, which he took over to a vacant
table to desiccate and discuss at his leisure.

People came and went; conversation in Hunnish gutturals became
general; soiled evening newspapers were read, raw fish seized in fat
red fingers and suckingly masticated; also, skat and pinochle were
resumed with unwiped hands, and there was loud slapping of cards on
polished table tops, and many porcine noises.

Barres finished his Pilsner, side-stepped the sandwich, rose, asked a
bartender for the wash-room, and leisurely followed the direction
given.

There was nobody in there. He had, for company, a mouse, a soiled
towel on a roller, and the remains of some unattractive soap. He
lighted a cigarette, surveyed himself in the looking glass, cast a
friendly glance at the mouse, and stood waiting, flexing his biceps
muscles with a smile of anticipated pleasure in renewing the use of
them after such a very long period wasted in the peaceful pursuit of
art.

For he was still a boy at heart. All creative minds retain something
of those care-free, irresponsible years as long as the creative talent
lasts. As it fails, worldly caution creeps in like a thief in the
night, to steal the spontaneous pleasures of the past and leave in
their places only the old galoshes of prudence and the finger-prints
of dull routine.

Barres stood by the open door of the wash-room, listening. The
corridor which passed it led on into another corridor running at right
angles. This was the Family Entrance.

Now, as he waited there, he heard the street door open, and instantly
the deadened shock of a rush and struggle.

As he started toward the Family Entrance, straining his ears for the
expected summons, a man in flight turned the corner into his corridor
so abruptly that he had him by the throat even before he recognised in
him the man with the thick eye-glasses who had hit him between the
eyes with a pistol--the "Watcher" of Dragon Court!

With a swift sigh of gratitude to Chance, Barres folded the fleeing
Watcher to his bosom and began the business he had to transact with
him--an account too long overdue.

The Watcher fought like a wildcat, but in silence--fought madly, using
both fists, feet, baring his teeth, too, with frantic attempts to use
them. But Barres gave him no opportunity to kick, bite, or to pull out
any weapon; he battered the Watcher right and left, swinging on him
like lightning, and his blows drummed on him like the tattoo of fists
on a punching bag until one stinging crack sent the Watcher's head
snapping back with a jerk, and a terrific jolt knocked him as clean
and as flat as a dead carp.

There were papers in his coat, also a knuckle-duster, a big
clasp-knife, and an automatic pistol. And Barres took them all,
stuffed them into his own pockets, and, dragging his still dormant but
twitching victim by the collar, as a cat proudly lugs a heavy rat, he
started for the Family Entrance, where Donnybrook had now broken
loose.

But the silence of the terrific struggle in that narrow entry, the
absence of all yelling, was significant. No Irish whoops, no Teutonic
din of combat shattered the stillness of that dim corridor--only the
deadened sounds of blows and shuffling of frantic feet. It was very
evident that nobody involved desired to be interrupted by the police,
or call attention to the location of the battle field.

Renoux, Souchez, and a third companion were in intimate and desperate
conflict with half a dozen other men--dim, furious figures fighting
there under the flickering gas jet from which the dirty globe had been
knocked into fragments.

Into this dusty maelstrom of waving arms and legs went Barres--first
dropping his now inert prey--and began to hit out enthusiastically
right and left, at the nearest hostile countenance visible.

His was a flank attack and totally unexpected by the attackees; and
the diversion gave Renoux time to seize a muscular, struggling
opponent, hold him squirming while Souchez passed his handkerchief
over his throat and the third man turned his pockets inside out.

Then Renoux called breathlessly to Barres:

"All right, mon vieux! Face to the rear front! March!"

For a moment they stiffened to face a battering rush from the stairs.
Suddenly a pistol spoke, and an Irish voice burst out:

"Whist, ye domm fool! G'wan wid yer fishtin' an' can th' goon-play!"

There came a splintering crash as the rickety banisters gave way and
several Teutonic and Hibernian warriors fell in a furious heap,
blocking the entry with an unpremeditated obstacle.

Instantly Souchez, Barres and the other man backed out into the
street, followed nimbly by Renoux and his plunder.

Already a typical Third Avenue crowd was gathering, though the ominous
glimmer of a policeman's buttons had not yet caught the lamplight from
the street corner.

Then the door of Grogan's burst open and an embattled Irishman
appeared. But at first glance the hopelessness of the situation
presented itself to him; a taxi loaded with French and American
franc-tireurs was already honking triumphantly away westward; an
excited and rapidly increasing throng pressed around the Family
Entrance; also, the distant glitter of a policeman's shield and
buttons now extinguished all hope of pursuit.

Soane glared at the crowd out of enraged and blood-shot eyes:

"G'wan home, ye bunch of bums!" he said thickly, and slammed the door
to the Family Entrance of Grogan's notorious café.

At 42d Street and Madison Avenue the taxi stopped and Souchez and
Alost got out and went rapidly across the street toward the Grand
Central depot. Then the taxi proceeded west, north again, then once
more west.

Renoux, busy with a bleeding nose, remarked carelessly that Souchez
and Alost were taking a train and were in a hurry, and that he himself
was going back to the Astor.

"You do not mind coming with me, Barres?" he added. "In my rooms we
can have a bite and a glass together, and then we can brush up. That
was a nice little fight, was it not, mon ami?"

"Fine," said Barres with satisfaction.

"Quite like the old and happy days," mused Renoux, surveying wilted
collar and rumpled tie of his comrade. "You came off well; you have
merely a bruised cheek." His eyes began to sparkle and he laughed: "Do
you remember that May evening when your very quarrelsome atelier
barricaded the Café de la Source and forbade us to enter--and my
atelier marched down the Boul' Mich' with its Kazoo band playing our
atelier march, determined to take your café by assault? Oh, my! What a
delightful fight that was!"

"Your crazy comrades stuffed me into the fountain among the goldfish.
I thought I'd drown," said Barres, laughing.

"I know, but your atelier gained a great victory that night, and you
came over to Müller's with your Kazoo band playing the Fireman's
March, and you carried away our palms and bay-trees in their green
tubs, and you threw them over the Pont-au-Change into the Seine!----"

They were laughing like a pair of schoolboys now, quite convulsed and
holding to each other.

"Do you remember," gasped Barres, "that girl who danced the Carmagnole
on the Quay?"

"Yvonne Tête-de-Linotte!"

"And the British giant from Julien's, who threw everybody out of the
Café Montparnasse and invited the Quarter in to a free banquet?"

"McNeil!"

"What ever became of that pretty girl, Doucette de Valmy?"

"Oh, it was she who cheered on your atelier to the assault on
Müllers!----"

Laughter stifled them.

"What crazy creatures we all were," said Renoux, staunching the last
crimson drops oozing from his nose. Then, more soberly: "We French
have a grimmer affair over there than the joyous rows of the Latin
Quarter. I'm sorry now that we didn't throw every waiter in Müller's
after the bay-trees. There would have been so many fewer spies to
betray France."

The taxi stopped at the 44th Street entrance to the Astor. They
descended, Renoux leading, walked through the corridor to Peacock
Alley, turned to the right through the bar, then to the left into the
lobby, and thence to the elevator.

In Renoux's rooms they turned on the electric light, locked the door,
closed the transom, then spread their plunder out on a table.

To Renoux's disgust his own loot consisted of sealed envelopes full of
clippings from German newspapers published in Chicago, Milwaukee, and
New York.

"That animal, Lehr," he said with a wry face, "has certainly played us
a filthy turn. These clippings amount to nothing----" His eyes fell on
the packet of papers which Barres was now opening, and he leaned over
his shoulder to look.

"Thank God!" he said, "here they are! Where on earth did you find
these papers, Barres? They're the documents we were after! They ought
to have been in Lehr's pockets!"

"He must have passed them to the fellow who bumped into me near the
wash-room," said Barres, enchanted at his luck. "What a fortunate
chance that you sent me around there!"

Renoux, delighted, stood under the electric light unfolding document
after document, and nodding his handsome, mischievous head with
satisfaction.

"What luck, Barres! What did you do to the fellow?"

"Thumped him to sleep and turned out his pockets. Are these really
what you want?"

"I should say so! This is precisely what we are looking for!"

"Do you mind if I read them, too?"

"No, I don't. Why should I? You're my loyal comrade and you understand
discretion.... _What_ do you think of _this_!" displaying a
typewritten document marked "Copy," enclosing a sheaf of maps.

It contained plans of all the East River and Harlem bridges, a tracing
showing the course of the new aqueduct and the Ashokan Dam, drawings
of the Navy Yard, a map of Iona Island, and a plan of the Welland
Canal.

The document was brief:

  "Included in report by _K17_ to Diplomatic Agent controlling
  Section 7-4-11-B. Recommended that detail plan of DuPont works be
  made without delay.

  "SKEEL."

Followed several sheets in cipher, evidently some intricate variation
of those which are always ultimately solved by experts.

But the documents that were now unfolded by Captain Renoux proved
readable and intensely interesting.

These were the papers which Renoux read and which Barres read over his
shoulder:

  "(Copy)

  Berlin Military Telegraph Office Telegram

  Berlin. Political Division of the General Staff
  Nr. Pol. 6431.

  (SECRET)

  8, Moltkestrasse,
    Berlin, NW, 40.
      March 20, 1916.

  "FEREZ BEY, N. Y.

  "Referring to your correspondence and conversations with Colonel
  Skeel, I most urgently request that the necessary funds be raised
  through the New York banker, Adolf Gerhardt; also that Bernstorff
  be immediately informed through Boy-Ed, so that plans of Head
  General Staff of Army on campaign may not be delayed.

  "Begin instantly enlist and train men, secure and arm power-boat
  assemble equipment and explosives, Welland Canal Exp'd'n. War
  Office No. 159-16, Secret U. K.:--T, 3, P."

       *       *       *       *       *

  "Foreign Office, Berlin,

  "Dec. 28, 1914.

  "DEAR SIR ROGER:--I have the honour to acknowledge receipt of your
  letter of the 23d inst., in which you submitted to his Imperial
  Majesty's Government a proposal for the formation of an Irish
  brigade which would be pledged to fight only for the cause of
  Irish nationalism, and which is to be composed of any Irish
  prisoners of war willing to join such a regiment.

  "In reply I have the honour to inform you that his Imperial
  Majesty's Government agrees to your proposal and also to the
  conditions under which it might be possible to train an Irish
  brigade. These conditions are set out in the declaration enclosed
  in your letter of the 13th inst., and are given at foot. I have
  the honour to be, dear Roger, your obedient servant,

  "(Signed) ZIMMERMAN,

  "Under Secretary of State for the Foreign Office.

       *       *       *       *       *

  "TO HIS HONOUR, SIR ROGER CASEMENT,
    "Eden Hotel, Kurfürstendamm, Berlin."

  "(SECRET)

  "COLONEL MURTAGH SKEEL,
    "Flying Division, Irish Expeditionary Corps,
      "New York.

  "For your information I enclose Zimmerman's letter to Sir Roger,
  and also the text of Articles 6 and 7, being part of our first
  agreement with Sir Roger Casement.

  "You will note particularly the Article numbered 7.

  "This paragraph, unfortunately, still postpones your suggested
  attempt to seize on the high seas a British or neutral steamer
  loaded with arms and munitions, and make a landing from her on the
  Irish Coast.

  "But, in the meantime, is it not possible for you to seize one of
  the large ore steamers on the Great Lakes, transfer to her
  sufficient explosives, take her into the Welland Canal and blow up
  the locks?

  "No more valuable service could be performed by Irishmen; no
  deadlier blow delivered at England.

  "I am, my dear Skeel, your sincere friend and comrade,

  "(Signed) VON PAPEN.

  "P. S.--Herewith appended are Articles 6 and 7 included in the
  Casement convention:

  "(SECRET)

  "Text of Articles 6 and 7 of the convention concluded between Sir
  Roger Casement and the German Government:

  "6. The German Imperial Government undertakes 'under certain
  circumstances' to lend the Irish Brigade adequate military
  support, and to send it to Ireland abundantly supplied with arms
  and ammunition, in order that once there it may equip any Irish
  who would like to join it in making an attempt to re-establish
  Ireland's national liberty by force of arms.

  "The 'special circumstances' stipulated above are as follows:

  "In case of a German naval victory which would make it possible to
  reach the Irish coast, the German Imperial Government pledges
  itself to despatch the Irish Brigade and a German expeditionary
  corps commanded by German officers, in German troopships, to
  attempt a landing on the Irish coast.

  "7. It will be impossible to contemplate a landing in Ireland
  unless the German Navy can gain such a victory as to make it
  really likely that an attempt to reach Ireland by sea would
  succeed. Should the German Navy not win such a victory, then a use
  will be found for the Irish Brigade in Germany or elsewhere. But
  in no case will it be used except in such ways as Sir Roger
  Casement shall approve, as being completely in accordance with
  Article 2.

  "In this case the Irish Brigade might be sent to Egypt to lend
  assistance in expelling the English and re-establishing Egyptian
  independence.

  "Even if the Irish Brigade should not succeed in fighting for the
  liberation of Ireland from the English yoke, nevertheless a blow
  dealt at the British intruders in Egypt and intended to help the
  Egyptians to recover their freedom would be a blow struck for a
  cause closely related to that of Ireland."

Another paper read as follows:

  "Halbmondlager,
    "Aug. 20th, 1915.

  "(SECRET)"

  "To MURTAGH SKEEL, COLONEL,
    "Irish Exp. Force,
      "N. Y.

  "REPORT

  "On June 7, fifty Irishmen, with one German subaltern, were handed
  over to this camp, to be temporarily accommodated here. On June 16
  five more Irishmen arrived, one of whom, having a broken leg, was
  sent to the camp hospital. There are, therefore, fifty-four
  Irishmen now here, one Sergeant Major, one Deputy Sergeant Major,
  three Sergeants, three Corporals, three Lance Corporals, and
  forty-three privates.

  "They were accommodated as well as could be among the Indian
  battalion, an arrangement which gives rise to much trouble, which
  is inevitable, considering the tasks imposed upon Half Moon Camp.

  "The Irish form an Irish brigade, which was constituted after
  negotiations between the Foreign Office and Sir Roger Casement,
  the champion of Irish independence.

  "Enclosed is the Foreign Office communication of Dec. 28, 1914,
  confirming the conditions on which the Irish brigade was to be
  formed.

  "The members of the Irish brigade are no longer German prisoners
  of war, but receive an Irish uniform; and, according to orders,
  instructions are to be issued to treat the Irish as comrades in
  arms.

  "The Irish are under the command of a German officer, First Lieut.
  Boehm, the representative of the Grand General Staff (Political
  Division) which is in direct communication with the subaltern in
  charge of the Irish. This subaltern has been receiving money
  direct, which he expends in the interests of the Irish; 250 marks
  were given him through the Commandant's office, Zossen, and 250
  marks by First Lieut. Boehm.

  "Promotions, also, are made known by being directly communicated
  to the subaltern in question. As will appear from the enclosed
  copy, dated July 20, these promotions were as follows: (1)
  Sergeant Major, (2) Deputy Sergeant Major, and (3) Sergeants.

  "The uniforms arrived between the end of July and the beginning of
  August. Their coming was announced in a letter dated July 20 (copy
  enclosed), and their distribution was ordered. The box of uniforms
  was addressed to Zossen, whence it was brought here. The uniforms
  consist of a jacket, trousers, and cap in Irish style, and are of
  huntsman's green cloth. Altogether, uniforms arrived for fifty
  men, and they have since been given out. Three non-commissioned
  officers brought their uniforms with them from Limburg on July 16.
  Two photographs of the Irish are annexed.

  "A few Irish are in correspondence with Sir Roger Casement, who,
  in a letter from Munich, dated Aug. 16, says that he hears that
  the Irish are shortly to be transferred from here to another
  place. In a letter dated July 17 he complains of his want of
  success, only fifty men having sent in their names as wishing to
  join the brigade.

  "Six weeks ago Sir Roger Casement was here with First Lieutenant
  Boehm. Since then, however, neither of these gentlemen has
  personally visited the Irish.

  "Since the 18th of June the commandant's office has allowed every
  penniless Irishman two marks a week--a sum which is now being paid
  out to fifty-three men.

  "On Aug. 6 the subaltern in charge of the Irish brigade was given
  a German soldier to help him.

  "In this camp every possible endeavour is made to help to attain
  the important objects in view, but owing to the Irish being
  accommodated with coloured races within the precincts of a closed
  camp, it is inevitable that serious dissensions and acts of
  violence should take place. Moreover, a German subaltern is not
  suited for dealing independently with Irishmen.

  "(Sgd.) HAUPTMANN, d. R. a. D.,

  "(Retired Captain on the Reserve List)."

The last paper read as follows:

  "(COPY)

  "(Wireless via Mexico)

  "Berlin (no date).

  "FEREZ,
    "N. Y.

  "Necessary close Nihla Quellen case immediately. Evidently useless
  expect her take service with us. Hold you responsible. Advise you
  take secret measures to end menace to our interests in Paris.
  D'Eblis urges instant action. Bolo under suspicion. Ex-minister
  also suspected. Only drastic and final action on your part can end
  danger. You know what to do. Do it."

  The telegram was signed with a string of letters and numerals.

Renoux glanced curiously at Barres, who had turned very red and was
beginning to re-read the wireless.

When he finished, Renoux folded all the documents and placed them in
the breast pocket of his coat.

"Mon ami, Barres," he said pleasantly, "you and I have much yet to say
to each other."

"In the meanwhile, let us wash the stains of combat from our persons.
What is the number of your collar?"

"Fifteen and a half."

"I can fit you out. The bathroom is this way, old top!"




XXI

THE WHITE BLACKBIRD


Refreshed by icy baths and clean linen, and now further fortified
against the slings and arrows of outrageous fortune by a supper of
cold fowl and Moselle, Captain Renoux and Garret Barres sat in the
apartment of the former gentleman, gaily exchanging Latin Quarter
reminiscences through the floating haze of their cigars.

But the conversation soon switched back toward the far more serious
business which alone accounted for their being there together after
many years. For, as the French officer had remarked, a good deal
remained to be said between them. And Barres knew what he meant, and
was deeply concerned at the prospect.

But Renoux approached the matter with careless good humour and by a
leisurely, circuitous route, which polite pussy-footing was obviously
to prepare Barres for impending trouble.

He began by referring to his mission in America, admitting very
frankly that he was a modest link in the system of military and
political intelligence maintained by all European countries in the
domains of their neighbours.

"I might as well say so," he remarked, "because it's known to the
representatives of enemy governments here as well as to your own
Government, that some of us are here; and anybody can imagine why.

"And, in the course of my--studies," he said deliberately, while his
clear eyes twinkled, "it has come to my knowledge, and to the
knowledge of the French Ambassador, that there is, in New York, a
young woman who already has proven herself a dangerous enemy to my
country."

"That is interesting, if true," said Barres, reddening to the temples.
"But it is even more interesting if it is not true.... And it isn't!"

"You think not?"

"I don't think anything about it, Renoux; I _know_."

"I am afraid you have been misled, Barres. And it is natural enough."

"Why?"

"Because," said Renoux serenely, "she is very beautiful, very clever,
very young, very appealing.... Tell me, my friend, where did you meet
her?"

Barres looked him in the eyes:

"Where did you learn that I had ever met her?"

"Through the ordinary channels which, if you will pardon me, I am not
at liberty to discuss."

"All right. It is sufficient that you know I have met her. Now, where
did I meet her?"

"I don't know," said Renoux candidly.

"How long have I known her then?"

"Possibly a few weeks. Our information is that your acquaintance with
her is not of long duration."

"Wrong, my friend: I met her in France several years ago; I know her
intimately."

"Yes, the intimacy has been reported," said Renoux, blandly. "But it
doesn't take long, sometimes."

Barres reddened again and shook his head:

"You and your agents are all wrong, Renoux. So is your Government. Do
you know what it's doing--what you and your agents are doing? You're
playing a German game for Berlin!"

This time Renoux flushed and there was a slight quiver to his lips and
nostrils; but he said very pleasantly:

"That would be rather mortifying, mon ami, if it were true."

"It is true. Berlin, the traitor in Paris, the conspirator in America,
the German, Austrian, and Turkish diplomatic agents here ask nothing
better than that you manage, somehow, to eliminate the person in
question."

"Why?" demanded Renoux.

"Because more than one of your public men in Paris will face charges
of conspiracy and treason if the person in question ever has a fair
hearing and a chance to prove her innocence of the terrible
accusations that have been made against her."

"Naturally," said Renoux, "those accused bring counter charges. It is
always the history of such cases, mon ami."

"Your mind is already made up, then?"

"My mind is a real mind, Barres. Reason is what it seeks--the logical
evidence that leads to truth. If there is anything I don't know, then
I wish to know it, and will spare no pains, permit no prejudice to
warp my judgment."

"All right. Now, let's have the thing out between us, Renoux. We are
not fencing in the dark; we understand each other and are honest
enough to say so. Now, go on."

Renoux nodded and said very quietly and pleasantly:

"The reference in one of these papers to the celebrated Nihla Quellen
reminds me of the first time I ever saw her. I was quite bowled over,
Barres, as you may easily imagine. She sang one of those Asiatic
songs--and then the dance!--a miracle!--a delight--apparently entirely
unprepared, unpremeditated even--you know how she did it?--exquisite
perfection--something charmingly impulsive and spontaneous--a caprice
of the moment! Ah--there is a wonderful artiste, Nihla Quellen!"

Barres nodded, his level gaze fixed on the French officer.

"As for the document," continued Renoux, "it does not entirely explain
itself to me. You see, this Eurasian, Ferez Bey, was a very intimate
friend of Nihla Quellen."

"You are quite mistaken," interposed Barres. But the other merely
smiled with a slight gesture of deference to his friend's opinion, and
went on.

"This Ferez is one of those persistent, annoying flies which buzz
around chancelleries and stir up diplomats to pernicious activities.
You know there isn't much use in swatting, as you say, the fly. No.
Better find the manure heap which hatched him and burn that!"

He smiled and shrugged, relighted his cigar, and continued:

"So, mon ami, I am here in your charming and hospitable city to direct
the necessary sanitary measures, sub rosa, of course. You have been
more than kind. My Government and I have you to thank for this batch
of papers----" He tapped his breast pocket and made salutes which
Frenchmen alone know how to make.

"Renoux," said Barres bluntly, "you have learned somehow that Nihla
Quellen is under my protection. You conclude I am her lover."

The officer's face altered gravely, but he said nothing.

Barres leaned forward in his chair and laid a hand on his comrade's
shoulder:

"Renoux, do you trust me, personally?"

"Yes."

"Very well. Then I shall trust you. Because there is nothing you can
tell me about Nihla Quellen that I do not already know--nothing
concerning her _dossier_ in your secret archives, nothing in regard to
the evidence against her and the testimony of the Count d'Eblis. And
that clears the ground between you and me."

If Renoux was surprised he scarcely showed it.

Barres said:

"As long as you know that she is under my protection, I want you to
come to my place and talk to her. I don't ask you to accept my
judgment in regard to her; I merely wish you to listen to what she has
to say, and then come to your own conclusions. Will you do this?"

For a few moments Renoux sat quite still, his clear, intelligent eyes
fixed on the smoking tip of his cigar. Without raising them he said
slowly:

"As we understand it, Nihla Quellen has been a spy from the very
beginning. Our information is clear, concise, logical. We know her
history. She was the mistress of Prince Cyril, then of Ferez, then of
d'Eblis--perhaps of the American banker, Gerhardt, also. She came
directly from the German Embassy at Constantinople to Paris, on
Gerhardt's yacht, the _Mirage_, and under his protection and the
protection of Comte Alexandre d'Eblis.

"Ferez was of the party. And that companionship of conspirators never
was dissolved as long as Nihla Quellen remained in Europe."

"That Nihla Quellen has ever been the mistress of any man is
singularly untrue," said Barres coolly. "Your Government has to do
with a chaste woman; and it doesn't even know that much!"

Renoux regarded him curiously:

"You have seen her dance?" he enquired gravely.

"Often. And, Renoux, you are too much a man of the world to be
surprised at the unexpected. There _are_ white blackbirds."

"Yes, there are."

"Nihla Quellen is one."

"My friend, I desire to believe it if it would be agreeable to you."

"I know, Renoux; I believe in your good-will. Also, I believe in your
honesty and intelligence. And so I do not ask you to accept my word
for what I tell you. Only remember that I am absolutely certain
concerning my belief in Nihla Quellen.... I have no doubt that you
think I am in love with her.... I can't answer you. All Europe was in
love with her. Perhaps I am.... I don't know, Renoux. But this I do
know; she is clean and sweet and honest from the crown of her head to
the sole of her foot. In her heart there has never dwelt treachery.
Talk to her to-night. You're like the best of your compatriots, clear
minded, logical, intelligent, and full of that legitimate imagination
without which intellect is a machine. You know the world; you know
men; you don't know women and you know you don't. Therefore, you are
equipped to learn the truth--to divine it--from Nihla Quellen. Will
you come over to my place now?"

"Yes," said Renoux pleasantly.

       *       *       *       *       *

The orchestra was playing as they passed through the hotel; supper
rooms, corridors, café and lobby were crowded with post-theatre
throngs in search of food and drink and dance music; and although few
theatres were open in July, Long Acre blazed under its myriad lights
and the sidewalks were packed with the audiences filtering out of the
various summer shows and into all-night cabarets.

They looked across at the distant war bulletins displayed on Times
Square, around which the usual gesticulating crowd had gathered, but
kept on across Long Acre, and west toward Sixth Avenue.

Midway in the block, Renoux touched his comrade silently on the arm,
and halted.

"A few minutes, mon ami, if you don't mind--time for you to smoke a
cigarette while waiting."

They had stopped before a brownstone house which had been converted
into a basement dwelling, and which was now recessed between two
modern shops constructed as far as the building line.

All the shades and curtains in the house were drawn and the place
appeared to be quite dark, but a ring at the bell brought a big,
powerfully built porter, who admitted them to a brightly lighted
reception room. Then the porter replaced the chains on the door of
bronze.

"Just a little while, if you will be amiable enough to have patience,"
said Renoux.

He went away toward the rear of the house and Barres seated himself.
And in a few moments the burly porter reappeared with a tray
containing a box of cigarettes and a tall glass of Moselle.

"Monsieur Renoux will not be long," he said, bringing a sheaf of
French illustrated periodicals to the little table at Barres' elbow;
and he retired with a bow and resumed his chair in the corridor by the
bronze door.

Through closed doors, somewhere from the rear of the silent house
came the distant click of a typewriter. At moments, too, looking over
the war pictures in the periodicals, Barres imagined that he heard a
confused murmur as of many voices.

Later it became evident that there were a number of people somewhere
in the house, because, now and then, the porter unlatched the door and
drew the chains to let out some swiftly walking man.

Once two men came out together. One carried a satchel; the other
halted in the hallway to slip a clip into an automatic pistol before
dropping it into the side pocket of his coat.

And after a while Renoux appeared, bland, debonaire, evidently much
pleased with whatever he had been doing.

Two other men appeared in the corridor behind him; he said something
to them in a low voice; Barres imagined he heard the words,
"Washington" and "Jusserand."

Then the two men went out, walking at a smart pace, and Renoux
sauntered into the tiny reception room.

"You don't know," he said, "what a very important service you have
rendered us by catching that fellow to-night and stripping him of his
papers."

Barres rose and they walked out together.

"This city," added Renoux, "is fairly verminous with disloyal Huns.
The streets are crawling with them; every German resort, saloon, beer
garden, keller, café, club, society--every German drug store,
delicatessen shop, music store, tobacconist, is lousy with the
treacherous swine.

"There are two great hotels where the boche gathers and plots; two
great banking firms are centres of German propaganda; three great
department stores, dozens of downtown commercial agencies; various
buildings and piers belonging to certain transatlantic steamship
lines, the offices of certain newspapers and periodicals.... Tell me,
Barres, did you know that the banker, Gerhardt, owns the building in
which you live?"

"Dragon Court!"

"You didn't know it, evidently. Yes, he owns it."

"Is he really involved in pro-German intrigue?" asked Barres.

"That is our information."

"I ask," continued Barres thoughtfully, "because his summer home is at
Northbrook, not far from my own home. And to me there is something
peculiarly contemptible about disloyalty in the wealthy who owe every
penny to the country they betray."

"His place is called Hohenlinden," remarked Renoux.

"Yes. Are you having it watched?"

Renoux smiled. Perhaps he was thinking about other places, also--the
German Embassy, for example, where, inside the Embassy itself, not
only France but also the United States Government was represented by a
secret agent among the personnel.

"We try to learn what goes on among the boches," he said carelessly.
"They try the same game. But, Barres, they are singularly stupid at
such things--not adroit, merely clumsy and brutal. The Hun cannot
camouflage his native ferocity. He reveals himself.

"And in that respect it is fortunate for civilisation that it is
dealing with barbarians. Their cunning is of the swinish sort. Their
stench ultimately discovers them. You are discovering it for
yourselves; you detected Dernberg; you already sniff Von Papen,
Boy-ed, Bernstorff. All over the world the nauseous effluvia from the
vast Teutonic hog-pen is being detected and recognised. And
civilisation is taking sanitary measures to abate the nuisance.... And
your country, too, will one day send out a sanitary brigade to help
clean up the world, just as you now supply our details with the
necessary chlorides and antiseptics."

Barres laughed:

"You are very picturesque," he said. "And I'll tell you one thing, if
we don't join the sanitary corps now operating, I shall go out with a
bottle of chloride myself."

They entered Dragon Court a few moments later. Nobody was at the desk,
it being late.

"To-morrow," said Barres, as they ascended the stairs, "my friends,
Miss Soane, Miss Dunois, and Mr. Westmore are to be our guests
at Foreland Farms. You didn't know that, did you?" he added
sarcastically.

"Oh, yes," replied Renoux, much amused. "Miss Dunois, as you call her,
sent her trunks away this evening."

Barres, surprised and annoyed, halted on the landing:

"Your people didn't interfere, I hope."

"No. There was nothing in them of interest to us," said Renoux
naïvely. "I sent a report when I sent on to Washington the papers
which you secured for us."

Barres paused before his studio door, key in hand. They could hear the
gramophone going inside. He said:

"I don't have to ask you to be fair, Renoux, because the man who is
unfair to others swindles himself, and you are too decent, too
intelligent to do that. I am going to present you to Thessalie Dunois,
which happens to be her real name, and I am going to tell her in your
presence who you are. Then I shall leave you alone with her."

He fitted his latchkey and opened the door.

Westmore was trying fancy dancing with Dulcie on one side, and
Thessalie on the other--the latter evidently directing operations.

"Garry!" exclaimed Thessalie.

"You're a fine one! Where have you been?" began Westmore. Then he
caught sight of Renoux and became silent.

Barres led his comrade forward and presented him:

"A fellow student of the Beaux Arts," he explained, "and we've had a
very jolly evening together. And, Thessa, there is something in
particular that I should like to have you explain to Monsieur Renoux,
if you don't mind...." He turned and looked at Dulcie: "If you will
pardon us a moment, Sweetness."

She nodded and smiled and took Westmore's arm again, and continued the
dance alone with him while Barres, drawing Thessalie's arm through
his, and passing his other arm through Renoux's, walked leisurely
through his studio, through the now open folding doors, past his
bedroom and Westmore's, and into the latter's studio beyond.

"Thessa, dear," he said very quietly, "I feel very certain that
the worst of your troubles are about to end----" He felt her
start slightly. "And," he continued, "I have brought my comrade,
Renoux, here to-night so that you and he can clear up a terrible
misunderstanding.

"And Monsieur Renoux, once a student of architecture at the Beaux
Arts, is now Captain Renoux of the Intelligence Department in the
French Army----"

Thessalie lost her colour and a tremor passed through the arm which
lay within his.

But he said calmly:

"It is the only way as well as the best way, Thessa. I know you are
absolutely innocent. I am confident that Captain Renoux is going to
believe it, too. If he does not, you are no worse off. Because it has
already become known to the French Government that you are here.
Renoux knew it."

They had halted; Barres led Thessalie to a seat. Renoux, straight,
deferential, correct, awaited her pleasure.

She looked up at him; his keen, intelligent eyes met hers.

"If you please, Captain Renoux, will you do me the honour to be
seated?" she said in a low voice.

Barres went to her, bent over her hand, touched it with his lips.

"Just tell him the truth, Thessa, dear," he said.

"Everything?" she smiled faintly, "including our first meeting?"

Barres flushed, then laughed:

"Yes, tell him about that, too. It was too charming for him not to
appreciate."

And with a half mischievous, half amused nod to Renoux he went back to
find the dancers, whom he could hear laughing far away in his own
studio.

       *       *       *       *       *

It was nearly one o'clock when Dulcie, who had been sleeping with
Thessalie, whispered to Barres that she was ready to retire.

"Indeed, you had better," he said, releasing her as the dance music
ran down and ceased. "If you don't get some sleep you won't feel like
travelling to-morrow."

"Will you explain to Thessa?"

"Of course. Good-night, dear."

She gave him her hand in silence, turned and offered it to Westmore,
then went away toward her room.

Westmore, who had been fidgeting a lot since Thessalie had retired for
a tête-à-tête with a perfectly unknown and alarmingly good-looking
young man whom he never before had laid eyes on, finally turned short
in his restless pacing of the studio.

"What the deuce can be keeping Thessa?" he demanded. "And who the
devil is that black-eyed young sprig of France you brought home with
you?"

"Sit down and I'll tell you," said Barres crisply, instinctively
resenting his friend's uncalled for solicitude in Thessalie's behalf.

So Westmore seated himself and Barres told him all about the evening's
adventures. And he was still lingering unctuously over the details of
the battle at Grogan's, the recital of which, Westmore demanding, he
had begun again, when at the farther end of the studio Thessalie
appeared, coming toward them.

Renoux was beside her, very deferential and graceful in his
attendance, and with that niceness of attitude which confesses respect
in every movement.

Thessalie came forward; Barres advanced to meet her with the unspoken
question in his eyes, and she gave him both her hands with a tremulous
little smile of happiness.

"Is it all right?" he whispered.

"I think so."

Barres turned and grasped Renoux by one hand.

The latter said:

"There is not the slightest doubt in my mind, mon ami. You were
perfectly right. A frightful injustice has been done in this matter.
Of that I am absolutely convinced."

"You will do what you can to set things right?"

"Of course," said Renoux simply.

There was a moment's silence, then Renoux smiled:

"You know," he said lightly, "we French have a horror of any more
mistakes like the Dreyfus case. We are terribly sensitive. Be assured
that my Government will take up this affair instantly upon receiving
my report."

He turned to Barres:

"Would you, perhaps, offer me a day's hospitality at your home in the
country, if I should request it by telegram sometime this week or
next?"

"You bet," replied Barres cordially.

Then Renoux made his adieux, as only such a Frenchman can make them,
saying exactly the right thing to each, in exactly the right manner.

When he was gone, Barres took Thessalie's hands and pressed them:

"Pretty merle-blanc, your little friend Dulcie is already asleep. Tell
us to-morrow how you convinced him that you are what you are--the
dearest, sweetest girl in the world!"

She laughed demurely, then glanced apprehensively, sideways, at
Westmore.

And the mute but infuriated expression on that young man's countenance
seemed to cause her the loss of all self-possession, for she cast one
more look at him and fled with a hasty "good-night!"




XXII

FORELAND FARMS


Toward three o'clock on the following afternoon the sun opened up like
a searchlight through the veil of rain, dissolving it to a golden haze
which gradually grew thinner and thinner, revealing glimpses of
rolling country against a horizon of low mountains.

About the same time the covered station wagon turned in between the
white gates of Foreland Farms, proceeded at a smart trot up the drive,
and stopped under a dripping porte-cochère, where a smiling servant
stood waiting to lift out the luggage.

A trim looking man of forty odd, in soft shirt and fawn coloured
knickers, and wearing a monocle in his right eye and a flower in his
buttonhole, came out on the porch as Barres and his guests descended.

"Well, Garry," he said, "I'm glad you're home at last! But you're
rather late for the fishing." And to Westmore:

"How are you, Jim? Jolly to have you back! But I regret to inform you
that the fishing is very poor just now."

His son, who stood an inch or two taller than his debonaire parent,
passed one arm around his shoulders and patted them affectionately
while the easy presentations were concluded.

At the same moment two women, beautifully mounted and very wet,
galloped up to the porch and welcomed Garry's guests from their
saddles in the pleasant, informal, incurious manner characteristic of
Foreland Farm folk--a manner which seemed too amiably certain of
itself to feel responsibility for anybody or anything else.

Easy, unconcerned, slender and clean-built women these--Mrs. Reginald
Barres, Garry's mother, and her daughter, Lee. And in their smart,
rain-wet riding clothes they might easily have been sisters, with a
few years' difference between them, so agreeably had Time behaved
toward Mrs. Barres, so closely her fair-haired, fair-skinned daughter
resembled her.

They swung carelessly out of their saddles and set spurred foot to
turf, and, with Garret and his guests, sauntered into the big living
hall, where a maid waited with wine and biscuits and the housekeeper
lingered to conduct Thessalie and Dulcie to their rooms.

Dulcie Soane, in her pretty travelling gown, walked beside Mrs.
Reginald Barres into the first great house she had ever entered.
Composed, but shyly enchanted, an odd but delightful sensation
possessed her that she was where she belonged--that such environment,
such people should always have been familiar to her--were logical and
familiar to her now.

Mrs. Barres was saying:

"And if you like parties, there is always gaiety at Northbrook. But
you don't have to go anywhere or do anything you don't wish to."

Dulcie said, diffidently, that she liked everything, and Mrs. Barres
laughed.

"Then you'll be very popular," she said, tossing her riding crop onto
the table and stripping off her wet gloves.

Barres senior was already in serious confab with Westmore concerning
piscatorial conditions, the natural low water of midsummer, the
capricious conduct of the trout in the streams and in the upper and
lower lakes.

"They won't look at anything until sunset," he explained, "and then
they don't mean business. You'll see, Jim. I'm sorry; you should have
come in June."

Lee, Garret's boyishly slim sister, had already begun to exchange
opinions about horses with Thessalie, for both had been familiar with
the saddle since childhood, though the latter's Cossack horsemanship
and mastery of the haute école, incident to her recent and irregular
profession, might have astonished Lee Barres.

Mrs. Barres was saying to Dulcie:

"We don't try to entertain one another here, but everybody seems to
have a perfectly good time. The main thing is that we all feel quite
free at Foreland. You'll lose yourself indoors at first. The family
for a hundred years has been adding these absurd two-story wings, so
that the house wanders at random over the landscape, and you may have
to inquire your way about in the beginning."

She smiled again at Dulcie and took her hand in both of hers:

"I'm sure you will like the Farms," she said, linking her other arm
through her son's. "I'm rather wet, Garry," she added, "but I think
Lee and I had better dry out in the saddle." And to Dulcie again: "Tea
at five, if anybody wishes it. Would you like to see your room?"

Thessalie, conversing with Lee, turned smilingly to be included in the
suggestion; and the maid came forward to conduct her and Dulcie
through the intricacies of the big, casual, sprawling house, where
rooms and corridors and halls rambled unexpectedly and irrelevantly
in every direction, and one vista seemed to terminate in another.

When they had disappeared, the Barres family turned to inspect its son
and heir with habitual and humorous insouciance, commenting frankly
upon his personal appearance and concluding that his health still
remained all that could be desired by the most solicitous of parents
and sisters.

"There are rods already rigged up in the work-room," remarked his
father, "if you and your guests care to try a dry-fly this evening. As
for me, you'll find me somewhere around the upper lake, if you care to
look for me----"

He fished out of his pocket a bewildering tangle of fine mist-leaders,
and, leisurely disentangling them, strolled toward the porch, still
talking:

"There's only one fly they deign to notice, now--a dust-coloured midge
tied in reverse with no hackle, no tinsel, a May-fly tail, and barred
canary wing----" He nodded wisely over his shoulder at his son and
Westmore, as though sharing with them a delightful secret of
world-wide importance, and continued on toward the porch, serenely
interested in his tangled leaders.

Garret glanced at his mother and sister; they both laughed. He said:

"Dad is one of those rarest of modern beings, a genuine angler of the
old school. After all the myriad trout and salmon he has caught in a
career devoted to fishing, the next fish he catches gives him just as
fine a thrill as did the very first one he ever hooked! It's quite
wonderful, isn't it, mother?"

"It's probably what keeps him so youthful," remarked Westmore. "The
thing to do is to have something to do. That's the elixir of youth.
Look at your mother, Garry. She's had a busy handful bringing you
up!"

Garret looked at his slender, attractive mother and laughed again:

"Is that what keeps you so young and pretty, mother?--looking after
me?"

"Alas, Garry, I'm over forty, and I look it!"

"Do you?--you sweet little thing!" he interrupted, picking her up
suddenly from the floor and marching proudly around the room with her.
"Gaze upon my mother, Jim! Isn't she cunning? Isn't she the smartest
little thing in America? Behave yourself, mother! Your grateful son is
showing you off to the appreciative young gentleman from New
York----"

"You're ridiculous! Jim! Make him put me down!"

But her tall son swung her to his shoulder and placed her high on the
mantel shelf over the huge fireplace; where she sat beside the clock,
charming, resentful, but helpless, her spurred boots dangling down.

"Come on, Lee!" cried her brother, "I'm going to put you up beside
her. That mantel needs ornamental bric-a-brac and objets d'art----"

Lee turned to escape, but her brother cornered and caught her, and
swung her high, seating her beside his indignant mother.

"Just as though we were two Angora kittens," remarked Lee, sidling
along the stone shelf toward her mother. Then she glanced out through
the open front door. "Lift us down, quick, Garry. You'd better! The
horses are in the flower beds and there'll be no more bouquets for the
table in another minute!"

So he lifted them off the mantel and they hastily departed, each
administering correction with her riding crop as she dodged past him
and escaped.

"If your guests want horses you know where to find them!" called back
his sister from the porch. And presently she and his mother, securely
mounted, went cantering away across country, where grass and fern and
leaf and blossom were glistening in the rising breeze, weighted down
with diamond drops of rain.

Westmore walked leisurely toward his quarters, to freshen up and don
knickers. Garret followed him into the west wing, whistling
contentedly under his breath, inspecting each remembered object with
great content as he passed, nodding smilingly to the servants he
encountered, lingering on the landing to acknowledge the civilities of
the ancient family cat, who recognised him with effusion but coyly
fled the advances of Westmore, ignoring all former and repeated
introductions.

Their rooms adjoined and they conversed through the doorway while
engaged in ablutions.

Presently, from behind his sheer sash-curtains, Westmore caught sight
of Thessalie on the west terrace below. She wore a shell-pink frock
and a most distractingly pretty hat; and he hurried his dressing as
much as he could without awaking Garret's suspicions.

A few minutes later, radiant in white flannels, he appeared on the
terrace, breathing rather fast but wreathed in persuasive smiles.

"I know this place; I'll take you for a walk where you won't get your
shoes wet. Shall I?" he suggested, with all his guile and cunning
quite plain to Thessalie, and his purpose perfectly transparent to her
smiling eyes.

But she consented prettily, and went with him without demurring,
picking her way over the stepping-stone walk with downcast gaze and
the trace of a smile on her lips--a smile as delicately indefinable as
the fancy which moved her to accept this young man's headlong
advances--which had recognized them and accepted them from the first.
But why, she did not even yet understand.

"Agreeable weather, isn't it?" said Westmore, fatuously revealing his
present paucity of ideas apart from those which concerned the wooing
of her. And he was an intelligent young man at that, and a sculptor of
attainment, too. But now, in his infatuated head, there remained room
only for one thought, the thought of this girl who walked so demurely
and daintily beside him over the flat, grass-set stepping stones
toward the three white pines on the little hill.

For it had been something or other at first sight with Westmore--love,
perhaps--anyway that is what he called the mental chaos which now
disorganised him. And it was certain that something happened to him
the first time he laid eyes on Thessalie Dunois. He knew it, and she
could not avoid seeing it, so entirely naïve his behaviour, so utterly
guileless his manoeuvres, so direct, unfeigned and childish his
methods of approach.

At moments she felt nervous and annoyed by his behaviour; at other
times apprehensive and helpless, as though she were responsible for
something that did not know how to take care of itself--something
immature, irrational, and entirely at her mercy. And it may have been
the feminine response to this increasing sense of obligation--the
confused instinct to guide, admonish and protect--that began being the
matter with her.

Anyway, from the beginning the man had a certain fascination for her,
unwillingly divined on her part, yet specifically agreeable even to
the point of exhilaration. Also, somehow or other, the girl realised
he had a brain.

And yet he was a pitiably hopeless case; for even now he was saying
such things as:

"Are you quite sure that your feet are dry? I should never forgive
myself, Thessa, if you took cold.... Are you tired?... How wonderful
it is to be here alone with you, and strive to interpret the mystery
of your mind and heart! Sit here under the pines. I'll spread my coat
for you.... Nature is wonderful, isn't it, Thessa?"

And when she gravely consented to seat herself he dropped recklessly
onto the wet pine needles at her feet, and spoke with imbecile delight
again of nature--of how wonderful were its protean manifestations, and
how its beauties were not meant to be enjoyed alone but in mystic
communion with another who understood.

It was curious, too, but this stuff seemed to appeal to her, some
commonplace chord within her evidently responding. She sighed and
looked at the mountains. They really were miracles of colour--masses
of purest cobalt, now, along the horizon.

But perhaps the trite things they uttered did not really matter;
probably it made no difference to them what they said. And even if he
had murmured: "There are milestones along the road to Dover," she
might have responded: "There was an old woman who lived in a shoe";
and neither of them would have heard anything at all except the rapid,
confused, and voiceless conversation of two youthful human hearts
beating out endless questions and answers that never moved their
smiling lips. There was the mystery, if any--the constant wireless
current under the haphazard flow of words.

There was no wind in the pines; meadow and pasture, woodland and swale
stretched away at their feet to the distant, dark-blue hills. And all
around them hung the rain-washed fragrance of midsummer under a still,
cloudless sky.

"It seems impossible that there can be war anywhere in the world," she
said.

"You know," he began, "it's getting on my nerves the way those swine
from the Rhine are turning this decent green world into a bloody
wallow! Unless we do something about it pretty soon, I think I'll go
over."

She looked up:

"Where?"

"To France."

She remained silent for a while, merely lifting her dark eyes to him
at intervals; then she grew preoccupied with other thoughts that left
her brows bent slightly inward and her mouth very grave.

He gazed reflectively out over the fields and woods:

"Yes, I can't stand it much longer," he mused aloud.

"What would you do there?" she inquired.

"Anything. I could drive a car. But if they'll take me in some
Canadian unit--or one of the Foreign Legions--it would suit me.... You
know a man can't go on just living in the world while this beastly
business continues--can't go on eating and sleeping and shaving and
dressing as though half of civilisation were not rolling in agony and
blood, stabbed through and through----"

His voice caught--he checked himself and slowly passed his hand over
his smoothly shaven face.

"Those splendid poilus," he said; "where they stand we Americans ought
to be standing, too.... God knows why we hesitate.... I can't tell you
what we think.... Some of us--don't agree--with the Administration."

His jaws snapped on the word; he stared out through the sunshine at
the swallows, now skimming the uncut hay fields in their gusty evening
flight.

"Are you really going?" she asked, at length.

"Yes. I'll wait a little while longer to see what my country is going
to do. If it doesn't stir during the next month or two, I shall go. I
think Garry will go, too."

She nodded.

"Of course," he remarked, "we'd prefer our own flag, Garry and I. But
if it is to remain furled----" He shrugged, picked a spear of grass,
and sat brooding and breaking it into tiny pieces.

"The only thing that troubles me," he went on presently, keeping his
gaze riveted on his busy fingers, "the only thing that worries me is
you!"

"Me?" she exclaimed softly. And an inexplicable little thrill shot
through her.

"You," he repeated. "You worry me to death."

She considered him a moment, her lips parted as though she were about
to say something, but it remained unsaid, and a slight colour came
into her cheeks.

"What am I to do about you?" he went on, apparently addressing the
blade of grass he was staring at. "I can't leave you as matters
stand."

She said:

"Please, you are not responsible for me, are you?" And tried to laugh,
but scarcely smiled.

"I want to be," he muttered. "I desire to be entirely----"

"Thank you. You have been more than kind. And very soon I hope I shall
be on happy terms with my own Government again. Then your solicitude
should cease."

"If your Government listens to reason----"

"Then I also could go to France!" she interrupted. "Merely to think of
it excites me beyond words!"

He looked up quickly:

"You wish to go back?"

"Of course!"

"Why?"

"How can you ask that! If you had been a disgraced exile as I have
been, as I still am--and falsely accused of shameful things--annoyed,
hounded, blackmailed, offered bribes, constantly importuned to become
what I am not--a traitor to my own people--would you not be wildly
happy to be proven innocent? Would you not be madly impatient to
return and prove your devotion to your own land?"

"I understand," he said in a low voice.

"Of course you understand. Do you imagine that I, a French girl, would
have remained here in shameful security if I could have gone back to
France and helped? I would have done anything--anything, I tell
you--scrubbed the floors of hospitals, worked my fingers to the
bone----"

"I'll wait till you go," he said.... "They'll clear your record very
soon, I expect. I'll wait. And we'll go together. Shall we, Thessa?"

But she had not seemed to hear him; her dark eyes grew remote, her
gaze swept the sapphire distance. It was his hand laid lightly over
hers that aroused her, and she withdrew her fingers with a frown of
remonstrance.

"Won't you let me speak?" he said. "Won't you let me tell you what my
heart tells me?"

She shook her head slowly:

"I don't desire to hear yet--I don't know where my own heart--or even
my mind is--or what I think about--anything. Please be reasonable."
She stole a look at him to see how he was taking it, and there was
concern enough in her glance to give him a certain amount of hope had
he noticed it.

"You like me, Thessa, don't you?" he urged.

"Have I not admitted it? Do you know that you are becoming a serious
responsibility to me? You worry me, too! You are like a boy with all
your emotions reflected on your features and every thought perfectly
unconcealed and every impulse followed by unconsidered behaviour.

"Be reasonable. I have asked it a hundred times of you in vain. I
shall ask it, probably, innumerable times before you comply with my
request. Don't show so plainly that you imagine yourself in love. It
embarrasses me, it annoys Garry, and I don't know what his family will
think----"

"But if I _am_ in love, why not----"

"Does one advertise all one's most intimate and secret and--and sacred
emotions?" she interrupted in sudden and breathless annoyance. "It is
not the way that successful courtship is conducted, I warn you! It is
not delicate, it is not considerate, it is not sensible.... And I _do_
want you to--to be always--sensible and considerate. I _want_ to like
you."

He looked at her in a sort of dazed way:

"I'll try to please you," he said. "But it seems to confuse
me--being so suddenly bowled over--a thing like that rather knocks
a man out--so unexpected, you know!--and there isn't much use
pretending," he went on excitedly. "I can't see anybody else in
the world except you! I can't think of anybody else! I'm madly in
love--blindly, desperately----"

"Oh, please, _please_!" she remonstrated. "I'm not a girl to be taken
by storm! I've seen too much--lived too much! I'm not a Tzigane to be
galloped alongside of and swung to a man's saddle-bow! Also, I shall
tell you one thing more. Happiness and laughter are necessities to
me! And they seem to be becoming extinct in you."

"Hang it!" he demanded tragically, "how can I laugh when I'm in
love!"

At that a sudden, irresponsible little peal of laughter parted her
lips.

"Oh, dear!" she said, "you _are_ funny! Is it a matter of prayer and
fasting, then, this gloomy sentiment which you say you entertain for
me? I don't know whether to be flattered or vexed--you are _so_
funny!" And her laughter rang out again, clear and uncontrolled.

The girl was quite irresistible in her care-free gaiety; her lovely
face and delicious laughter no man could utterly withstand, and
presently a faint grin became visible on his features.

"Now," she cried gaily, "you are becoming human and not a Grecian mask
or a gargoyle! Remain so, mon ami, if you expect me to wish you good
luck in your love--your various affairs----" She blushed as she
checked herself. But he said very quickly:

"Will you wish me luck, Thessa, in my various love affairs?"

"How many have you on hand?"

"Exactly one. Do you wish me a sporting chance? Do you, Thessa?"

"Why--yes----"

"Will you wish me good luck in my courtship of you?"

The quick colour again swept her cheeks at that, but she laughed
defiantly:

"Yes," she said, "I wish you luck in that, also. Only remember
this--whether you win or lose you must laugh. _That_ is good
sportsmanship. Do you promise? Very well! Then I wish you the best of
luck in your--various--courtships! And may the girl you win at least
know how to laugh!"

"She certainly does," he said so naïvely that they both gave way to
laughter again, finding each other delightfully absurd.

"It's the key to my heart, laughter--in case you are looking for the
key," she said daringly. "The world is a grim scaffold, mon ami; mount
it gaily and go to the far gods laughing. Tell me, is there a better
way to go?"

"No; it's the right way, Thessa. I shan't be a gloom any more. Come
on; let's walk! What if you do get your bally shoes wet! I'm through
mooning and fussing and worrying over you, young lady! You're as
sturdy and vigorous as I am. After all, it's a comrade a man wants in
the world--not a white mouse in cotton batting! Come! Are you going
for a brisk walk across country? Or are you a white mouse?"

She stood up in her dainty shoes and frail gown and cast a glance of
hurt reproach at him.

"Don't be brutal," she said. "I'm not dressed to climb trees and
fences with you."

"You won't come?"

Their eyes met in silent conflict for a few moments. Then she said:
"Please don't make me.... It's such a darling gown, Jim."

A wave of deep happiness enveloped him and he laughed: "All right," he
said, "I won't ask you to spoil your frock!" And he spread his coat on
the pine needles for her once more.

She considered the situation for a few moments before she sat down.
But she did seat herself.

"Now," he said, "we are going to discuss a situation. This is the
situation: I am deeply in love. And you're quite right, it's no
funeral; it's a joyous thing to be in love. It's a delight, a gaiety,
a happy enchantment. Isn't it?"

She cast a rather shy and apprehensive glance at him, but nodded
slightly.

"Very well," he said, "I'm in love, and I'm happy and proud to be in
love. What I wish then, naturally, is marriage, a home, children----"

"Please, Jim!"

"But I can't have 'em! Why? Because I'm going to France. And the girl
I wish to marry is going also. And while I bang away at the boche she
makes herself useful in canteens, rest-houses, hospitals, orphanages,
everywhere, in fact, where she is needed."

"Yes."

"And after it's all over--all over--and ended----"

"Yes?"

"Then--then if she finds out that she loves me----"

"Yes, Jim--if she finds that out.... And thank you for--asking me--so
sweetly."... She turned sharply and looked out over a valley suddenly
blurred.

For it had been otherwise with her in years gone by, and men had
spoken then quite as plainly but differently. Only d'Eblis, burnt out,
done for, and obsessed, had wearily and unwillingly advanced that
far.... And Ferez, too; but that was unthinkable of a creature in whom
virtue and vice were of the same virus.

Looking blindly out over the valley she said:

"If my Government deals justly with me, then I shall go to France with
you as your comrade. If I ever find that I love you I will be your
wife.... Until then----" She stretched out her hand, not looking
around at him; and they exchanged a quick, firm clasp.

And so matters progressed between, these two--rather ominously for
Barres, in case he entertained any really serious sentiments in regard
to Thessalie. And, recently, he had been vaguely conscious that he
entertained something or other concerning the girl which caused him to
look with slight amazement and unsympathetic eyes upon the all too
obvious behaviour of his comrade Westmore.

At present he was standing in the summer house which terminated the
blossoming tunnel of the rose arbour, watching water falling into a
stone basin from the fishy mouth of a wall fountain, and wondering
where Thessalie and Westmore had gone.

Dulcie, in a thin white frock and leghorn hat, roaming entranced and
at hazard over lawn and through shrubbery and garden, encountered him
there, still squinting abstractedly at the water spout.

It was the first time the girl had seen him since their arrival at
Foreland Farms. And now, as she paused under the canopy of fragrant
rain-drenched roses and looked at this man who had made all this
possible for her, she suddenly felt the change within herself, fitting
her for it all--a subtle metamorphosis completing itself within
her--the final accomplishment of a transmutation, deep, radical,
permanent.

For her, the stark, starved visage which Life had worn had relaxed; in
the grim, forbidding wall which had closed her horizon, a door opened,
showing a corner of a world where she knew, somehow, she belonged.

And in her heart, too, a door seemed to open, and her youthful soul
stepped out of it, naked, fearless, quite certain of itself and, for
the first time during their brief and earthly partnership, quite
certain of the body wherein it dwelt.

He was thinking of Thessalie when Dulcie came up and stood beside
him, looking down into the water where a few goldfish swam.

"Well, Sweetness," he said, brightening, "you look very wonderful in
white, with that big hat on your very enchanting red hair."

"I feel both wonderful and enchanted," she said, lifting her eyes. "I
shall live in the country some day."

"Really?" he said smiling.

"Yes, when I earn enough money. Do you remember the crazy way
Strindberg rolls around? Well, I feel like doing it on that lawn."

"Go ahead and do it," he urged. But she only laughed and chased the
goldfish around the basin with gentle fingers.

"Dulcie," he said, "you're unfolding, you're blossoming, you're
developing feminine snap and go and pep and je-ne-sais-quoi."

"You're teasing. But I believe I'm very feminine--and mature--though
you don't think so."

"Well, I don't think you're exactly at an age called well-preserved,"
he said, laughing. He took her hands and drew her up to confront him.
"You're not too old to have me as a playmate, Sweetness, are you?"

She seemed to be doubtful.

"What! Nonsense! And you're not too old to be bullied and coaxed and
petted----"

"Yes, I am."

"And you're not too old to pose for me----"

She grew pink and looked down at the submerged goldfish. And, keeping
her eyes there:

"I wanted to ask you," she said, "how much longer you think you would
require me--that way."

There was a silence. Then she looked at him out of her frank grey
eyes.

"You know I'll do what you wish," she said. "And I know it is quite
all right...." She smiled at him. "I belong to you: you made me....
And you know all about me. So you ought to use me as you wish."

"You don't want to pose?" he said.

"Yes, except----"

"Very well."

"Are you annoyed?"

"No, Sweetness. It's all right."

"You are annoyed--disappointed! And I won't have it. I--I couldn't
stand it--to have you displeased----"

He said pleasantly:

"I'm not displeased, Dulcie. And there's no use discussing it. If you
have the slightest feeling that way, when we go back to town I'll do
things like the Arethusa from somebody else----"

"Please don't!" she exclaimed in such naïve alarm that he began to
laugh and she blushed vividly.

"Oh, you are feminine, all right!" he said. "If it isn't to be you it
isn't to be anybody."

"I didn't mean that.... _Yes_, I did!"

"Oh, Dulcie! Shame! _You_ jealous!--even to the verge of sacrificing
your own feelings----"

"I don't know what it is, but I'd rather you used me for your
Arethusa. You know," she added wistfully, "that we began it
together."

"Right, Sweetness. And we'll finish it together or not at all. Are you
satisfied?"

She smiled, sighed, nodded. He released her lovely, childlike hands
and she walked to the doorway of the summer house and looked out over
the wall-bed, where tall thickets of hollyhock and blue larkspur
stretched away in perspective toward a grove of trees and a little
pond beyond.

His painter's eye, already busy with the beauty of her face and
figure against the riot of flowers, and almost mechanically
transposing both into terms of colour and value, went blind suddenly
as she turned and looked at him.

And for the first time--perhaps with truer vision--he became aware of
what else this young girl was besides a satisfying combination of tint
and contour--this lithe young thing palpitating with life--this
slender, gently breathing girl with her grey eyes meeting his so
candidly--this warm young human being who belonged more truly in the
living scheme of things than she did on painted canvas or in marble.

From this unexpected angle, and suddenly, he found himself viewing her
for the first time--not as a plaything, not as a petted model, not as
an object appealing to his charity, not as an experiment in
altruism--nor sentimentally either, nor as a wistful child without a
childhood.

Perhaps, to him, she had once been all of these. He looked at her with
other eyes now, beginning, possibly, to realise something of the
terrific responsibility he was so lightly assuming.

He got up from his bench and went over to her; and the girl turned a
trifle pale with excitement and delight.

"Why did you come to me?" she asked breathlessly.

"I don't know."

"Did you know I was trying to make you get up and come to me?"

"What?"

"Yes! Isn't it curious? I looked at you and kept thinking, 'I want you
to get up and come to me! I want you to _come_! I _want_ you!' And
suddenly you got up and came!"

He looked at her out of curious, unsmiling eyes:

"It's your turn, after all, Dulcie."

"How is it my turn?"

"I drew you--in the beginning," he said slowly.

There was a silence. Then, abruptly, her heart began to beat very
rapidly, scaring her dumb with its riotous behaviour. When at length
her consternation subsided and her irregular breathing became
composed, she said, quite calmly:

"You and all that you are and believe in and care for very naturally
attracted me--drew me one evening to your open door.... It will always
be the same--you, and what of life and knowledge you represent--will
never fail to draw me."

"But--though I am just beginning to divine it--you also drew _me_,
Dulcie."

"How could that be?"

"You did. You do still. I am just waking up to that fact. And that
starts me wondering what I'd do without you."

"You don't have to do without me," she said, instinctively laying her
hand over her heart; it was beating so hard and, she feared, so loud.
"You can always have me when you wish. You know that."

"For a while, yes. But some day, when----"

"Always!"

He laughed without knowing why.

"You'll marry some day, Sweetness," he insisted.

She shook her head.

"Oh, yes you will----"

"No!"

"Why?"

But she only looked away and shook her head. And the silent motion of
dissent gave him an odd sense of relief.




XXIII

A LION IN THE PATH


With the decline of day came enough of a chill to spin a delicate
cobweb of mist across the country and cover forests and hills with a
bluish bloom.

The sunset had become a splashy crimson affair, perhaps a bit too
theatrical. In the red blaze Thessalie and Westmore came wandering
down from the three pines on the hill, and found Barres on the lawn
scowling at the celestial conflagration in the west, and Dulcie seated
near on the fountain rim, silent, distrait, watching the scarlet
ripples spreading from the plashing central jet.

"You can't paint a thing like that, Garry," remarked Westmore. Barres
looked around:

"I don't want to. Where have you been, Thessa?"

"Under those pines over there. We supposed you'd see us and come up."

Barres glanced at her with an inscrutable expression; Dulcie's grey
eyes rested on Barres. Thessalie walked over to the reddened pool.

"It's like a prophecy of blood, that water," she said. "And over there
the world is in flames."

"The Western World," added Westmore, "I hope it's an omen that we
shall soon catch fire. How long are you going to wait, Garry?"

Barres started to answer, but checked himself, and glanced across at
Dulcie without knowing exactly why.

"I don't know," he said irresolutely. "I'm fed up now.... But----" he
continued to look vaguely at Dulcie, as though something of his
uncertainty remotely concerned her.

"I'm ready to go over when you are," remarked Westmore, placidly
smiling at Thessalie, who immediately presented her pretty profile to
him and settled down on the fountain rim beside Dulcie.

"Darling," she said, "it's about time to dress. Are you going to wear
that enchanting white affair we discovered at Mandel's?"

Barres senior came sauntering out of the woods and through the wall
gate, switching a limber rod reflectively. He obligingly opened his
creel and displayed half a dozen long, slim trout.

"They all took that midge fly I described to you this afternoon," he
said, with the virtuous satisfaction of all prophets.

Everybody inspected the crimson-flecked fish while Barres senior stood
twirling his monocle.

"Are we dining at home?" inquired his son.

"I believe so. There is a guest of honour, if I recollect--some fellow
they're lionising--I don't remember.... And one or two others--the
Gerhardts, I believe."

"Then we'd better dress, I think," said Thessalie, encircling Dulcie's
waist.

"Sorry," said Barres senior, "hoped to take you young ladies out on
the second lake and let you try for a big fish this evening."

He walked across the lawn beside them, switching his rod as
complacently as a pleased cat twitches its tail.

"We'll try it to-morrow evening," he continued reassuringly, as though
all their most passionate hopes had been bound up in the suggested
sport; "it's rather annoying--I can't remember who's dining with
us--some celebrated Irishman--poet of sorts--literary chap--guest of
the Gerhardts--neighbours, you know. It's a nuisance to bother with
dinner when the trout rise only after sunset."

"Don't you ever dine willingly, Mr. Barres, while the trout are
rising?" inquired Thessalie, laughing.

"Never willingly," he replied in a perfectly sincere voice. "I prefer
to remain near the water and have a bit of supper when I return." He
smiled at Thessalie indulgently. "No doubt it amuses you, but I wager
that you and little Miss Soane here will feel exactly as I do after
you've caught your first big trout."

They entered the house together, followed by Garry and Westmore.

A dim, ruddy glow still lingered in the quiet rooms; every window
glass was still lighted by the sun's smouldering ashes sinking in the
west; no lamps had yet been lighted on the ground floor.

"It's the magic hour on the water," Barres senior confided to Dulcie,
"and here I am, doomed to a stiff shirt and table talk. In other
words, nailed!" And he gave her a mysterious, melancholy, but
significant look as though she alone were really fitted to understand
the distressing dilemmas of an angler.

"Would it be too late to fish after dinner?" ventured Dulcie. "I'd
love to go with you----"

"Would you, really!" he exclaimed, warmly grateful. "That is the
spirit I admire in a girl! It's human, it's discriminating! And yet,
do you know, nobody except myself in this household seems to care very
much about angling? And, actually, I don't believe there is another
soul in this entire house who would care to miss dinner for the sake
of landing the finest trout in the second lake!--unless you would?"

"I really would!" said Dulcie, smiling. "Please try me, Mr. Barres."

"Indeed, I shall! I'll give you one of my pet rods, too! I'll----"

The rich, metallic murmur of a temple gong broke out in the dim quiet
of the house. It was the dressing bell.

"We'll talk it over at dinner--if they'll let me sit by you,"
whispered Barres senior. And with the smile and the cautionary gesture
of the true conspirator, he went away in the demi-light.

Thessalie came from the bay window, where she had been with Westmore
and Garry, and she and Dulcie walked away toward the staircase hall,
leisurely followed by the two men who, however, turned again into the
western wing.

       *       *       *       *       *

Dulcie was the first to reappear and descend the stairs of the north
wing--a willowy white shape in the early dusk, slim as a young spirit
in the lamplit silence.

Nobody else had come down; a maid was turning up a lamp here and
there; the plebeian family cat came out of the shadows from somewhere
and made advances as though divining that this quiet stranger was a
friend to cats.

So Dulcie stooped to pet her, then wandered on through the place and
finally into the music room, where she seated herself at the piano and
touched the keys softly in the semi-dusk.

Among the songs--words and music--which her mother had left in
manuscript, was one which she had learned recently,--"Blue Eyes"--and
she played the air now, seated there all alone in the subdued lamp
light.

Presently people began to appear from above--Mrs. Barres, who motioned
her not to rise, and who seated herself near, watching the girl's
slender fingers moving on the keys; then Lee, who came and stood
beside her, followed in a few moments by Thessalie and the two younger
men.

"What is that lovely little air you are playing?" inquired Mrs.
Barres.

"It is called 'Blue Eyes,'" said Dulcie, absently.

"I have never before heard it."

The girl looked up:

"No, my mother wrote it."

After a silence:

"It is really exquisite," said Mrs. Barres. "Are there words to it?"

Some people had come into the entrance hall beyond; there was the low
whirring of an automobile outside.

"Yes, my mother made some verses for it," replied Dulcie.

"Will you sing them for me after dinner?"

"Yes, I shall be happy to."

Mrs. Barres turned to welcome her new guests, now entering the music
room convoyed by Barres senior, who was arrayed in the dreaded "stiff
shirt" and already indulging in "table talk."

"They took," he was explaining, "a midge-fly with no hackle--Claire,
here are the Gerhardts and Mr. Skeel!" And while his wife welcomed
them and introductions were effected, he continued explaining the
construction of the midge to anybody who listened.

At the first mention of Murtagh Skeel's name, the glances of Westmore,
Garry and Thessalie crossed like lightning, then their attention
became riveted on this tall, graceful, romantic looking man of early
middle age, who was being lionised at Northbrook.

The next moment Garry stepped back beside Dulcie Soane, who had turned
white as a flower and was gazing at Skeel as though she had seen a
ghost.

"Do you suppose he can be the same man your mother knew?" he
whispered, dropping his arm and taking her trembling hand in a firm
clasp.

"I don't know.... I seem to feel so.... I can't explain to you how it
pierced my heart--the sound of his name.... Oh, Garry!--suppose it is
true--that he is the man my mother knew--and cared for!"

Before he could speak, cocktails were served, and Adolf Gerhardt, a
large, bearded, pompous man, engaged him in explosive conversation:

"Yes, this fellow Corot Mandel is producing a new spectacle-play on my
lawn to-morrow evening. Your family and your guests are invited, of
course. And for the dance, also----" He included Dulcie in a pompous
bow, finished his cocktail with another flourish:

"You will find my friend Skeel very attractive," he went on. "You know
who he is?--_the_ Murtagh Skeel who writes those Irish poems of the
West Coast--and is not, I believe, very well received in England just
now--a matter of nationalism--patriotism, eh? Why should it surprise
your Britisher, eh?--if a gentleman like Murtagh Skeel displays no
sympathy for England?--if a gentleman like my friend, Sir Roger
Casement, prefers to live in Germany?"

Garry, under his own roof, said pleasantly:

"It wouldn't do for us to discuss those things, I fear, Mr. Gerhardt.
And your Irish lion seems to be very gentle and charming. He must be
fascinating to women."

Gerhardt threw up his hands:

"Oh, Lord! They would like to eat him! Or be eaten by him! You know?
It is that way always between the handsome poet and the sex. Which
eats which is of no consequence, so long as they merge. Eh?" And his
thunderous laughter set the empty glasses faintly ringing on the
butler's silver tray.

Garry spoke to Mrs. Gerhardt, a large, pallid, slabby German who might
have been somebody's kitchen maid, but had been born a _von_.

Later, as dinner was announced, he contrived to speak to Thessalie
aside:

"Gerhardt," he whispered, "doesn't recognise you, of course."

"No; I'm not at all apprehensive."

"Yet, it was on his yacht----"

"He never even looked twice at me. You know what he thought me to be?
Very well, he had only social ambitions then. I think that's all he
has now. You see what he got with his Red Eagle," nodding calmly
toward Mrs. Gerhardt, who now was being convoyed out by the monocled
martyr in the "stiff shirt."

The others passed out informally; Lee had slipped her arm around
Dulcie. As Garry and Thessalie turned to follow, he said in a low
voice:

"You feel quite secure, then, Thessa?"

She halted, put her lips close to his ear, unnoticed by those ahead:

"Perfectly. The Gerhardts are what you call fatheads--easily used by
anybody, dangerous to no one, governed by greed alone, without a
knowledge of any honour except the German sort. But that Irish dreamer
over there, _he_ is dangerous! That type always is. He menaces the
success of any enterprise to which his quixotic mind turns, because it
instantly becomes a fixed idea with him--an obsession, a monomania!"

She took his arm and walked on beside him.

"I know that fascinating, hot-headed, lovable type of mystic
visionary," she said, "handsome, romantic, illogical, governed
entirely by emotion, not fickle yet never to be depended on; not
faithless, but absolutely irresponsible and utterly ignorant of
fear!... My father was that sort. _Not_ the hunting cheetah Cyril and
Ferez pretended. And it was in _defence_ of a woman that my father
died.... Thank God!"

"Who told you?"

"Captain Renoux--the other night."

"I'm so glad, Thessa!"

She held her flushed head high and smiled at him.

"You see," she said, "after all it is in my blood to be decent."

       *       *       *       *       *

The Gerhardts, racially vulgar and socially blunt--for the inherent
vulgarity of the Teutonic peoples is an axiom among the civilised--made
themselves characteristically conspicuous at the flower-laden table;
but it was on Murtagh Skeel that all eyes became ultimately focused to
the limit of good-breeding. He was the lode-star--he was the magnet,
the vanishing point for all curiosity, all surmises, all interest.

Perfect breeding, perfect unconsciousness of self, were his minted
marks to guarantee the fineness of his metal. He was natural without
effort, winning in voice, in manner, in grace of mind and body, this
fascinating Irishman of letters--a charming listener, a persuasive
speaker, modest, light hearted, delightfully deferential.

Seated on the right of Mrs. Barres, his smiling hostess very quickly
understood the situation and made it pleasantly plain to everybody
that her guest of honour was not to be privately monopolised.

So almost immediately all currents of conversation flowed from all
sides toward this dark-eyed, handsome man, and in return the
silver-tongued tide of many currents--the Irish Sea at its sparkling
flood--flowed prettily and spread out from its perennial source
within him, and washed and rippled gently over every separate dinner
plate, so that nobody seemed neglected, and there was jetsam and
beach-combing for all.

And it was inevitable, presently, that Murtagh Skeel's conversation
should become autobiographical in some degree, and his careless,
candid, persuasive phrases turn into little gemlike memories. For he
came ultimately, of course, to speak of Irish nationalism and what it
meant; of the Celt as he had been and must remain--utterly unchanged,
as long as the last Celt remained alive on earth.

The subject, naturally, invaded the fairy lore, wild legend and lovely
mysticism of the West Coast; and centred about his own exquisite work
of interpreting it.

He spoke of it very modestly, as his source of inspiration, as the
inception of his own creative work in that field. But always, through
whatever he said, rang low and clear his passionate patriotism and the
only motive which incited him to creative effort--his longing for
national autonomy and the re-gathering of a scattered people in
preparation for its massed journey toward its Destiny.

His voice was musical, his words unconscious poetry. Without effort,
without pains, alas!--without logic--he held every ear enthralled
there in the soft candlelight and subdued glimmer of crystal and of
silver.

His was the magic of shadow and half-lights, of vague nuances and lost
outlines, and the valued degrees of impinging shade. No sharp
contours, no stark, uncompromising shapes, no brutality of raw
daylight, and--alas!--no threat of uncompromising logic invaded his
realm of dreamy demi-lights and faded fantasies.

He reigned there, amid an enchanted twilight of his own creation, the
embodiment of Irish romance, tender, gay, sweet-minded, persuasive,
gallant--and tragic, when, at some unexpected moment, the frail veil
of melancholy made his dark eyes less brilliant.

All yielded to his charm--even the stuffed Teutons, gorging gravy; all
felt his sway over mind and heart, nor cared to analyse it, there in
the soft light of candles and the scent of old-fashioned flowers.

There arose some question concerning Sir Roger Casement.

Murtagh Skeel spoke of him with the pure enthusiasm of passionate
belief in a master by a humble disciple. And the Teutons grunted
assent.

The subject of the war had been politely avoided, yet, somehow, it
came out that Murtagh Skeel had served in Britain's army overseas, as
an enlisted man in some Irish regiment--a romantic impulse of the
moment, involving a young man's crazy plan to foment rebellion in
India. Which little gem of a memoire presently made the fact of his
exile self-explanatory. Yet, he contrived that the ugly revelation
should end in laughter--an outbreak of spontaneous mirth through which
his glittering wit passed like lightning, cauterising the running sore
of treason....

       *       *       *       *       *

Coffee served, the diners drifted whither it suited them, together or
singly.

Like an errant spirit, Dulcie moved about at hazard amid the softened
lights, engaged here, approached there, pausing, wandering on, nowhere
in particular, yet ever listlessly in motion.

Encountering her near the porch, Barres senior had paused to
whisper that there was no hope for any fishing that evening; and she
had lingered to smile after him, as, unreconciled, he took his
stiff-shirted way toward the pallid, bejewelled, unanimated mass of
Mrs. Gerhardt, settled in the widest armchair and absorbing cordial.

A moment later the girl encountered Garry. He remained with her for a
while, evidently desiring to be near her without finding anything in
particular to say. And when he, in turn, moved elsewhere, obeying some
hazy mandate of hospitality, he became conscious of a reluctance to
leave her.

"Do you know, Sweetness," he said, lingering, "that you wear a
delicate beauty to-night lovelier than I have ever seen in you? You
are not only a wonderful girl, Dulcie; you are growing into an
adorable woman."

The girl looked back at him, blushing vividly in her sheer
surprise--watched him saunter away out of her silent sphere of
influence before she found any word to utter--if, indeed, she had been
seeking any, so deeply, so painfully sweet had sunk his words into
every fibre of her untried, defenceless youth.

Now, as her cheeks cooled, and she came to herself and moved again,
there seemed to grow around her a magic and faintly fragrant radiance
through which she passed--whither, she paid no heed, so exquisitely
her breast was thrilling under the hurrying pulses of her little
heart.... And presently found herself on the piano bench, quite
motionless, her gaze remote, her fingers resting on the keys.... And,
after a long while, she heard an old air stealing through the
silence, and her own voice,--_à demi-voix_--repeating her mother's
words:

      I

  "Were they as wise as they are blue--
                            My eyes--
  They'd teach me not to trust in you!--
  If they were wise as they are blue.

  But they're as blithe as they are blue--
                            My eyes--
  They bid my heart rejoice in you,
  Because they're blithe as well as blue.

  Believe and love! my gay heart cries;
  Believe him not! my mind replies;
    What shall I do
  When heart affirms and sense denies
  All I reveal within my eyes
    To you?

      II

  "If they were black instead of blue--
                            My eyes--
  Perhaps they'd prove unkind to you!
  If they were black instead of blue.

  But God designed them blithe and blue--
                            My eyes--
  Designed them to be kind to you,
  And made them tender, gay and true.

  Believe me, love, no maid is wise
  When from the windows of her eyes,
    Her heart looks through!
  Alas! My heart, to its surprise,
  Has learned to look; and now it sighs
    For you!"

She became conscious of somebody near, as she ended. She turned and
saw Murtagh Skeel at her elbow--saw his agitated, ashen face--looked
beyond him and discovered other people gathered in the tinted light
beyond, listening; then she lifted her clear, still gaze again to the
white-faced man beside her, and saw his shaken soul staring at her
through the dark windows of _his_ eyes.

"Where did you learn it?" he asked with a futile effort at that
control so difficult for any Celt to grasp where the heart is
involved.

"The song I sang? 'Blue Eyes'?" she inquired.

"Yes--that."

"I have the manuscript of the composer."

"Could you tell me where you got it--and--and who wrote those words
you sang?"

"The manuscript came to me from my mother.... She wrote it.... I think
you knew her."

His strong, handsome hand dropped on the piano's edge, gripped it; and
under his pale skin the quick blood surged to his temples.

"What was your--your mother's name, Miss Soane?"

"She was Eileen Fane."

The throbbing seconds passed and still they looked into each other's
eyes in silence. And at last:

"So you did know my mother," she said under her breath; and the hushed
finality of her words set his strong hand trembling.

"Eileen's little daughter," he repeated. "Eileen Fane's child.... And
grown to womanhood.... Yes, I knew your mother--many years ago....
When I enlisted and went abroad.... Was it Sir Terence Soane who
married your mother?"

She shook her head. He stared at her, striving to concentrate, to
think. "There were other Soanes," he muttered, "the Ellet Water
folk--no?----But there were many Soanes among the landed gentry in
the East and North.... I cannot seem to recollect--the sudden
shock--hearing a song unexpectedly----"

His white forehead had grown damp under the curly hair now clinging to
it. He passed his handkerchief over his brow in a confused way, then
leaned heavily on the piano with both hands grasping it. For the ghost
of his youth was interfering, disputing his control over his own mind,
filling his ear with forgotten words, taking possession of his memory
and tormenting it with the distant echoes of a voice long dead.

Through the increasing chaos in his brain his strained gaze sought to
fix itself on this living, breathing face before him--the child of
Eileen Fane.

He made the effort:

"There were the Soanes of Colross----" But he got no farther that way,
for the twin spectres of his youth and _hers_ were busy with his
senses now; and he leaned more heavily on the piano, enduring with
lowered head the ghostly whirlwind rushing up out of that obscurity
and darkness where once, under summer skies, he had sowed a zephyr.

The girl had become rather white, too. One slim hand still rested on
the ivory keys, the other lay inert in her lap. And after a while she
raised her grey eyes to this man standing beside her:

"Did you ever hear of my mother's marriage?"

He looked at her in a dull way:

"No."

"You heard--nothing?"

"I heard that your mother had left Fane Court."

"What was Fane Court?"

Murtagh Skeel stared at her in silence.

"I don't know," she said, trembling a little. "I know nothing about
my mother. She died when I was a few months old."

"Do you mean that you don't know who your mother was? You don't know
who she married?" he asked, astounded.

"No."

"Good God!" he said, gazing at her. His tense features were working
now; the battle for self-control was visible to her, and she sat there
dumbly, looking on at the mute conflict which suddenly sent the tears
flashing into his dark eyes and left his sensitive mouth twitching.

"I shall not ask you anything now," he said unsteadily; "I shall have
to see you somewhere else--where there are no people--to interrupt....
But I shall tell you all I know about--your mother.... I was in
trouble--in India. Somehow or other I heard indirectly that your
mother had left Fane Court. Later it was understood that she had
eloped.... Nobody could tell me the man's name.... My people in
Ireland did not know.... And I was not on good terms with your
grandfather. So there was no hope of information from Fane Court.... I
wrote, indeed, begging, beseeching for news of your mother. Sir
Barry--your grandfather--returned my letters unopened.... And that is
all I have ever heard concerning Eileen Fane--your mother--with whom
I--fell in love--nearly twenty years ago."

Dulcie, marble pale, nodded.

"I knew you cared for my mother," she said.

"How did you learn it?"

"Some letters of hers written to you. Letters from you to her. I have
nothing else of hers except some verses and little songs--like the one
you recognised."

"Child, she wrote it as I sat beside her!----" His voice choked,
broke, and his lips quivered as he fought for self-control again....
"I was not welcome at Fane Court.... Sir Barry would not tolerate
me.... Your mother was more kind.... She was very young. And so was I,
Dulcie.... There were political troubles. I was always involved. God
knows which was the stronger passion--it must have been love of
country--the other seeming hopeless--with the folk at Fane Court my
bitter enemies--only excepting your mother.... So I went away.... And
which of the Soanes your mother eloped with I have never learned....
Now, tell me--for you surely know that much."

She said:

"There is a man called Soane who tells me sometimes that he was once a
gamekeeper at what he calls 'the big house.' I have always supposed
him to be my father until within the last year. But recently, when he
has been drinking heavily, he sometimes tells me that my name is not
Soane but Fane.... Did you ever know of such a man?"

"No. There were gamekeepers about.... No. I cannot recall--and it is
impossible! A gamekeeper! And your _mother_! The man is mad! What in
God's name does all this mean!----"

He began to tremble, and his white forehead under the clustering curls
grew damp and pinched again.

"If you are Eileen's daughter----" But his face went dead white and he
got no further.

People were approaching from behind them, too; voices grew distinct in
conversation; somebody turned up another lamp.

"Do sing that little song again--the one you sang for Mr. Skeel," said
Lee Barres, coming up to the piano on her brother's arm. "Mrs.
Gerhardt has been waiting very patiently for an opportunity to ask
you."




XXIV

A SILENT HOUSE


The guests from Hohenlinden had departed from Foreland Farms; the
family had retired. Outside, under a sparkling galaxy of summer stars,
tall trees stood unstirring; indoors nothing stirred except the family
cat, darkly prowling on velvet-shod feet in eternal search of those
viewless things which are manifest only to the feline race--sorcerers
all, whether quadruped or human.

In various bedrooms upstairs lights went out, one after another, until
only two windows remained illuminated, one in the west wing, one in
the north.

For Dulcie, in her negligée and night robe, still sat by the open
window, chin resting on palm, her haunted gaze remotely lost somewhere
beyond the July stars.

And, in his room, Garry had arrived only as far as removing coat and
waistcoat in the process of disrobing for the night. For his mind was
still deeply preoccupied with Dulcie Soane and with the strange
expression of her face at the piano--and with the profoundly altered
visage of Murtagh Skeel.

And he was asking himself what could have happened between those two
in such a few minutes there at the piano in the music-room. For it was
evident to him that Skeel was labouring under poorly controlled
emotion, was dazed by it, and was recovering self-possession only by a
mighty effort.

And when Skeel had finally taken his leave and had gone away with the
Gerhardts, he suddenly stopped on the porch, returned to the
music-room, and, bending down, had kissed Dulcie's hand with a grace
and reverence which made the salute more of a serious ceremony than
the impulsive homage of a romantic poet's whim.

Considered by itself, the abrupt return and quaintly perfect salute
might have been taken as a spontaneous effervescence of that
delightful Celtic gallantry so easily stirred to ebullition by youth
and beauty. And for that it was accepted by the others after Murtagh
Skeel was gone; and everybody ventured to chaff Dulcie a little about
her conquest--merely the gentle humour of gentlefolk--a harmless word
or two, a smile in sympathy.

Garry alone saw in the girl's smile no genuine response to the light
badinage, and he knew that her serenity was troubled, her careless
composure forced.

Later, he contrived to say good-night to her alone, and gave her a
chance to speak; but she only murmured her adieux and went slowly away
up the stairs with Thessalie, not looking back.

       *       *       *       *       *

Now, sitting there in his dressing-gown, briar pipe alight, he frowned
and pondered over the matter in the light of what he already knew of
Dulcie, of the dead mother who bore her, of the grotesquely impossible
Soane, of this man, Murtagh Skeel.

What had he and Dulcie found in common to converse about so earnestly
and so long there in the music-room? What had they talked about to
drive the colour from Dulcie's cheeks and alter Skeel's countenance so
that he had looked more like his own wraith than his living self?

That Dulcie's mother had known this man, had once, evidently, been in
love with him more or less, doubtless was revealed in their
conversation at the piano. Had Skeel enlightened Dulcie any further?
And on what subject? Soane? Her mother? Her origin--in case the child
had admitted ignorance of it? Was Dulcie, now, in possession of new
facts concerning herself? Were they agreeable facts? Were they
depressing? Had she learned anything definite in regard to her birth?
Her parentage? Did she know, now, who was her real father? Was the
obvious absurdity of Soane finally exploded? Had she learned what the
drunken Soane meant by asserting that her name was not Soane but
Fane?

His pipe burned out and he laid it aside, but did not rise to resume
his preparation for bed.

Then, somewhere from the unlighted depths of the house came the sound
of the telephone bell--at that hour of night always a slightly ominous
sound.

He got up and went down stairs, not troubling to switch on any light,
for the lustre of the starry night outside silvered every window and
made it possible for him to see his way.

At the clamouring telephone, finally, he unhooked the receiver:

"Hello?" he said. "Yes! Yes! Oh, is that _you_, Renoux? Where on earth
are you?... At Northbrook?... Where?... At the Summit House? Well, why
didn't you come here to us?... Oh!... No, it isn't very late. We
retire early at Foreland.... Oh, yes, I'm dressed.... Certainly....
Yes, come over.... Yes!... _Yes_!... I'll wait for you in the
library.... In an hour?... You bet. No, I'm not sleepy.... Sure
thing!... Come on!"

He hung up the receiver, turned, and made his way through the dusk
toward the library which was opposite the music-room across the big
entrance hall.

Before he turned on any light he paused to look out at the splendour
of the stars. The night had grown warmer; there was no haze, now, only
an argentine clarity in which shadowy trees stood mysterious and
motionless and the dim lawn stretched away to the distant avenue and
wall, lost against their looming border foliage.

Once he thought he heard a slight sound somewhere in the house behind
him, but presently remembered that the family cat held sway among the
mice at such an hour.

A little later he turned from the window to light a lamp, and found
himself facing a slim, white figure in the starry dusk.

"Dulcie!" he exclaimed under his breath.

"I want to talk to you."

"Why on earth are you wandering about at this hour?" he asked. "You
made me jump, I can tell you."

"I was awake--not in bed yet. I heard the telephone. Then I went out
into the west corridor and saw you going down stairs.... Is it all
right for me to sit here in my night dress with you?"

He smiled:

"Well, considering----"

"Of course!" she said hastily, "only I didn't know whether outside
your studio----"

"Oh, Dulcie, you're becoming self-conscious! Stop it, Sweetness. Don't
spoil things. Here--tuck yourself into this big armchair!--curl up!
There you are. And here I am----" dropping into another wide, deep
chair. "Lord! but you're a pretty thing, Dulcie, with your hair down
and all glimmering with starlight! We'll try painting you that way
some day--I wouldn't know how to go about it offhand, either. Maybe a
screened arc-lamp in a dark partition, and a peep-hole--I don't
know----"

He lay back in his chair, studying her, and she watched him in silence
for a while. Presently she sighed, stirred, placed her feet on the
floor as though preparing to rise. And he came out of his impersonal
abstraction:

"What is it you want to say, Sweetness?"

"Another time," she murmured. "I don't----"

"You dear child, you came to me needing the intimacy of our
comradeship--perhaps its sympathy. My mind was wandering--you are so
lovely in the starlight. But you ought to know where my heart is."

"Is it open--a little?"

"Knock and see, Sweetness."

"Well, then, I came to ask you--Mr. Skeel is coming to-morrow--to see
me--alone. Could it be contrived--without offending?"

"I suppose it could.... Yes, of course.... Only it will be conspicuous.
You see, Mr. Skeel is much sought after in certain circles--beginning to
be pursued and----"

"He asked me."

"Dear, it's quite all right----"

"Let me tell you, please.... He _did_ know my mother."

"I supposed so."

"Yes. He was the man. I want you to know what he told me.... I always
wish you to know everything that is in my--mind--always, for ever."

She leaned forward in her chair, her pretty, bare feet extended. One
silken sleeve of her negligée had fallen to the shoulder, revealing
the perfect symmetry of her arm. But he put from his mind the ever
latent artistic delight in her, closed his painter's eye to her
protean possibilities, and resolutely concentrated his mental forces
upon what she was now saying:

"He turns out to be the same man my mother wrote to--and who wrote to
her.... They were in love, then. He didn't say why he went away,
except that my mother's family disliked him.... She lived at a house
called Fane Court.... He spoke of my mother's father as Sir Barry
Fane...."

"That doesn't surprise me, Sweetness."

"Did _you_ know?"

"Nothing definite." He looked at the lovely, slender-limbed girl there
in the starry dusk. "I knew nothing definite," he repeated, "but there
was no mistaking the metal from which you had been made--or the mould,
either. And as for Soane----" he smiled.

She said:

"If my name is really Fane, there can be only one conclusion; some
kinsman of that name must have married my mother."

He said:

"Of course," very gravely.

"Then who was he? My mother never mentioned him in her letters. What
became of him? He must have been my father. Is he living?"

"Did you ask Mr. Skeel?"

"Yes. He seemed too deeply affected to answer me. He must have loved
my mother very dearly to show such emotion before me."

"What did you ask him, Dulcie?"

"After we left the piano?"

"Yes."

"I asked him that. I had only a few more moments alone with him before
he left. I asked him about my mother--to tell me how she looked--so I
could think of her more clearly. He has a picture of her on ivory. He
is to bring it to me and tell me more about her. That is why I must
see him to-morrow--so I may ask him again about my father."

"Yes, dear...." He sat very silent for a while, then rose, came over,
and seated himself on the padded arm of Dulcie's chair, and took both
her hands into his:

"Listen, Sweetness. You are what you are to me--my dear comrade, my
faithful partner sharing our pretty partnership in art; and, more than
these, Dulcie, you are my friend.... Never doubt that. Never forget
it. Nothing can alter it--nothing you learn about your origin can
exalt that friendship.... Nothing lessen it. Do you understand?
_Nothing_ can _lessen_ it, save only if you prove untrue to what you
are--your real self."

She had rested her cheek against his arm while he was speaking. It lay
there now, pressed closer.

"As for Murtagh Skeel," he said, "he is a charming, cultivated,
fascinating man. But if he attempts to carry out his agitator's
schemes and his revolutionary propaganda in this country, he is headed
for most serious trouble."

"Why does he?"

"Don't ask me why men of his education and character do such things.
They do; that's all I know. Sir Roger Casement is another man not
unlike Skeel. There are many, hot-hearted, generous, brave,
irrational. There is no use blaming them--no justice in it, either.
The history of British rule in Ireland is a matter of record.

"But, Dulcie, he who strikes at England to-day strikes at civilisation,
at liberty, at God! This is no time to settle old grievances. And to
attempt to do it by violence, by propaganda--to attempt a reckoning of
ancient wrongs in any way, to-day, is a crime--the crime of treachery
against Christ's teachings--of treason against Lord Christ Himself!"

After a long interval:

"You are going to this war quite soon. Mr. Westmore said so."

"I am going--with my country or without it."

"When?"

"When I finally lose patience and self-respect.... I don't know
exactly when, but it will be pretty soon."

"Could I go with you?"

"Do you wish to?"

She pressed her cheek against his arm in silence.

He said:

"That has troubled me a lot, Dulcie. Of course you could stay here; I
can arrange--I had come to a conclusion in regard to financial
matters----"

"I can't," she whispered.

"Can't what?"

"Stay here--take anything from you--accept without service in
return."

"What would you do?"

"I wouldn't care--if you--leave me here alone."

"But, Dulcie----"

"I know. You said it this evening. There will come a time when you
would not find it convenient to have me--around----"

"Dear, it's only because a man and a woman in this world cannot
continue anything of enduring intimacy without business as an excuse.
And even then, the pleasant informality existing now could not be
continued with anything except very serious disadvantage to you."

"You will grow tired of painting me," she said under her breath.

"No. But your life is all before you, Dulcie. Girls usually marry
sooner or later."

"Men do too."

"That's not what I meant----"

"You will marry," she whispered.

Again, at her words, the same odd uneasiness began to possess him as
though something obscure, unformulated as yet, must some day be
cleared up by him and decided.

"Don't leave me--yet," she said.

"I couldn't take you with me to France."

"Let me enlist for service. Could you be patient for a few months so
that I might learn something--anything!--I don't care what, if only I
can go with you? Don't they require women to scrub and do unpleasant
things--humble, unclean, necessary things?"

"You couldn't--with your slender youth and delicate beauty----"

"Oh," she whispered, "you don't know what I could do to be near you!
That is all I want--all I want in the world!--just to be somewhere not
too far away. I couldn't stand it, now, if you left me.... I couldn't
live----"

"Dulcie!"

But, suddenly, it was a hot-faced, passionate, sobbing child who was
clinging desperately to his arm and staunching her tears against
it--saying nothing more, merely clinging close with quivering lips.

"Listen," he said impulsively. "I'll give you time. If there's
anything you can learn that will admit you to France, come back to
town with me and learn it.... Because I don't want to leave you,
either.... There ought to be some way--some way----" He checked
himself abruptly, stared at the bowed head under its torrent of
splendid hair--at the desperate white little hands holding so fast to
his sleeve, at the slender body gathered there in the deep chair, and
all aquiver now.

"We'll go--together," he said unsteadily.... "I'll do what I can; I
promise.... You must go upstairs to bed, now.... Dulcie!... dear
girl...."

She released his arm, tried to get up from her chair obediently,
blinded by tears and groping in the starlight.

"Let me guide you----" His voice was strained, his touch feverish and
unsteady, and the convulsive closing of her fingers over his seemed to
burn to his very bones.

At the stairs she tried to speak, thanking him, asking pardon for her
tears, her loss of self-command, penitent, afraid that she had lowered
herself, strained his friendship--troubled him----

"No. I--_want_ you," he said in an odd, indistinct, hesitating voice....
"Things must be cleared up--matters concerning us--affairs----" he
muttered.

She closed her eyes a moment and rested both hands on the banisters as
though fatigued, then she looked down at him where he stood watching
her:

"If you had rather go without me--if it is better for you--less
troublesome----"

"I've told you," he said in a dull voice, "I want you. You must fit
yourself to go."

"You are so kind to me--so wonderful----"

He merely stared at her; she turned almost wearily to resume her
ascent.

"Dulcie!"

She had reached the landing above. She bent over, looking down at him
in the dusk.

"Did you understand?"

"I--yes, I think so."

"That I _want_ you?"

"Yes."

"It is true. I want you always. I'm just beginning to understand that
myself. Please don't ever forget what I say to you now, Dulcie; I want
you. I shall always want you. Always! As long as I live."

She leaned heavily on the newel-post above, looking down.

He could not see that her eyes were closed, that her lips moved in
voiceless answer. She was only a vague white shape there in the dusk
above him--a mystery which seemed to have been suddenly born out of
some poignant confusion of his own mind.

He saw her turn, fade into the darkness. And he stood there, not
moving, aware of the chaos within him, of shapeless questions being
evolved out of this profound disturbance--of an inner consciousness
groping with these questions--questions involving other questions and
menacing him with the necessity of decision.

After a while, too, he became conscious of his own voice sounding
there in the darkness:

"I am very near to love.... I have been close to it.... It would be
very easy to fall in love to-night.... But I am wondering--about
to-morrow.... And afterward.... But I have been very near--very near
to love, to-night...."

The front doorbell rang through the darkness.




XXV

STARLIGHT


When Barres opened the front door he saw Renoux standing there in the
shadow of the porch, silhouetted against the starlight. They exchanged
a silent grip; Renoux stepped inside; Barres closed the front door.

"Shall I light up?" he asked in a low voice.

"No. There are complications. I've been followed, I think. Take me
somewhere near a window which commands the driveway out there. I'd
like to keep my eye on it while we are talking."

"Come on," said Barres, under his breath. He guided Renoux through the
shadowy entrance hall to the library, moved two padded armchairs to
the window facing the main drive, motioned Renoux to seat himself.

"When did you arrive?" he asked in a cautious voice.

"This morning."

"What! You got here before we did!"

"Yes. I followed Souchez and Alost. Do you know who _they_ were
following?"

"No."

"One of your guests at dinner this evening."

"Skeel!"

Renoux nodded:

"Yes. You saw them start for the train. Skeel was on the train. But
the conference at your studio delayed me. So I came up by automobile
last night."

"And you've been here all day?"

Renoux nodded, but his keen eyes were fixed on the drive, shining
silver-grey in the starlight. And his gaze continually reverted to it
while he continued speaking:

"My friend, things are happening. Let me first tell you what is the
situation. Over this entire hemisphere German spies are busy, German
intrigue and propaganda are being accelerated, treason is spreading
from a thousand foci of infection.

"In South America matters are very serious. A revolution is being
planned by the half million Germans in Brazil; the neutrality of
Argentine is being most grossly violated and Count Luxburg, the boche
Ambassador, is already tampering with Chile and other Southern
Republics.

"Of course, the Mexican trouble is due to German intrigue which is
trying desperately to involve that Republic and yours and also drag in
Japan.

"In Honolulu the German cruiser which your Government has interned is
sending out wireless information while her band plays to drown the
crackle of the instrument.

"And from the Golden Gate to the Delaware capes, and from the Soo to
the Gulf, the spies of Germany swarm in your great Republic, planning
your destruction in anticipation of the war which will surely come."

Barres reddened in the darkness and his heart beat more rapidly:

"You think it really will come?"

"War with Germany? My friend, I am certain of it. Your Government
may not be certain. It is, if you permit a foreigner to say
so--an--unusual Administration.... In this way, for example: it is
cognisant of almost everything treasonable that is happening; it
maintains agents in close contact with every mischief-hatching
German diplomat in this hemisphere; it even has agents in the German
Embassies--agents unsuspected, who daily rub elbows with German
Ambassadors themselves!

"It knows what Luxburg is doing; it is informed every day concerning
Bernstorff's dirty activities; the details of the Mexican and Japanese
affairs are familiar to Mr. Lansing; all that happens aboard the
_Geier_, the interned German liners--all that occurs in German
consulates, commercial offices, business houses, clubs, cafés,
saloons, is no secret to your Government.

"Yet, nothing has been done, nothing is being done except to continue
to collect data of the most monstrous and stupendous conspiracy that
ever threatened a free nation! I repeat that nothing is being done; no
preparation is being made to face the hurricane which has been looming
for two years and more, growing ever blacker over your horizon. All
the world can see the lightning playing behind those storm clouds.

"And, my God!--not an umbrella! Not an order for overshoes and
raincoats!... I am not, perhaps, in error when I suggest that the
Administration is an--unusual one."

Barres nodded slowly.

Renoux said:

"I am sorry. The reckoning will be heavy."

"I know."

"Yes, you know. Your great politician, Mr. Roosevelt, knows; your
great Admiral, Mahan, knew; your great General, Wood, knows. Also,
perhaps some million or more sane, clear thinking American citizens
know." He made a hopeless gesture. "It is a pity, Barres, my
friend.... Well--it is, of course, the affair of your people to
decide.... We French can only wait.... But we have never doubted your
ultimate decision.... Lafayette did not live in vain. Yorktown was not
merely a battle. Your Washington lighted a torch for your people and
for ours to hold aloft eternally. Even the rain of blood drenching our
Revolution could not extinguish it. It still burned at Gravelotte, at
Metz, at Sedan. It burned above the smoke and dust of the Commune. It
burned at the Marne. It still burns, mon ami."

"Yes."

"Alors----" He sat silent for a few moments, his gaze intent on the
starry obscurity outdoors. Then, slow and pleasantly:

"The particular mess, the cooking of which interests my Government,
the English Government, and yours, is now on the point of boiling
over. It's this Irish stew I speak of. Poor devils--they must be
crazy, every one of them, to do what they are already beginning to
do.... You remember the papers which you secured?"

"Yes."

"Well, what we did last night at Grogan's has prematurely dumped the
fat into the fire. They know they've been robbed; they know that their
plans are in our hands. Do you suppose that stops them? No! On the
contrary, they are at this very moment attempting, as you say in New
York, to beat us to it."

"How do you mean?"

"This way: the signal for an Irish attempt on Canada is to be the
destruction of the Welland Canal. You remember the German suggestion
that an ore steamer be seized? They're going to try it. And if that
fails, they're to take their power boat into the canal anyway and blow
up a lock, even if they blow up themselves with it. Did you ever hear
of such madness? Mon dieu, if only we had those men under your flag
on our western front!"

"Do you know who these men are?" asked Barres.

"Your dinner guest--Murtagh Skeel--leads this company of Death."

"When?"

"Now! To-morrow! That's why I'm here! That's why your Secret Service
men are arriving. I tell you the mess is on the point of boiling over.
The crew is already on its way to take over the launch. They're
travelling west singly, by separate trains and routes."

"Do you know who they are--these madmen?"

"Here is the list--don't strike a light! I can recall their names, I
think--some of them anyway----"

"Are any of them Germans?"

"Not one. Your German doesn't blow himself up with anything but beer.
Not he! No; he lights a fuse and legs it! I don't say he's a coward.
But self-immolation for abstract principle isn't in him. There have
been instances resembling it at sea--probably not genuine--not like
that poor sergeant of ours in 1870, who went into the citadel at Laon
and shoved a torch into the bin of loose powder under the magazine....
Because the city had surrendered. And Paris was not many miles
away.... So he blew himself up with citadel, magazine, all the
Prussians in the neighbourhood, and most of the town.... Well--these
Irish are planning something of that sort on the Welland Canal....
Murtagh Skeel leads them. The others I remember are Madigan, Cassidy,
Dolan, McBride--and that fellow Soane!----"

"Is _he_ one of them?"

"He surely is. He went west on the same train that brought Skeel here.
And now I'll tell you what has been done and why I'm here.

"We haven't located the power-boat on the lake. But the Canadians are
watching for it and your agents are following these Irishmen. When the
crew assembles they are to be arrested and their power-boat and
explosives seized.

"I and my men have no official standing here, of course--would not be
tolerated in any co-operation, _officially_. But we have a certain
understanding with certain authorities."

Barres nodded.

"You see? Very well. Then, with delicacy and discretion, we keep in
touch with Mr. Skeel.... And with other people.... You see?... He is
abed in the large house of Mr. Gerhardt over yonder at Northbrook....
Under surveillance.... He moves? We move--very discreetly. You see?"

"Certainly."

"Very well, then. But I am obliged to tell you, also, that the hunting
is not done entirely by our side. No! In turn, I and my men, and also
your agents, are being hunted by German agents.... It is that which
annoys and hampers us, because these German agents continually dog us
and give the alarm to these Irishmen. You see?"

"Who are the German agents? Do you know?"

"Very well indeed. Bernstorff is the head; Von Papen and Boy-ed come
next. Under them serve certain so-called 'Diplomatic Agents of Class
No. 1'--Adolf Gerhardt is one of them; his partners, Otto Klein and
Joseph Schwartzmeyer are two others.

"They, in turn, have under them diplomatic agents of the second
class--men such as Ferez Bey, Franz Lehr, called _K17_. You see? Then,
lower still in the scale, come the spies who actually investigate
under orders; men like Dave Sendelbeck, Johnny Klein, Louis
Hochstein, Max Freund. And, then, lowest of all in rank are the rank
and file--the secret 'shock-troops' who carry out desperate
enterprises under some leader. Among the Germans these are the men who
sneak about setting fires, lighting the fuses of bombs, scuttling
ships, defacing Government placards, poisoning Red Cross bandages to
be sent to the Allies--that sort. But among them are no battalions of
Death. _Non pas!_ And, for that, you see, they use these Irish. You
understand now?"

"Yes, I do."

"Well, then! I trust you absolutely, Barres. And so I came over to ask
you--and your clever friends, Mademoiselle Dunois, Miss Soane, Mr.
Westmore, to keep their eyes on this man Skeel to-morrow afternoon and
also to-morrow evening. Because they will be guests at the Gerhardts'.
Is it not so?"

"Yes."

"Well, your Government's agents will be there. They will also be in
the neighbourhood, watching roads and railway stations. I have one man
in service with the Gerhardts--their head chauffeur. If anything
happens--if Skeel tries to slip away--if you miss him--I would be very
grateful if you and your friends notify the head chauffeur, Menard."

"We'll try to do it."

"That's all I want. Just get word to Menard that Skeel seems to be
missing. That will be sufficient. Will you say this to your friends?"

"Yes, I will, Renoux. I'll be glad to. I'll be particularly happy to
offer to Miss Dunois this proof of your confidence in her integrity."

Renoux looked very grave.

"For me," he said, "Miss Dunois is what she pretends to be. I
have so informed my Government at home and its representatives at
Washington."

"Have you heard anything yet?"

"Yes, a telegram in cipher from Washington late this afternoon."

"Favourable to her?"

"Yes. Our Ambassador is taking up immediately the clues Miss Dunois
furnished me last night. Also, he has cabled at length to my home
Government. At this hour, no doubt, d'Eblis, Bolo, probably an
ex-minister or two, are being watched. And in this country your
Government is now in possession of facts which must suggest a very
close surveillance of the activities of Ferez Bey."

"Where is he?"

Renoux shook his head:

"He _was_ in New York. But he gave us the slip. An eel!" he added,
rising. "Oh, we shall pick up his slimy traces again in time. But it
is mortifying.... Well, thank you, mon ami. I must go." And he started
toward the hall.

"Have you a car anywhere?" asked Barres.

"Yes, up the road a bit." He glanced through the sidelight of the
front door, carelessly. "A couple of men out yonder dodging about.
Have you noticed them, Barres?"

"No! Where?"

"They're out there in the shadow of your wall. I imagined that I'd be
followed." He smiled and opened the front door.

"Wait!" whispered Barres. "You are not going out there alone, are
you?"

"Certainly. There's no danger."

"Well, I don't like it, Renoux. I'll walk as far as your car----"

"Don't trouble! I have no personal apprehension----"

"All the same," muttered the other, continuing on down the front steps
beside his comrade.

Renoux shrugged good-humouredly his disapproval of such precaution,
but made no further protest. Nobody was visible anywhere on the
grounds. The big iron gates were still locked, but the wicket was
open. Through this they stepped out onto the macadam.

A little farther along stood a touring car with two men in it.

"You see?" began Renoux--when his words were cut by the crack of a
pistol, and the red tail-light of the car crashed into splinters and
went dark.

"Well, by God!" remarked Renoux calmly, looking at the woods across
the road and leisurely producing an automatic pistol.

Then, from deeper in the thicket, two bright flames stabbed the
darkness and the crash of the shots re-echoed among the trees.

Both men in the touring car instantly turned loose their pistols;
Renoux said, in a voice at once perplexed and amused:

"Go home, Barres. I don't want people to know you are out here....
I'll see you again soon."

"Isn't there anything----"

"Nothing. Please--you would oblige me by keeping clear of this if you
really desire to help me."

There were no more shots. Renoux stepped leisurely into the tonneau.

"Well, what the devil do you gentlemen make of this?" Barres heard him
say in his cool, humorous voice. "It really looks as though the boches
were getting nervous."

The car started. Barres could see Renoux and another man sitting with
pistols levelled as the car glided along the fringe of woods. But
there were no more shots on either side, and, after the car had
disappeared, Barres turned and retraced his way.

Then, as he entered his own gate by the side wicket, and turned to
lock it with his own key, an electric torch flashed in his face,
blinding him.

"Let him have it!" muttered somebody behind the dazzling light.

"That's not one of them!" said another voice distinctly. "Look out
what you're doing! Douse your glim!"

Instantly the fierce glare faded to a cinder. Barres heard running
feet on the macadam, the crash of shrubbery opposite. But he could see
nobody; and presently the footsteps in the woods were no longer
audible.

There seemed to be nothing for him to do in the matter. He lingered by
the wicket for a while, peering into the night, listening. He saw
nothing; heard nothing more that night.




XXVI

'BE-N EIRINN I!


Barres senior rose with the sun. Also with determination, which took
the form of a note slipped under his wife's door as he was leaving the
house:

  "DARLING:

  "I lost last night's fishing and I'm hanged if I lose it to-night!
  So don't ask me to fritter away a perfectly good evening at the
  Gerhardt's party, because the sun is up; I'm off to the woods; and
  I shall remain there until the last trout breaks.

  "Tell the little Soane girl that I left a rod for her in the
  work-room, if she cares to join me at the second lake. Garry can
  bring her over and leave her if he doesn't wish to fish. Don't
  send a man over with a lot of food and shawls. I've a creel full
  of provisions, and I am sufficiently clad, and I hate to be
  disturbed and I am never grateful to people who try to be good to
  me. However, I love you very dearly.

  "Your husband,

  "REGINALD BARRES."

At half past seven trays were sent to Mrs. Barres and to Lee; and at
eight-thirty they were in the saddle and their horses fetlock deep in
morning dew.

Dulcie, sipping her chocolate in bed, marked their departure with
sleepy eyes. For the emotions of the night before had told on her, and
when a maid came to remove the tray she settled down among her
pillows again, blinking unresponsively at the invitation of the sun,
which cast over her a fairy net of gold.

Thessalie, in negligée, came in later and sat down on the edge of her
bed.

"You sleepy little thing," she said, "the men have breakfasted and are
waiting for us on the tennis court."

"I don't know how to play," said Dulcie. "I don't know how to do
anything."

"You soon will, if you get up, you sweet little lazy-bones!"

"Do you think I'll ever learn to play tennis and golf and to ride?"
inquired Dulcie. "You know how to do everything so well, Thessa."

"Dear child, it's all locked up in you--the ability to do everything--be
anything! The only difference between us is that I had the chance to
try."

"But I can't even stand on my head," said Dulcie wistfully.

"Did you ever try?"

"N-no."

"It's easy. Do you want to see me do it?"

"Oh, please, Thessa!"

So Thessalie, calmly smiling, rose, cast herself lightly upon her
hands, straightened her lithe figure leisurely, until, amid a cataract
of tumbling silk and chiffon, her rose silk slippers pointed toward
the ceiling. Then, always with graceful deliberation, she brought her
feet to the floor, forming an arc with her body; held it a moment, and
slowly rose upright, her flushed face half-buried in her loosened
hair.

Dulcie, in raptures, climbed out of bed and insisted on immediate
instruction. Down on the tennis court, Garry and Westmore heard their
peals of laughter and came across the lawn under the window to
remonstrate.

"Aren't you ever going to get dressed!" called up Westmore. "If you're
going to play doubles with us you'd better get busy, because it's
going to be a hot day!"

So Thessalie went away to dress and Dulcie tiptoed into her bath,
which the maid had already drawn.

But it was an hour before they appeared on the lawn, cool and fresh in
their white skirts and shoes, and found Westmore and Barres, red and
drenched, hammering each other across the net in their second furious
set.

So Dulcie took her first lesson under Garry's auspices; and she took
to it naturally, her instinct being sound, but her technique as
charmingly awkward as a young bird's in its first essay at flying.

To see her all in white, with sleeves tucked up, throat bare, and the
sun brilliant on her ruddy, rippling hair, produced a curious
impression on Barres. As far as the East is from the West, so far was
this Dulcie of the tennis court separated from the wistful, shabby
child behind the desk at Dragon Court.

Could they possibly be the same--this lithe, fresh, laughing girl,
with white feet flashing and snowy skirts awhirl?--and the pale,
grey-eyed slip of a thing that had come one day to his threshold with
a faltering request for admittance to that wonderland wherein dwelt
only such as he?

Now, those grey eyes had turned violet, tinged with the beauty of the
open sky; the loosened hair had become a net entangling the very
sunlight; and the frail body, now but one smooth, soft symmetry,
seemed fairly lustrous with the shining soul it masked within it.

       *       *       *       *       *

She came over to the net, breathless, laughing, to shake hands with
her victorious opponents.

"I'm so sorry, Garry," she said, turning penitently to him, "but I
need such a lot of help in the world before I'm worth anything to
anybody."

"You're all right as you are. You always have been all right," he said
in a low voice. "You never were worth less than you are worth now;
you'll never be worth more than you are worth to me at this moment."

They were walking slowly across the lawn toward the northern veranda.
She halted a moment on the grass and cast a questioning glance at
him:

"Doesn't it please you to have me learn things?"

"You always please me."

"I'm so glad.... I try.... But don't you think you'd like me better if
I were not so ignorant?"

He looked at her absently, shook his head:

"No ... I couldn't like you better.... I couldn't care more--for any
girl--than I care for you.... Did you suspect that, Dulcie?"

"No."

"Well, it's true."

They moved slowly forward across the grass--he distrait, his handsome
head lowered, swinging his tennis-bat as he walked; she very still and
lithe and slender, moving beside him with lowered eyes fixed on their
mingled shadows on the grass.

"When are you to see Mr. Skeel?" he asked abruptly.

"This afternoon.... He asked if he might hope to find me alone.... I
didn't know exactly what to say. So I told him about the rose
arbour.... He said he would pay his respects to your mother and sister
and then ask their permission to see me there alone."

They came to the veranda; Dulcie seated herself on the steps and he
remained standing on the grass in front of her.

"Remember," he said quietly, "that I can never care less for you than
I do at this moment.... Don't forget what I say, Dulcie."

She looked up at him, happy, wondering, even perhaps a little
apprehensive in her uncertainty as to his meaning.

He did not seem to care to enlighten her further. His mood changed,
too, even as she looked at him, and she saw the troubled gravity fade
and the old gaiety glimmering in his eyes:

"I've a mind to put you on a horse, Sweetness, and see what happens,"
he remarked.

"Oh, Garry! I don't want to tumble off before _you_!"

"Before whom had you rather land on that red head of yours?" he
inquired. "I'd be more sympathetic than many."

"I'd rather have Thessa watch me break my neck. Do you mind? It's
horrid to be so sensitive, I suppose. But, Garry, I couldn't bear to
have you see me so shamefully awkward and demoralised."

"Fancy your being awkward! Well, all right----"

He looked across the lawn, where Thessalie and Westmore sat together,
just outside the tennis court, under a brilliant lawn umbrella.

Oddly enough, the spectacle caused him no subtle pang, although their
heads were pretty close together and their mutual absorption in
whatever they were saying appeared evident enough.

"Let 'em chatter," he said after an instant's hesitation. "Thessa or
my sister can ride with you this afternoon when it's cooler. I suppose
you'll take to the saddle as though born there."

"Oh, I hope so!"

"Sure thing. All Irish girls--of your quality--take to it."

"My--quality?"

"Yours.... It's merely happened so," he added irrelevantly, "--but the
contrary couldn't have mattered ... as long as you are _you_! Nothing
else matters one way or another. You _are_ you: that answers all
questions, fulfils all requirements----"

"I _don't_ quite understand what you say, Garry!"

"Don't you, Sweetness? Don't you understand why you've always been
exactly what you appear like at this moment?"

She looked at him with her lovely, uncertain smile:

"I've always been myself, I suppose. You are teasing me dreadfully!"

He laughed in a nervous, excited way, not like himself:

"You bet you have always been yourself, Sweetness!--in spite of
everything you've always been _yourself_. I am very slow in
discovering it. But I think I realise it now."

"Please," she remonstrated, "you are laughing at me and I don't know
why. I think you've been talking nonsense and expecting me to pretend
to understand.... If you don't stop laughing at me I shall retire to
my room and--and----"

"What, Sweetness?" he demanded, still laughing.

"Change to a cooler gown," she said, humorously vexed at her own
inability to threaten or punish him for his gaiety at her expense.

"All right; I'll change too, and we'll meet in the music-room!"

She considered him askance:

"Will you be more respectful to me, Garry?"

"Respectful? I don't know."

"Very well, then, I'm not coming back."

But when he entered the music-room half an hour later, Dulcie was
seated demurely before the piano, and when he came and stood behind
her she dropped her head straight back and looked up at him.

"I had a wonderful icy bath," she said, "and I'm ready for anything.
Are you?"

"Almost," he said, looking down at her.

She straightened up, gazed silently at the piano for a few moments;
sounded a few chords. Then her fingers wandered uncertainly, as though
groping for something that eluded them--something that they delicately
sought to interpret. But apparently she did not discover it; and her
search among the keys ended in a soft chord like a sigh. Only her lips
could have spoken more plainly.

At that moment Westmore and Thessalie came in breezily and remained to
gossip a few minutes before bathing and changing.

"Play something jolly!" said Westmore. "One of those gay Irish things,
you know, like 'The Honourable Michael Dunn,' or 'Finnigan's Wake,'
or----"

"I don't know any," said Dulcie, smiling. "There's a song called
'Asthore.' My mother wrote it----"

"Can you sing it?"

The girl ran her fingers over the keys musingly:

"I'll remember it presently. I know one or two old songs like
'Irishmen All.' Do you know that song?"

And she sang it in her gay, unembarrassed way:

  "Warm is our love for the island that bore us,
  Ready are we as our fathers before us,
    Genial and gallant men,
    Fearless and valiant men,
  Faithful to Erin we answer her call.
    Ulster men, Munster men,
    Connaught men, Leinster men,
  Irishmen all we answer her call!"

"Fine!" cried Westmore. "Try it again, Dulcie!"

"Maybe you'll like this better," she said:

    "Our Irish girls are beautiful,
  As all the world will own;
    An Irish smile in Irish eyes
  Would melt a heart of stone;
    But all their smiles and all their wiles
  Will quickly turn to sneers
    If you fail to fight for Erin
  In the Irish Volunteers!"

"Hurrah!" cried Westmore, beating time and picking up the chorus of
the "Irish Volunteers," which Dulcie played to a thunderous finish
amid frantic applause.

She sang for them "The West's Awake!", "The Risin' of the Moon,"
"Clare's Dragoons," and "Paddy Get Up!" And after Westmore had
exercised his lungs sufficiently in every chorus, he and Thessalie
went off to their respective quarters, leaving Barres leaning on the
piano beside Dulcie.

"Your people are a splendid lot--given half a chance," he said.

"My people?"

"Certainly. After all, Sweetness, you're Irish, you know."

"Oh."

"Aren't you?"

"I don't know what I am," she murmured half to herself.

"Whoever you are it's the same to me, Dulcie." ... He took a few
short, nervous turns across the room; walked slowly back to her: "Has
it come back to you yet--that song of your mother's you were trying to
remember?"

Even while he was speaking the song came back to her memory--her
mother's song called "Asthore"--startling her with its poignant
significance to herself.

"Do you recollect it?" he asked again.

"Y-yes ... I can't sing it."

"Why?"

"I don't wish to sing 'Asthore'----" She bent her head and gazed at
the keyboard, the painful colour dyeing her neck and cheeks.

When at length she looked up at him out of lovely, distressed eyes,
something in his face--something--some new expression which she dared
not interpret--set her heart flying. And, scarcely knowing what she
was saying in her swift and exquisite confusion:

"The words of my mother's song would mean nothing to you, Garry," she
faltered. "You could not understand them----"

"Why not?"

"B-because you could not be in sympathy with them."

"How do you know? Try!"

"I can't----"

"Please, dear!"

The smile edging her lips glimmered in her eyes now--a reckless little
glint of humour, almost defiant.

"Do you insist that I sing 'Asthore'?"

"Yes."

He seemed conscious of a latent excitement in her to which something
within himself was already responsive.

"It's about a lover," she said, "--one of the old-fashioned, head-long,
hot-headed sort--Irish, of course!--you'd not understand--such
things----" Her tongue and colour were running random riot; her words
outstripped her thoughts and tripped up her tongue, scaring her a
little. She drummed on the keys a rollicking trill or two, hesitated,
stole a swift, uncertain glance at him.

A delicate intoxication enveloped her, stimulating, frightening her a
little, yet hurrying her into speech again:

"I'll sing it for you, Garry asthore! And if I were a lad I'd be
singing my own gay credo!--if I were the lad--and you but a lass,
asthore!"

Then, though her gray eyes winced and her flying colour betrayed her
trepidation, she looked straight at him, laughingly, and her clear,
childish voice continued the little prelude to "Asthore":

      I

  "I long for her, who e'er she be--
  The lass that Fate decrees for me;
  Or dark or white and fair to see,
  My heart is hers _'be n-Eirinn i_!

  I care not, I,
  Who ever she be,
  I could not love her more!
  _'Be n-Eirin i--
  'Be n-Eirinn i--
  'Be n-Eirinn i Asthore!_[1]

      II

  "I know her tresses unconfined,
  In wanton ringlets woo the wind--
  Or rags or silk her bosom bind
  It's one to me; my eyes are blind!

  I care not, I,
  Who ever she be,
  Or poor, or rich galore!
  _'Be n-Eirinn i--
  'Be n-Eirinn i--
  'Be n-Eirinn i Asthore!_

      III

  "At noon, some day, I'll climb a hill,
  And find her there and kiss my fill;
  And if she won't, I think she will,
  For every Jack must have his Jill!

  I care not, I,
  Who ever she be,
  The lass that I adore!
  _'Be n-Eirinn i--
  'Be n-Eirinn i--
  'Be n-Eirinn i Asthore!_"

  [1] The refrain, pronounced _Bay-nayring-ee_, is common to a number of
      Irish love-songs written during the last century. It should be
      translated: "Whoever she be."

      In writing this song, it is evident that Eileen Fane was
      inspired by Blind William of Tipperary; and that she was
      beholden to Carroll O'Daly for her "Eileen, my Treasure,"
      although not to Robin Adair of County Wicklow.

      AUTHOR.

Dulcie's voice and her flushed smile, too, faded, died out. She looked
down at the keyboard, where her white hands rested idly; she bent
lower--a little lower; laid her arms on the music-rest, her face on
her crossed arms. And, slowly, the tears fell without a tremor,
without a sound.

He had leaned over her shoulders; his bowed head was close to hers--so
close that he became aware of the hot, tearful fragrance of her
breath; but there was not a sound from her, not a stir.

"What is it, Sweetness?" he whispered.

"I--don't know.... I didn't m-mean to--cry.... And I don't know why I
should.... I'm very h-happy----" She withdrew one arm and stretched it
out, blindly, seeking him; and he took her hand and held it close to
his lips.

"Why are you so distressed, Dulcie?"

"I'm not. I'm happy.... You know I am.... My heart was very full; that
is all.... I don't seem to know how to express myself sometimes....
Perhaps it's because I don't quite dare.... So something gives way....
And this happens--tears. Don't mind them, please.... If I could reach
my handkerchief----" She drew the tiny square of sheer stuff from her
bosom and rested her closed eyes on it.

"It's silly, isn't it, Garry?... W-when a girl is so heavenly
contented.... Is anybody coming?"

"Westmore and Thessa!"

She whisked her tears away and sat up swiftly. But Thessa merely
called to them that she and Westmore were off for a walk, and passed
on through the hall and out through the porch.

"Garry," she murmured, looking away from him.

"Yes, dear?"

"May I go to my room and fix my hair? Because Mr. Skeel will be here.
Do you mind if I leave you?"

He laughed:

"Of course not, you charming child!" Then, as he looked down at her
hand, which he still retained, his expression altered; he inclosed the
slender fingers, bent slowly and touched the fragrant palm with his
lips.

They were both on their feet the next second; she passing him with a
pale, breathless little smile, and swiftly crossing the hall; he dumb,
confused by the sudden tumult within him, standing there with one hand
holding to the piano as though for support, and looking after the
slim, receding figure till it disappeared beyond the library door.

His mother and sister returned from their morning ride, lingered to
chat with him, then went away to dress for luncheon. Murtagh Skeel had
not yet arrived.

Westmore and Thessalie returned from their walk in the woods by the
second lake, reporting a distant view of Barres senior, fishing madly
from a canoe.

Dulcie came down and joined them in the library. Later Mrs. Barres and
Lee appeared, and luncheon was announced.

Murtagh Skeel had not come to Foreland Farms, and there was no word
from him.

Mrs. Barres spoke of his absence during luncheon, for Garry had told
her he was coming to talk to Dulcie about her mother, whom he had
known very well in Ireland.

Luncheon ended, and the cool north veranda became the popular
rendezvous for the afternoon, and later for tea. People from
Northbrook drove, rode, or motored up for a cheering cup, and a word
or two of gossip. But Skeel did not come.

By half-past five the north veranda was thronged with a gaily
chattering and very numerous throng from neighbouring estates. The
lively gossip was of war, of the coming elections, of German
activities, of the Gerhardts' promised moonlight spectacle and dance,
of Murtagh Skeel and the romantic interest he had aroused among
Northbrook folk.

So many people were arriving or leaving and such a delightful and
general informality reigned that Dulcie, momentarily disengaged from a
vapid but persistent dialogue with a chuckle-headed but persistent
youth, ventured to slip into the house, and through it to the garden
in the faint hope that perhaps Murtagh Skeel might have avoided the
tea-crush and had gone directly there.

But the rose arbour was empty; only the bubble of the little wall
fountain and a robin's evening melody broke the scented stillness of
the late afternoon.

Her mind was full of Murtagh Skeel, her heart of Garry Barres, as she
stood there in that blossoming solitude, listening to the robin and
the fountain, while her eyes wandered across flower-bed, pool, and
clipped greensward, and beyond the garden wall to the hill where three
pines stood silver-green against the sky.

Little by little the thought of Murtagh Skeel faded from her mind;
fuller and fuller grew her heart with confused emotions new to
her--emotions too perplexing, too deep, too powerful, perhaps, for her
to understand--or to know how to resist or to endure. For the first
vague sweetness of her thoughts had grown keen to the verge of
pain--an exquisite spiritual tension which hurt her, bewildered her
with the deep emotions it stirred.

To love, had been a phrase to her; a lover, a name. For beyond
that childish, passionate adoration which Barres had evoked in
her, and which to her meant friendship, nothing more subtly mature,
more vital, had threatened her unawakened adolescence with any
clearer comprehension of him or any deeper apprehension of herself.

And even now it was not knowledge that pierced her, lighting little
confusing flashes in her mind and heart. For her heart was still a
child's heart; and her mind, stimulated and rapidly developing under
the warm and magic kindness of this man who had become her only
friend, had not thought of him in any other way.... Until to-day.

What had happened in her mind, in her heart, she had not
analysed--probably was afraid to, there at the piano in the
music-room. And later, in her bedroom, when she had summoned up
innocent courage sufficient for self-analysis, she didn't know how to
question herself--did not realise exactly what had happened to her,
and never even thought of including him in the enchanted cataclysm
which had befallen her mind and heart and soul.

Thessalie and Westmore appeared on the lawn by the pool. Behind the
woods the sky was tinted with pale orange.

It may have been the psychic quality of the Celt in Dulcie--a pale
glimmer of clairvoyance--some momentary and vague premonition
wirelessed through the evening stillness which set her sensitive body
vibrating; for she turned abruptly and gazed northward across the
woods and hills--remained motionless, her grey eyes fixed on the far
horizon, all silvery with the hidden glimmer of unlighted stars.

Then she slowly said aloud to herself:

"He will not come. He will never come again--this man who loved my
mother."

Barres approached across the grass, looking for her. She went forward
through the arbour to meet him.

"Hasn't he come?" he asked.

"He is not coming, Garry."

"Why? Have you heard anything?"

She shook her head:

"No. But he isn't coming."

"Probably he'll explain this evening at the Gerhardts'."

"I shall never see him again," she said absently.

He turned and gave her a searching look. Her gaze was remote, her face
a little pale.

They walked back to the house together in silence.

A servant met them in the hall with a note on a tray. It was for
Barres; Dulcie passed on with a pale little smile of dismissal; Barres
opened the note:

  "The pot has boiled over, mon ami. Something has scared Skeel. He
  gave us the slip very cleverly, leaving Gerhardt's house before
  sunrise and motoring north at crazy speed. Where he will strike
  the railway I have no means of knowing. Your Government's people
  are trying to cover Lake Erie and Lake Ontario. On the Canada side
  the authorities have been notified and are alert I hope.

  "Gerhardt's country house is a nest of mischief hatchers. One in
  particular is under surveillance and will be arrested. His name is
  Tauscher.

  "Because, mon ami, it has just been discovered that there are
  _two_ plots to blow up the Welland Canal! One is Skeel's. The
  other is Tauscher's. It is a purely German plot. They don't intend
  to blow themselves up these Huns. Oh no! They expect to get away.

  "Evidently Bernstorff puts no faith in Skeel's mad plan. So, in
  case it doesn't pan out, here is Tauscher with another plan, made
  in Germany, and very, very thorough. Isn't it characteristic? Here
  is the report I received this morning:

  "'Captain Franz von Papen, Military Attaché on the ambassadorial
  staff of Count von Bernstorff, and Captain Hans Tauscher, who,
  besides being the Krupp agent in America, is also, by appointment
  of the German War Office, von Papen's chief military assistant in
  the United States, have plotted the destruction of the Welland
  Canal in Canada.

  "'Captain Hans Tauscher will be arrested and indicted for
  violation of Section 13 of the United States Criminal Code, for
  setting on foot a military enterprise against Canada during the
  neutrality of the United States.

  "'Tauscher is a German reserve officer and is subject to the
  orders of Captain Franz von Papen, Military Attaché of Count von
  Bernstorff. His indictment will be brought about by reason of an
  attempt to blow up parts of the Welland Canal, the waterway
  connecting Lakes Erie and Ontario. A small party of Germans, under
  command of one von der Goltz, have started from New York for the
  purpose of committing this act of sabotage, and, incidentally, of
  assassination of all men, women and children who might be involved
  in the explosion at the point to be selected by the plotters.

  "'Tauscher bought and furnished to this crowd of assassins the
  dynamite which was to be used for the purpose. The fact that
  Tauscher had bought the dynamite has become known to the United
  States authorities and he will be called upon to make an
  explanation.

  "'Captain Tauscher is said to be an agreeable companion, but
  he had the ordinary predilection of a German officer for
  assassinating women and children.'

  "Now, then, mon ami, this is the report. I expect that United
  States Secret Service men will arrest Tauscher to-night. Perhaps
  Gerhardt, also, will be arrested.

  "At any rate, at the dance to-night you need not look for Skeel.
  But may I suggest that you and Mr. Westmore keep your eyes on
  Mademoiselle Dunois. Because, at the railway station to-day, the
  German agents, Franz Lehr and Max Freund, were recognised by my
  men, disguised as liveried chauffeurs, but in whose service we
  have not yet been able to discover.

  "Therefore, it might be well for you and Mr. Westmore to remain
  near Mademoiselle Dunois during the evening.

  "Au revoir! I shall see you at the dance.

  "RENOUX."




XXVII

THE MOONLIT WAY


Barres whistled and sang alternately as he tied his evening tie before
his looking glass.

      "_And I care not, I,
  Who ever she be
    I could not love her more!_"

he chanted gaily, examining the effect and buttoning his white
waistcoat.

Westmore, loitering near and waiting for him, referred again,
indignantly, to Renoux's report concerning the presence of Freund and
Lehr at the Northbrook railway station.

"If I catch them hanging around Thessa," he said, "I'll certainly beat
them up, Garry.

"Deal with anything of that sort directly; that's always the best way.
No use arguing with a Hun. When he misbehaves, beat him up. It's the
only thing he understands."

"Well, it's all right for us to do it now, as long as the French
Government knows where Thessa is," remarked Barres, drawing a white
clove-carnation through his buttonhole. "But what do you think of that
dirty swine, Tauscher, planning wholesale murder like that? Isn't it
the fine flower of Prussianism? There's the real and porcine boche for
you, sombre, savage, stupidly ferocious, swinishly persistent, but
never quite cunning enough, never sufficiently subtle in planning his
filthy and murderous holocausts."

Westmore nodded:

"Quite right. The _Lusitania_ and Belgium cost the Hun the respect of
civilisation, and are driving the civilised world into a common
understanding. We'll go in before long; don't worry."

They descended the stairs together just as dinner was announced.

Mrs. Barres said laughingly to her son:

"Your father is still fishing, I suppose, so in spite of his
admonition to me by letter this morning, I sent over one of the men
with some thermos bottles and a very nice supper. He grumbles, but he
always likes it."

"I wonder what Mr. Barres will think of me," ventured Dulcie. "He left
such a pretty little rod for me. Thessa and I have been examining it.
I'd like to go, only--" she added with a wistful smile, "I have never
been to a real party."

"Of course you're going to the Gerhardts'," insisted Lee, laughing.
"Dad is absurd about his fishing. I don't believe any girl ever lived
who'd prefer fishing on that foggy lake at night to dancing at such a
party as you are going to to-night."

"Aren't you going?" asked Thessalie, but Lee shook her head, still
smiling.

"We have two young setters down with distemper, and mother and I
always sit up with our dogs under such circumstances."

Personal devotion of this sort was new to Thessalie. Mrs. Barres and
Lee told her all about the dreaded contagion and how very dreadful an
epidemic might be in a kennel of such finely bred dogs as was the
well-known Foreland Kennels.

Dog talk absorbed everybody during dinner. Mrs. Barres and Lee were
intensely interested in Thessalie's description of the Grand Duke
Cyril's Russian wolfhounds, with which she had coursed and hunted as a
child.

Once she spoke, also, of those strange, pathetic, melancholy
Ishmaelites, pitiable outcasts of their race--the pariah dogs of
Constantinople. For, somehow, while dressing that evening, the distant
complaint of a tethered beagle had made her think of Stamboul. And she
remembered that night so long ago on the moonlit deck of the _Mirage_,
where she had stood with Ferez Bey while, from the unseen, monstrous
city close at hand, arose the endless wailing of homeless dogs.

How strange it was, too, to think that the owner of the _Mirage_
should this night be her host here in the Western World, yet remain
unconscious that he had ever before entertained her.

       *       *       *       *       *

Before coffee had been served in the entrance hall, the kennel master
sent in word that one of the pups, a promising Blue Belton, had turned
very sick indeed, and would Mrs. Barres come to the kennels as soon as
convenient.

It was enough for Mrs. Barres and for Lee; they both excused
themselves without further ceremony and went away together to the
kennels, apparently quite oblivious of their delicate dinner gowns and
slippers.

"I've seen my mother ruin many a gown on such errands," remarked
Garry, smiling. "No use offering yourself as substitute; my mother
would as soon abandon her own sick baby to strangers as turn over an
ailing pup to anybody except Lee and herself."

"I think that is very splendid," murmured Dulcie, relinquishing her
coffee cup to Garry and suffering a maid to invest her with a scarf
and light silk wrap.

"My mother _is_ splendid," said Garry in a low voice. "You will see
her prove it some day, I hope."

The girl turned her lovely head, curiously, not understanding. Garry
laughed, but his voice was not quite steady when he said:

"But it all depends on you, Dulcie, how splendid my mother may prove
herself."

"On _me_!"

"On your--kindness."

"My--_kindness_!"

Thessalie came up in her pretty carnation-rose cloak, esquired by the
enraptured Westmore, expressing admiration for the clothing adorning
the very obvious object of his devotion:

"All girls can't wear a thing like that cloak," he was explaining
proudly; "now it would look like the devil on you, Dulcie, with your
coppery hair and----"

"What exquisite tact!" shrugged Thessalie, already a trifle restive
under his constant attendance and unremitting admiration. "Can't you,
out of your richly redundant vocabulary, find something civil to say
to Dulcie?"

But Dulcie, still preoccupied with what Barres had said, merely gave
her an absent-minded smile and walked slowly out beside her to the
porch, where the headlights of a touring car threw two broad beams of
gold across the lawn.

It was a swift, short run through the valley northward among the
hills, and very soon the yellow lights of Northbrook summer homes
dotted the darkness ahead, and cars were speeding in from every
direction--from Ilderness, Wythem, East and South Gorloch--carrying
guests for the Gerhardts' moonlight spectacle and dance.

Apropos of the promised spectacle, Barres observed to Dulcie that
there happened to be no moon, and consequently no moonlight, but the
girl, now delightfully excited by glimpses of Hohenlinden festooned
with electricity, gaily reproached him for being literal.

"If one is happy," she said, "a word is enough to satisfy one's
imagination. If they call it a moonlight spectacle, I shall certainly
see moonlight whether it's there or not!"

"They may call it heaven, too, if they like," he said, "and I'll
believe it--if you are there."

At that she blushed furiously:

"Oh, Garry! You don't mean it, and it's silly to say it!"

"I mean it all right," he muttered, as the car swung in through the
great ornamental gates of Hohenlinden. "The trouble is that I mean so
much--and _you_ mean so much to me--that I don't know how to express
it."

The girl, her face charmingly aglow, looked straight in front of her
out of enchanted eyes, but her heart's soft violence in her breast
left her breathless and mute; and when the car stopped she scarcely
dared rest her hand on the arm which Barres presented to guide her in
her descent to earth.

It may have been partly the magnificence of Hohenlinden that so
thrillingly overwhelmed her as she seated herself with Garry on the
marble terrace of an amphitheatre among brilliant throngs already
gathered to witness the eagerly discussed spectacle.

And it really was a bewilderingly beautiful scene, there under the
summer stars, where a thousand rosy lanterns hung tinting the still
waters of the little stream that wound through the clipped greensward
which was the stage.

The foliage of a young woodland walled in this vernal scene; the
auditorium was a semi-circle of amber marble--rows of low benches,
tier on tier, rising to a level with the lawn above.

The lantern light glowed on pretty shoulders and bare arms, on laces
and silks and splendid jewels, and stained the sombre black of the men
with vague warm hues of rose.

Westmore, leaning over to address Barres, said with an amused air:

"You know, Garry, it's Corot Mandel who is putting on this thing for
the Gerhardts."

"Certainly I know it," nodded Barres. "Didn't he try to get Thessa for
it?"

Thessalie, whose colour was high and whose dark eyes, roaming, had
grown very brilliant, suddenly held out her hand to one of two men
who, traversing the inclined aisle beside her, halted to salute her.

"Your name was on our lips," she said gaily. "How do you do, Mr.
Mandel! How do you do, Mr. Trenor! Are you going to amaze us with a
miracle in this enchanting place?"

The two men paid their respects to her, and, with unfeigned
astonishment and admiration, to Dulcie, whom they recognised only when
Thessalie named her with delighted malice.

"Oh, I say, Miss Soane," began Mandel, leaning on the back of the
marble seat, "you and Miss Dunois might have helped me a lot if I'd
known you were to be in this neighbourhood."

Esmé Trenor bent over Barres, dropping his voice:

"We had to use a couple of Broadway hacks--you'll recognise 'em
through their paint--you understand?--the two that New York screams
for. It's too bad. Corot wanted something unfamiliarly beautiful and
young and fresh. But these Northbrook amateurs are incredibly
amateurish."

Thessalie was chattering away with Corot Mandel and Westmore; Esmé
Trenor gazed upon Dulcie in wonder not unmixed with chagrin:

"You've never forgiven me, Dulcie, have you?"

"For what?" she inquired indifferently.

"For not discovering you when I should have."

She smiled, but the polite effort and her detachment of all interest
in him were painfully visible to Esmé.

"I'm sorry you still remember me so unkindly," he murmured.

"But I never do remember you at all," she explained so candidly that
Barres was obliged to avert his amused face, and Esmé Trenor reddened
to the roots of his elaborate hair. Mandel, with a wry grin, linked
his arm in Trenor's and drew him away toward the flight of steps which
was the stage entrance to the dressing rooms below.

"Good-bye!" he said, waving his hat. "Hope you'll like my moonlight
frolic!"

"Where's your bally moon!" demanded Westmore.

As he spoke, an unseen orchestra began to play "_Au Claire de la
Lune_," and, behind the woods, silhouetting every trunk and branch and
twig, the glittering edge of a huge, silvery moon appeared.

Slowly it rose, flashing a broad path of light across the lawn,
reflected in the still little river. And when it was in the position
properly arranged for it, some local Joshua--probably Corot
Mandel--arrested its further motion, and it hung there, flooding the
stage with a witching lustre.

All at once the stage swarmed with supple, glimmering shapes: Oberon
and Titania came flitting down through the trees; Puck, scintillating
like a dragon-fly, dropped on the sward, seemingly out of nowhere.

It was a wonderfully beautiful ballet, with an unseen chorus singing
from within the woods like a thousand seraphim.

As for the play itself, which began with the calm and silvered
river suddenly swarming alive with water-nymphs, it had to do,
spasmodically, with the love of the fairy crown-prince for the very
attractive water-nymph, Ythali. This nimble lady, otherwise, was
fiercely wooed by the King of the Mud-turtles, a most horrid and
sprawling shape, but a clever foil--with his army of river-rats,
minks and crabs--to the nymphs and wood fairies.

Also, the music was refreshingly charming, the singing excellent, and
the story interesting enough to keep the audience amused until the
end.

There was, of course, much moonlight dancing, much frolicking in the
water, few clothes on the Broadway principals, fewer on the chorus,
and apparently no scruples about discarding even these.

But the whole spectacle was so unreal, so spectral, that its shadowy
beauty robbed it of offence.

That sort of thing had made Corot Mandel famous. He calculated to the
width of a moonbeam just how far he could go. And he never went a
hair's breadth farther.

Thessalie looked on with flushed cheeks and parted lips, absorbed in
it all with the savant eyes of a professional. She also had once
coolly decided how far her beauty and talent and adolescent effrontery
could carry her gay disdain of man. And she had flouted him with
indifferent eyes and dainty nose uplifted--mocked him and his
conventions, with a few roubles in her dressing-room--slapped the
collective face of his sex with her insolent loveliness, and careless
smile.

Perhaps, as she sat there watching the fairy scene, she remembered her
ostrich and the German Embassy, and the aged Von-der-Goltz Pasha, all
over jewels and gold, peeping at her through thick spectacles under
his red fez.

Perhaps she thought of Ferez, too, and maybe it was thought of him
that caused her smooth young shoulders the slightest of shivers, as
though a harsh breeze had chilled her skin.

As for Dulcie, she was in the seventh heaven, thrilled with the dreamy
beauty of it all and the exquisite phantoms floating on the greensward
under her enraptured eyes.

No other thought possessed her save sheer delight in this revelation
of pure enchantment.

So intent, so still she became, leaning a little forward in her place,
that Barres found her far more interesting and wonderful to watch than
Mandel's cunningly contrived illusions in the artificial moonlight
below.

And now Titania's trumpets sounded from the woods, warning all of the
impending dawn. Suddenly the magic fairy moon vanished like the flame
of a blown-out candle; a faint, rosy light grew through the trees,
revealing an empty stage and a river on which floated a single swan.

Then, from somewhere, a distant cock-crow rang through the dawn. The
play was ended.

Two splendid orchestras were alternating on the vast marble terraces
of Hohenlinden, where hundreds of dancers moved under the white
radiance of a huge silvery moon overhead--another contrivance of
Mandel's--for the splendid sphere aglow with white fire had somehow
been suspended above the linden trees so that no poles and no wires
were visible against the starry sky.

And in its milky flood of light the dancers moved amid a wilderness of
flowers or thronged the supper-rooms within, where Teutonic
architectural and decorative magnificence reigned in one vast,
incredible, indigestible gastronomic apotheosis of German kultur.

Barres, for the moment, dancing with Thessalie, pressed her fingers
with mischievous tenderness and whispered:

"The moonlit way once more with you, Thessa! Do you remember our first
dance?"

"Can I ever thank God enough for that night's folly!" she said, with
such sudden emotion that his smile altered as he looked into her dark
eyes.

"Yet that dance by moonlight exiled you," he said.

"Do you realise what it saved me from, too? And what it has given
me?"

He wondered whether she included Westmore in the gift. The music
ceased at that moment, and, though the other orchestra began, they
strolled along the flowering balustrade of the terrace together until
they encountered Dulcie and Westmore.

"Have you spoken to your hostess?" inquired Westmore. "She's over
yonder on a dais, enthroned like Germania or a Metropolitan Opera
Valkyrie. Dulcie and I have paid our homage."

So Barres and Thessalie went away to comply with the required
formality; and, when they returned from the rite, they found Esmé
Trenor and Corot Mandel cornering Dulcie under a flowering orange tree
while Westmore, beside her, chatted with a most engaging woman who
proved, later, to be a practising physician.

Esmé was saying languidly, that anybody could fly into a temper and
kick his neighbours, but that indifference to physical violence was a
condition of mind attained only by the spiritual intellect of the
psychic adept.

"Passivism," he added with a wave of his lank fingers, "is the first
plane to be attained on the journey toward Nirvana. Therefore, I am a
pacifist and this silly war does not interest me in the slightest."

The very engaging woman, who had been chatting with Westmore, looked
around at Esmé Trenor, evidently much amused.

"I imagined that you were a pacifist," she said. "I fancy, Mr. Mandel,
also, is one."

"Indeed, I am, madam!" said Corot Mandel. "I've plenty to do in life
without strutting around and bawling for blood at the top of my
lungs!"

"Thank heaven," added Esmé, "the President has kept us out of war.
This business of butchering others never appealed to me--except for
the slightly unpleasant sensations which I experience when I read the
details."

"Oh. Then unpleasant sensations so appeal to you?" inquired Westmore,
very red.

"Well, they _are_ sensations, you know," drawled Esmé. "And, for a man
who experiences few sensations of any sort, even unpleasant ones are
pleasurable."

Mandel yawned and said:

"The war is an outrageous bore. All wars are stupid to a man of
temperament. Therefore, I'm a pacifist. And I had rather live under
Prussian domination than rush about the country with a gun and sixty
pounds of luggage on my back!"

He looked heavily at Dulcie, who had slipped out of the corner on the
terrace, where he and Esmé had penned her.

"There are other things to do more interesting than jabbing bayonets
into Germans," he remarked. "Did you say you hadn't any dance to spare
us, Miss Soane? Nor you either, Miss Dunois? Oh, well." He cast a
disgusted glance at Barres, squinted at Westmore through his greasy
monocle in hostile silence; then, taking Esmé's arm, made them all a
too profound obeisance and sauntered away along the terrace.

"What a pair of beasts!" said Westmore. "They make me actually ill!"

Barres shrugged and turned to the very engaging lady beside him:

"What do you think of that breed of human, doctor?" he inquired.

She smiled at Barres and said:

"Several of my own patients who are suffering from the same form of
psycho-neurotic trouble are also peace-at-any-price pacifists. They do
not come to me to be cured of their pacifism. On the contrary, they
cherish it most tenderly. In examining them for other troubles I
happened upon what appeared to me a very close relation between the
peculiar attitude of the peace-at-any-price pacifist and a certain
type of unconscious pervert."

"That passivism is perversion does not surprise me," remarked Barres.

"Well," she said, "the pacifist is not conscious of his real
desires and therefore cannot be termed a true pervert. But the
very term, passivism, is usually significant and goes very deep
psychologically. In analysing my patients I struck against a buried
impulse in them to suffer tyrannous treatment from an omnipotent
master. The impulse was so strong that it amounted to a craving and
tried to absorb all the psychic material within its reach. They did
not recognise the original impulse, because that had long ago been
crushed down by the exactions of civilised life. Nevertheless,
they were tortured and teased, made unsettled and wretched by a
something which continually baffled them. Deep under the upper crust
of their personalities was concealed a seething desire to be
completely, inevitably, relentlessly, unreservedly overwhelmed by a
subjugation from which there was no escape."

She turned to Westmore:

"It's purely pathological, the condition of those two self-confessed
pacifists. The pacifist loves suffering. The ordinary normal person
avoids suffering when possible. He endures it only when something
necessary or desirable cannot be gained in any other way. He may
undergo agony at the mere thought of it. His bravery consists in
facing danger and pain in spite of fear. But the extreme passivist,
who is really an unconscious pervert, loves to dream of martyrdom and
suffering. It must be a suffering, however, which is forced upon him,
and it must be a personal matter, not impersonal and general, as in
war. And he loves to contemplate a condition of complete captivity--of
irresponsible passivity, in which all resistance is in vain."

"Do you know, they disgust me, those two!" said Westmore angrily. "I
never could endure anything abnormal. And now that I know Esmé is--and
that big lout, Mandel--I'll keep away from them. Do you blame me,
doctor?"

"Well," she said, much amused and turning to go, "they're very
interesting to physicians, you know--these non-resisting, pacifistic
perverts. But outside a sanatorium I shouldn't expect them to be very
popular." And she laughed and joined a big, good-looking man who had
come to seek her, and who wore, in his buttonhole, the button of the
French Legion of Honour.

Thessalie had strolled forward along the terrace by herself,
interested in the pretty spectacle and the play of light on jewels and
gowns.

Westmore, busy in expressing to Barres his opinion of Esmé and Mandel,
did not at the moment miss Thessalie, who continued to saunter on
along the balustrade of the terrace, under the blossoming row of
orange trees.

Just below her was another terrace and an oval pool set with tiny jets
which seemed to spray the basin with liquid silver. Silvery fish, too,
were swimming in it near the surface, sometimes flinging themselves
clear out of water as though intoxicated by the unwonted lustre which
flooded their crystal pool.

To see them nearer, Thessalie ran lightly down the steps and walked
toward the shimmering basin. And at the same time the head and
shoulders of a man in evening dress, his bosom crossed by a sash of
watered red silk, appeared climbing nimbly from a still lower level.

She watched him step swiftly upon the terrace and cross it diagonally,
walking in her direction toward the stone stairs which she had just
descended. Then, paying him no further attention, she looked down into
the water.

He came along very near to where she stood, gazing into the
pool--peered at her curiously--was already passing at her very
elbow--when something made her lift her head and look around at him.

The mock moonlight struck full across his features; and the shock of
seeing him drove every vestige of colour from her own face.

The man halted, staring at her in unfeigned amazement. Suddenly he
snarled at her, baring his teeth in her shrinking face.

"_Kismet dir!_" he whispered, "it ees _you_!... Nihla Quellen!
_Now_ I begin onderstan'!... Yas, I now onderstan' who arrange it
that they haf arrest my good frien', Tauscher! It ees _you_, then!
Von Igel he has tol' me, look out once eef she escape--thees yoong
leopardess----"

"Ferez!" Thessalie's young figure stiffened and the colour flamed in
her cheeks.

"You leopardess!" he repeated, every tooth a-grin again with rage,
"you misbegotten slut of a hunting cheetah! So thees is 'ow you
strike!... Ver' well. Yas, I see 'ow it ees you strike at----"

"Ferez!" she cried. "Listen to _me_!"

"I 'ear you! Allez!"

"Ferez Bey! I am not afraid of you!"

"Ees it so?"

"Yes, it is so. I _never_ have been afraid of you! Not even there on
the deck of the _Mirage_, that night when you tapped the hilt of your
Kurdish knife and spoke of Seraglio Point! Nor when your scared spy
shot at me in the corridor of the Tenth Street house; nor afterward at
Dragon Court! Nor now! Do you understand, Eurasian jackal! Nor _now_!
Anybody can see what _Heruli_ whelped you! What are you doing in
America? Kassim Pasha is your den, where your _rayah_ loll and scratch
in the sun! It is their _Keyeff_! And yours!"

She took a quick step toward him, her eyes flashing, her white hand
clenched:

"_Allah Kerim_--do you say? _El Hamdu Lillah!_ Do you take yourself
for the _muezzin_ of all jackals, then, howling blasphemies from some
_minaret_ in the hills? Do you understand what they'd do to you in
the _Hirka-i-Sherif Jamesi_? Because you are _nothing_; do you
hear?--nothing but an Eurasian assassin! And Moslem and Christian
alike know where _you_ belong among the lost pariahs of Stamboul!"

The girl was utterly transfigured. Whatever of the Orient was in her,
now blazed white hot.

"What have I done to you, Ferez? What have I ever done to you that
you, even from my childhood, come always stepping noiselessly at my
skirt's edge?--always padding behind me at my heels, silent, sinister,
whimpering with bared teeth for the courage to bite which God denies
you!"

The man stood almost motionless, moistening his dry lips with his
tongue, but his eyes moved continually, stealing uneasy glances around
him and upward, where, on the main terrace above them, the heads of
the throng passed and repassed.

"Nihla," he said, "for all thees scorn and abuse of me, you know, in
the false heart of you, why it ees so if I have seek you."

"You dealer in lies! You would have sold me to d'Eblis! You thought
you _had_ sold me! You were paid for it, too!"

"An' still!" He looked at her furtively.

"What do you mean? You conspired with d'Eblis to ruin me, soul and
body! You involved me in your treacherous propaganda in Paris. Through
you I am an exile. If I go back to my own country, I shall go to a
shameful death. You have blackened my honour in my country's eyes. But
that was not enough. No! You thought me sufficiently broken, degraded,
terrified to listen to any proposition from you. You sent your agents
to me with offers of money if I would betray my country. Finding I
would not, you whined and threatened. Then, like the Eurasian dog you
are, you tried to bargain. You were eager to offer me anything if I
would keep quiet and not interfere----"

"Nihla!"

"What?" she said, contemptuously.

"In spite of thees--of all you say--I have love you!"

"Liar!" she retorted wrathfully. "Do you dare say that to me, whom you
have already tried to murder?"

"I say it. Yas. Eef it has not been so then you were dead long time."

"You--you are trying to tell me that you spared me!" she demanded
scornfully.

"It ees so. Alexandre--d'Eblis, you know?--long time since he would
have safety for us all--thees way. Non! Je ne pourrais pas vouz tuer,
moi! It ees not in my heart, Nihla.... Because I have love you long
time--ver' long time."

"Because you have _feared_ me long time, ver' long time!" she mocked
him. "That is why, Ferez--because you are afraid; because you are only
a jackal. And jackals never kill. No!"

"You say thees-a to me, Nihla?"

"Yes, I say it. You're a coward! And I'll tell you something more. I
am going to make a complete statement to the French Government. I
shall relate everything I know about d'Eblis, Bolo Effendi, a certain
bureaucrat, an Italian politician, a Swiss banker, old Von-der-Goltz
Pasha, Heimholz, Von-der-Hohe Pasha, and you, my Ferez--and you,
also!

[Illustration: HE CAME TOWARD HER STEALTHILY]

"Do you know what France will do to d'Eblis and his scoundrel friends?
Do you guess what these duped Americans will do to Bolo Effendi? And
to you? And to Von Papen and Boy-ed and Von Igel--yes, and to
Bernstorff and his whole murderous herd of Germans? And can you
imagine what my own doubly duped Government will surely, surely do,
some day, to you, Ferez?"

She laughed, but her dark eyes fairly glittered:

"_My_ martyrdom is ending, God be thanked! And then I shall be free to
serve where my heart is ... in Alsace!... Alsace!--forever French!"

In the white light she saw the sweat break out on the man's
forehead--saw him grope for his handkerchief--and draw out a knife
instead--never taking his eyes off her.

She turned to run; but he had already blocked the way to the stone
steps; and now he came creeping toward her, white as a cadaver,
distracted from sheer terror, and rubbing the knife flat against his
thigh.

"So you shall do thees--a filth to me--eh, Nihla?" he whispered with
blanched lips. "It ees on me, your frien', you spring to keel me, eh,
my leopardess? Ver' well. But firs' I teach you somethings you don'
know!--thees-a way, my Nihla!"

He came toward her stealthily, moving more swiftly as she put the
stone basin of the pool between them and cast an agonised glance up at
the distant terrace.

"Jim!" she cried frantically. "Jim! Help me, Jim!"

The gay din of the music above drowned her cry; she fled as Ferez
darted toward her, but again he doubled and sprang back to bar the
stone steps, and she halted, white and breathless, yet poised for
instant flight.

Again and again she called out desperately for aid; the noise of the
orchestra smothered her cry. And if, indeed, anybody from the terrace
above chanced to glance down, it is likely that they supposed these
two were skylarking merrymakers at some irresponsible game of
catch-who-can.

Suddenly Thessalie remembered the lower level, where the automobiles
were parked, and from which Ferez had first appeared. She could escape
that way. There were the steps, not very far behind her. The next
instant she turned and ran like a deer.

And after her sped Ferez, his broad, thin-bladed knife pressed flat
against the crimson sash across his breast, his dead-white visage
distorted with that blind, convulsive fear which makes murderers out
of cowards.




XXVIII

GREEN JACKETS


Thoroughly worried by this time over the sudden disappearance of
Thessalie Dunois, and unable to discover her anywhere on the terrace
or in the house, Westmore, Barres and Dulcie Soane had followed the
winding main drive as far as the level, where their car was waiting
among scores of other cars.

But Thessalie was not there; the chauffeur had not seen her.

"Where in the world could she have gone?" faltered Dulcie. "She was
standing up there on the terrace with us, a moment ago; then, the very
next second, she had vanished utterly."

Westmore, grim and pallid, walked back along the drive; Dulcie
followed with Barres. As they overtook Westmore, he cast one more
glance back at the ranks of waiting cars, then stared up at the
terraced hill above them, over which the artificial moon hung above
the lindens, glowing with pallid, lambent fires.

There was a vague whitish object on one of the grassy slopes--something
in motion up there--something that was running erratically but
swiftly--as though in pursuit--or _pursued_!

"My God! What's that, Garry!" he burst out. "That thing up there on
the hillside!"

He sprang for the steps, Barres after him, taking the ascent at
incredible speed, up, up, then out along a shrub-set grassy slope.

"Thessa!" shouted Westmore. "Thessa!"

But the girl was flat on her back on the grass now, fighting sturdily
for life--twisting, striking, baffling the whining, panting thing that
knelt on her, holding her and trying to drive a knife deep into the
lithe young body which always slipped and writhed out of his trembling
clutch.

Again and again he tore himself free from her grasp; again and again
his armed hand sought to strike, but she always managed to seize and
drag it aside with the terrible strength of one dying. And at last,
with a last crazed, superhuman effort, she wrested the knife from his
unnerved fist, tore it out of his spent fingers.

It fell somewhere near her on the grass; he strove to reach it and
pick it up, but already her dauntless resistance began to exhaust him,
and he groped for the knife in vain, trying to pin her down with one
hand while, with desperate little fists, she rained blows on his
bloodless face that dazed him.

But there was still another way--a much better way, in fact. And, as
the idea came to him, he ripped the red-silk sash from his breast and,
in spite of her struggles, managed to pass it around her bare neck.

"Now!" he panted. "I keep my word at last. C'est fini, ma petite
Nihla."

"Jim! Help me!" she gasped, as Ferez pulled savagely at the silk
noose, tightened it with all his strength, knotted it. And in that
same second he heard Westmore crashing through the shrubbery, close to
him.

Instantly he rose to his knees on the grass; bounded to his feet,
leaped over the low shrubs, and was off down the slope--gone like a
swift hawk's shadow on the hillside. Barres was after him.

       *       *       *       *       *

The soul of Thessalie Dunois was very near to its escape, now,
brightening, glistening within its unconscious chrysalis, stretching
its glorious limbs and wings; preparing to arise from its spectral
tenement and soar aloft to its myriad sisters, where they swarmed
glittering in the zenith.

Had it not been for the knife lying beside her on the grass--the blade
very bright in the starlight--truly the youthful soul of Thessalie had
been sped.

At the edge of the Gerhardts' pine woods, Barres, at fault, baffled,
furious, out of breath and glaring around him in the dark, sullenly
gave up the hopeless chase, turned in his tracks, and came back.
Thessalie, lying in Dulcie's arms, unclosed her eyes and looked up at
him.

"Are you all right?" he asked, kneeling and bending over her.

"Yes ... Jim came."

Westmore's voice was shaky.

"We worked her arms--Dulcie and I--started respiration. She was nearly
gone. That beast strangled her----"

"I lost him in those woods below. Who was he?"

"Ferez Bey!"

Thessalie sighed, closed her eyes.

"She's about all in," whispered Westmore. And, to Dulcie: "Let me take
her. I'll carry her to the car."

At that Thessalie opened her eyes again and the old, faintly humorous
smile glimmered out at him as he stooped and lifted her from the
grass.

"Can I really trust myself to your arms, Jim?" she murmured.

"You'd better get used to 'em," he retorted. "You'll never get away
from them again--I can tell you that right now!"

"Oh.... In that case, I hope they'll be--comfortable--your arms."

"Do you think they will be, Thessa?"

"Perhaps." She gazed into his eyes very seriously from where she lay
cradled in his powerful arms.

"I'm tired, Jim.... So sore and bruised.... When he was choking me I
tried to think of you--believing it was the end--my last conscious
thought----"

"My darling!----"

"I'm so tired," she breathed, "so lonely.... I shall be--contented--in
your arms.... Always----" She turned her head and rested her cheek
against his breast with a deep sigh.

       *       *       *       *       *

He held her in his arms in the car all the way to Foreland Farms.
Dulcie, however, had possessed herself of Thessalie's left hand, and
when she stroked it and pressed it to her lips the girl's tightening
fingers responded, and she always smiled.

"I'm just tired and sore," she explained languidly. "Ferez battered me
about so dreadfully!... It was so mortifying. I despised him all the
time. It made me furious to be handled by such a contemptible and
cowardly creature."

"It's a matter for the police, now," remarked Barres gloomily.

"Oh, Garry!" she exclaimed. "What a very horrid ending to the moonlit
way we took together so long ago!--the lovely silvery path of
Pierrot!"

"The story of Pierrot is a tragedy, Thessa! We have been luckier on
our moonlit way."

"Than Pierrot and Pierrette?"

"Yes. Death always saunters along the path of the moon, watching for
those who take it.... You are very fortunate, Pierrette."

"Yes," she murmured, "I am fortunate.... Am I not, Jim?" she added,
looking up wistfully into his shadowy face above her.

"I don't know about that," he said, "but there'll be no more moonlight
business for you unless I'm with you. And under those circumstances,"
he added, "I'll knock the block off Old Man Death if he tries to flirt
with you!"

"How brutal! Garry, do you hear his language to me?"

"I hear," said Barres, laughing. "Your young man is a very matter of
fact young man, Thessa, and I fancy he means what he says."

She looked up at Westmore; her lips barely moved:

"Do you--dear?"

"You bet I do," he whispered. "I'll pull this planet to pieces looking
for you if you ever again steal away to a rendezvous with Old Man
Death."

       *       *       *       *       *

When the car arrived at Foreland Farms, Thessalie felt able to proceed
to her room upon her own legs, and with Dulcie's arm around her.

Westmore bade her good-night, kissing her hand--awkwardly--not being
convincing in any rôle requiring attitudes.

He wanted to take her into his arms, but seemed to know enough not to
do it. Probably she divined his irresolute state of mind, for she
extended her hand in a pretty manner quite unmistakable. And the
romantic education of James H. Westmore began.

Barres lingered at the door after Westmore departed, obeying a
whispered aside from Dulcie. She came out in a few moments, carefully
closing the bedroom door, and stood so, one hand behind her still
resting on the knob.

"Thessa is crying. It's only the natural relaxation from that horrible
tension. I shall sleep with her to-night."

"Is there anything----"

"Oh, no. She will be all right.... Garry, are they--are they--in
_love_?"

"It rather looks that way, doesn't it?" he said, smiling.

She gazed at him questioningly, almost fearfully.

"Do _you_ believe that Thessa is in love with Mr. Westmore?" she
whispered.

"Yes, I do. Don't you?"

"I didn't know.... I thought so. But----"

"But what?"

"I didn't--didn't know--what you would think of it.... I was afraid it
might--might make you--unhappy."

"Why?"

"Don't you _care_ if Thessa loves somebody else?" she asked
breathlessly.

"Did you think I did, Dulcie?"

"Yes."

"Well, I don't."

There was a strained silence; then the girl smiled at him in a
confused manner, drew a swift, sudden breath, and, as he stepped
forward to detain her, turned sharply away, pressing her forearm
across her eyes.

"Dulcie! Did you understand me?" he said in a low, unsteady voice.

She was already trying to open the door, but he dropped his right hand
over her fingers where they were fumbling with the knob, and felt them
trembling. At the same moment, the sound of Thessalie's smothered and
convulsive sobbing came to him; and Dulcie's nervous hand slipped from
his.

"Dulcie!" he pleaded. "Will you come back to me if I wait?"

She had stopped; her back was still toward him, but she nodded
slightly, then moved on toward the bed, where Thessalie lay all
huddled up, her face buried in the tumbled pillows.

Barres noiselessly closed the door.

He had already started along the corridor toward his own room, when
the low sound of voices in the staircase hall just below arrested his
attention--his sister's voice and Westmore's. And he retraced his
steps and went down to where they stood together by the library door.

Lee wore a nurse's dress and apron, such as a kennel-mistress affects,
and her strong, capable hands were full of bottles labelled "Grover's
Specific"--the same being dog medicine of various sorts.

"Mother is over at the kennels, Garry," she said. "She and I are going
to sit up with those desperately sick pups. If we can pull them
through to-night they'll probably get well, eventually, unless
paralysis sets in. I was just telling Jim that a very attractive young
Frenchman was here only a few minutes before you arrived. His name is
Renoux. And he left this letter for you--fish it out of my apron
pocket, there's a dear----"

Her brother drew out the letter; his sister said:

"Mr. Renoux went away in a car with two other men. He asked me to say
to you that there was no time to lose--whatever he meant by that! Now,
I must hurry away!" She turned and sped through the hall and out
through the swinging screen door on the north porch. Garry had
already opened the note from Renoux, glanced over it; then he read it
aloud to Westmore:

  "MY DEAR COMRADE:

  "The fat's in the fire! Your agents took Tauscher in charge
  to-day. Max Freund and Franz Lehr have just been arrested by your
  excellent Postal authorities. Warrants are out for Sendelbeck,
  Johann Klein, and Louis Hochstein. I think the latter are making
  for Mexico, but your Secret Service people are close on their
  heels.

  "Recall for von Papen and Boy-ed is certain to be demanded by your
  Government. Mine will look after Bolo Effendi and d'Eblis and
  their international gang of spies and crooks. Ferez Bey, however,
  still eludes us. He is somewhere in this vicinity, but of course,
  even when we locate him again, we can't touch him. All we can do
  is to point him out to your Government agents, who will then keep
  him in sight.

  "So far so good. But now I am forced to ask a very great favour of
  you, and, if I may, of your friend, Mr. Westmore. It is this:
  Skeel, contrary to what was expected of him, did not go to the
  place which is being watched. Nor have any of his men appeared at
  that rendezvous where there lies the very swift and well-armed
  launch, _Togue Rouge_, which we had every reason to suppose was to
  be their craft in this outrageous affair.

  "As a matter of fact, this launch is Tauscher's. But it, and the
  pretended rendezvous, are what you call a plant. Skeel never
  intended to assemble his men there; never intended to use that
  particular launch. Tauscher merely planted it. Your men and the
  Canadian agents, unfortunately, are covering that vicinity and are
  still watching for Skeel, who has a very different plan in his
  crazy head.

  "Now, this is Skeel's plan, and this is the situation, learned by
  me from papers discovered on Tauscher:

  "The explosives bought and sent there by Tauscher himself are on a
  big, fast power-boat which is lying at anchor in a little cove
  called Saibling Bay. The boat flies the Quebec Yacht Club ensign,
  and a private pennant to which it has no right.

  "Two of Skeel's gang are already aboard--a man named Con McDermott
  and another, Kelly Walsh. Skeel joins the others at a hamlet near
  the Lake shore, known as Three Ponds. The tavern is a notorious
  and disreputable old brick hotel--what you call a speak-easy. That
  is their rendezvous.

  "Well, then, I have wired to your people, to Canada, to
  Washington. But Three Ponds is not a very long drive from here, if
  one ignores speed limits. Yes? Could you help us maintain a close
  surveillance over that damned tavern to-night? Is it too much to
  ask?

  "And if you and Mr. Westmore are graciously inclined to aid us,
  would you be so kind as to come armed? Because, mon ami, unless
  your Government people arrive in time, I shall certainly try to
  keep Skeel and his gang from boarding that boat.

  "Au revoir, donc! I am off with Jacques Alost and Emile Souchez
  for that charming summer resort, the Three Ponds Tavern, where,
  from the neighbouring roadside woods, I shall hope to flag your
  automobile by sunrise and welcome you and your amiable friend, Mr.
  Westmore, as our brothers in arms.

  "RENOUX, your comrade and, friend."

There was a silence. Then Westmore looked at his watch.

"We ought to hustle," he remarked. "I'll get on some knickers and
stick a couple of guns in my pocket. You'd better telephone to the
garage."

As they hastened up the stairs together, Barres said: "Have I time for
a word with Dulcie?"

"That's up to you. I'm not going to say anything to Thessa. I wouldn't
care to miss this affair. If we arrived too late and they had already
dynamited the Welland Canal, we'd never forgive ourselves."

Barres ran for his room.

       *       *       *       *       *

They were dressed, armed and driving out of the Foreland Farms gates
inside of ten minutes. Barres had the wheel; Westmore sat beside him
shoving new clips into two automatics and dividing the remaining boxes
of ammunition.

"The crazy devils," he said to Barres, raising his voice to make
himself heard. "Blow up the Canal, will they! What's the matter with
these Irishmen! The rest are not like 'em. Look at the Flanders
fighting, Garry! Look at the magnificent record of the Irish
regiments! Why don't our Irish play the game?"

"It's their blind hatred of England," shouted Barres, in his ear.
"They're monomaniacs. They can't see anything else--can't see what
they're doing to civilisation--cutting the very throat of Liberty
every time they jab at England. What's the use? You can't talk to
them. They're lunatics. But when they start things over here they've
got to be put into straitjackets."

"They _are_ lunatics," repeated Westmore. "If they weren't, they
wouldn't risk the wholesale murder of women and children. That is a
purely German peculiarity; it's what the normal boche delights in. But
the Irish are white men. And it's only when they're crazy they'd try a
thing like this."

After a long silence:

"How fast, Garry?"

"Around fifty."

"How far is it?"

"About twenty-five miles further."

The car rushed on through the night under the brilliant July stars and
over a perfect road. In the hollows, where spring brooks ran under
stone bridges, a slight, chilling mist hung, but otherwise the night
was clear and warm.

Woods, fields, farms, streamed by in the darkness; the car tore on in
the wake of its glaring, golden headlights, where clouds of little
winged creatures of the night whirled and eddied like flecks of
tinsel.

Rarely they encountered other cars, for the hour was late, and there
were no lights in the farm houses which they passed along the road.

They spoke seldom now, their terrific speed and the roaring wind
discouraging conversation. But the night air, which they whipped into
a steadily flowing gale, was still soft and fragrant and warm; and
with every mile their exhilaration increased.

Now the eastern horizon, which had already paled to a leaden tone, was
becoming pallid; and few stars were visible except directly overhead.

Barres slowed down to twenty miles. Long double barriers of dense and
misty woodland flanked the road on either hand, with few cultivated
fields between and very rarely a ramshackle barn.

Acres of alder swamp spread away on either hand, set with swale and
pool and tussock. And across the flat desolation the east was all a
saffron glow now, and the fish-crows were flying in twos and threes
above the bog holes.

"There's a man in the road ahead," said Westmore.

"I see him."

The man threw up one arm in signal, then made a sweeping gesture
indicating that they should turn to the left. The man was Renoux.

"A cart-track and a pair of bars," said Westmore. "Their car has been
in there, too. You can see the tire marks."

Renoux sprang onto the running board without a word.

Barres steered his car very gingerly in through the bars and along the
edge of the woods where, presently, the swampy cart-track turned to
the right among the trees.

"All right!" said Renoux briskly, dropping to the ground. He shook
hands with the two new arrivals, passed one arm under each of theirs,
and led them forward along a wet, ferny road toward a hardwood ridge.

Here Souchez and Alost, who lay full length on the dead leaves, got
up, to welcome the reinforcements, and to point out the disreputable
old brick building which stood close to the further edge of the woods,
rear end toward them, and fronting on a rutty crossroad beyond.

"Are we in time?" inquired Barres in a low voice.

"Plenty," said Renoux with a shrug. "They've been making a night of it
in there. They're at it yet. Listen!"

Even at that distance the sound of revelry was audible--shouts,
laughter, cheering, boisterous singing.

"Skeel is there," remarked Renoux, "and I fancy he's an anxious man.
They ought to have been out of that house before dawn to escape
observation, but I imagine Skeel has an unruly gang to deal with in
those reckless Irishmen."

Barres and Westmore peered out through the fringe of trees across the
somewhat desolate landscape beyond.

There were no houses to be seen. Here and there on the bogs were
stakes of swale-hay and a gaunt tree or two.

"That brick hotel," said Renoux, "is one of those places outside town
limits, where law is defied and license straddles the line. It's run
by McDermott, one of the two men aboard the power-boat."

"Where is their boat?" inquired Westmore.

Renoux turned and pointed to the southwest.

"Over there in a cove--about a mile south of us. If they leave the
tavern we can get to the boat first and block their road."

"We'll be between two fires then," observed Barres, "from the boat's
deck and from Skeel's gang."

Renoux nodded coolly:

"Two on the boat and five in the hotel make seven. We are five."

"Then we can hold them," said Westmore.

"That's all I want," rejoined Renoux briskly. "I just want to check
them and hold them until your Government can send its agents here. I
know I have no business to do this--probably I'll get into trouble.
But I can't sit still and twirl my thumbs while people blow up a canal
belonging to an ally of France, can I?"

"Hark!" motioned Barres. "They're singing! Poor devils. They're like
Cree Indians singing their death song."

"I suppose," said Westmore sombrely, "that deep in each man's heart
there remains a glimmer of hope that he, at least, may come out of
it."

Renoux shrugged:

"Perhaps. But they are brave, these Irish--brave enough without a
skinful of whiskey. And with it they are entirely reckless. No sane
man can foretell what they will attempt." He turned to include Alost
and Souchez: "I think there can be only one plan of action for us,
gentlemen. We should string out here along the edges of the woods.
When they leave the tavern we should run for the landing and get into
the shack that stands there--a rickety sort of boat-house on piles,"
he explained to Westmore and Barres. "There is the path through the
woods." He pointed to the left, where a trodden way bisected the
wood-road. "It runs straight to the landing," he added.

Alost, at a sign from him, started off westward through the woods.
Souchez followed. Renoux leaned back against a big walnut tree and
signified that he would remain there.

So Barres and Westmore moved forward to the right, very cautiously,
circling the rear of the old brick hotel where a line of ruined
horse-sheds and a rickety barn screened them from view of the hotel's
south windows.

So close to the tavern did they pass that they could hear the noisy
singing very distinctly and see through the open windows the movement
of shadowy figures under the paling light of a ceiling lamp.

Westmore ventured nearer in hopes of getting a better view from the
horse-sheds; and Barres crept after him through the rank growth of
swale and weeds.

"Look at them!" whispered Westmore. "They're in a sort of uniform,
aren't they?"

"They've got on green jackets and stable-caps! Do you see that stack
of rifles in the corner of the tap-room?"

"There's Skeel!" muttered Westmore, "the man in the long cloak sitting
by the fireplace with his face buried in his hands!"

"He looks utterly done in," whispered Barres. "Probably he can't
manage that gang and he begins to realise it. Hark! You can hear every
word of that thing they're singing."

Every word, indeed, was a yell or a shout, and distinct enough at
that. They were roaring out "Green Jackets":

  "_Oh, Irish maids love none but those
  Who wear the jackets green!_"

--all lolling and carousing around a slopping wet table--all save
Murtagh Skeel, who, seated near the empty fireplace with his white
face buried between his fingers, never stirred from his attitude of
stony immobility.

"There's Soane!" whispered Barres, "that man who just got up!"

It was Soane, his cap cocked aslant on his curly head, his green
jacket unbuttoned, a tumbler aloft in his unsteady clutch.

"Whurroo!" he yelled. "_Gu ma slan a chi mi!--fear a' Bhata!_" And he
laid a reckless hand on Skeel's cloaked shoulder. But the latter never
stirred; and Soane, winking at the company, flourished his tumbler
aloft and broke into "The Risin' o' the Moon":

  "Oh, then tell me, Shawn O'Ferrall,
  Phwere the gatherin' is to be!
    In th' ould shpot be the river;--
  Sure it's known to you an' me!"

And the others began to shout the words:

  "_Death to every foe and traitor!
  Forward! Strike the marchin' tune,
    And hurrah, me lads, for freedom!
  'Tis the risin' of the moon!_

  "At the risin' of the moon,
    At the risin' of the moon,
  And a thousand blades are flashin'
  At the risin' of the moon!"

"Here's to Murtagh Skeel!" roared Soane, "_An gille dubh ciardubh!_
Whurroo!"

Skeel lifted his haggard visage, slowly looked around, got up from his
stool.

"In God's name," he said hoarsely, "if you're not utterly shameless,
take your rifles and follow me. Look at the sun! Have you lads gone
stark mad? What will McDermott think? What will Kelly Walsh say? It's
too late to weigh anchor now; but it isn't too late to go aboard and
sober up, and wait for dark.

"If you've a rag of patriotism left you'll quit your drinking and come
with me!"

"Ah, sure, then, Captain dear," cried Soane, "is there anny harrm in a
bite an' a sup f'r dyin' lads befoor they go whizzin' up to glory?"

"I tell you we should be aboard! _Now!_"

Another said:

"Aw, the cap's right. To hell with the booze. Come on, youse!" And he
began to button his green jacket. Another got up on unsteady legs:

"Sure," he said, "there do be time f'r to up anchor an' shquare away
for Point Dalhousie. Phwat's interferin', I dunno."

"A Canadian cruiser," said Skeel with dry bitterness. "Get aboard,
anyway. We'll have to wait for dark."

There was a reluctant shuffle of feet, a careless adjusting of green
jackets and caps, a reaching for rifles.

"Come on," whispered Barres, "we've got to get to the landing before
they do."

They turned and moved off swiftly among the trees. Renoux saw them
coming, understood, turned and hurried southward to warn Alost and
Souchez. Barres and Westmore caught glimpses of them ahead, striding
along the trodden path under the trees, and ran to overtake them.

"They're going aboard," said Barres to Renoux. "But they will
probably wait till dark before starting."

"They will unless they're stark mad," said Renoux, hurrying out to the
southern borders of the wood. But no sooner had he arrived on the edge
of the open swale country than he uttered an exclamation of rage and
disgust, and threw up his hands helplessly.

It was perfectly plain to the others what was happening--and what now
could not be prevented.

There lay the big, swift power boat, still at anchor; there stood the
ramshackle wharf and boat-house. But already a boat had put off from
the larger craft and was being rowed parallel with the shore toward
the mouth of a marshy creek.

Two men were rowing; a third steered.

But what had suddenly upset Renoux was the sight of a line of green
jackets threading the marsh to the north, led by Skeel, who was
already exchanging handkerchief signals with the men in the boat.

Renoux glanced at his prey escaping by an avenue of which he had no
previous knowledge. It was death to go out into the open with pistols
and face the fire of half a dozen rifles. No man there had any
delusions concerning that.

Souchez had field-glasses slung around his neck. Renoux took them,
gazed at the receding boat, set his teeth hard.

"Ferez!" he growled.

"What!" exclaimed Westmore, turning a violent red.

"The man steering is Ferez Bey." Renoux handed the binoculars to
Westmore with a shrug.

Barres, bending double, had gone out into the swale. A thicket of
cat-tails screened him and he advanced very carefully, keeping his
eyes on the green-jacketed men whose heads, shoulders and rifles were
visible above the swampy growth beyond.

Suddenly Renoux, who was watching him in bitter silence, saw him turn
and beckon violently.

"Quick!" he said in a low, eager voice. "He may have found a ditch to
shelter us!"

Renoux was correct in his surmise: Barres stood with drawn pistol,
awaiting them in a muddy ditch which ran through the reeds diagonally
across the marsh. It was shin-deep in water.

"We could make a pretty good stand in a ditch like this, couldn't we?"
he demanded excitedly.

"You bet we can!" replied Renoux, jumping down beside him, followed by
Westmore, Alost and Souchez in turn.

Barres, leading, ran down the ditch as fast as he could, spattering
himself and the others with mud and water at every step.

"Here!" panted Renoux, clambering nimbly out of the ditch and peering
ahead through the reeds. Then he suddenly stood upright:

"Halt!" he shouted. "It's all up with you, Skeel! Keep away from that
boat, or I order my men to fire!"

There was a dead silence for a moment; then Skeel's voice:

"Better not bother us, my good man. We know our business and you'd
better learn yours."

"Skeel," retorted Renoux, "my business is other people's business,
sometimes. It's yours just now. I warn you to keep away from that
boat!" He turned and hailed the boat in the next breath: "Boat ahoy!
Keep off or we open fire!"

The metallic bang of a rifle cut him short and his straw hat was
jerked from his head. Then came Skeel's voice, calmly dangerous:

"I know you, Renoux! You have no standing here. Keep away or I'll kill
you!"

"What lawful standing have you--leading an armed expedition from the
United States into Canada!" retorted Renoux, red with anger and
looking about for his hat.

"If you don't get back I shall surely kill you!" replied Skeel. "I
count three, Renoux:--one--two--three." Bang! went another rifle, and
Renoux shrugged and dropped reluctantly back into the ditch.

"They're crazy," he said. "Barres, fire across that boat out yonder."

Westmore also fired, aiming carefully at Ferez. It was too far; they
both knew it. But the ricochetting bullets seemed to sting the rowers
to frantic exertion, and Ferez, at the rudder, ducked and squatted
flat, the tip of his hat alone showing over the gunwale.

"We can't stop them," said Renoux desperately. "They're certain to
reach that boat."

Now, suddenly, Skeel's six rifles cracked viciously and the bullets
came screaming over the ditch.

Renoux fairly gnashed his teeth:

"If a bluff won't stop them, then I'm through," he said bitterly. "I
haven't any authority. I haven't the audacity to fire on them--to so
insult your Government. And yet, by God!--there's the canal to
remember!"

Another volley from the Green Jackets, and again the whizzing scream
of bullets through the cat-tails above their heads.

"Look!" cried Barres. "They're embarking already! There isn't a chance
of holding them."

It was true. Pell-mell through the shallow water and into the boat
leaped the Green Jackets, holding their rifles high in the early
sunshine; Skeel sprang in last of all; the oars flashed.

Pistols hanging helplessly, Renoux and his men stood there foolishly
on the edge of their ditch and watched the boat pull back to the big
power-craft.

Nobody said anything. The Green Jackets climbed aboard with a derisive
cheer. So near was the power-boat that Skeel, Ferez, and Soane were
easily distinguishable there in the brilliant sunshine, on deck.

"Anyway," burst out Renoux, "they'll not dare lie there at anchor and
wait for dark, now."

Even as he spoke the anchor came up.

Very deliberately the small boat was hoisted to the davits; the big
craft began to move, swinging her nose north by west, the spray
breaking under the bows. She was already under way, already headed for
the open sea.

And then, without any warning whatever, out of the northeast, almost
sheering the jutting point which had concealed her, rushed a Canadian
patrol boat, her forward deck a geyser of spouting foam.

A red lance of flame leaped from her forward gun; the sharp crack
shattered the summer stillness; the shell went skittering away over
the water, across the bows of the power-boat; a string of signals
broke from the cruiser's mast.

Then an amazing thing happened; the power-boat's after deck suddenly
swarmed with Green Jackets; there came a flash and a report, and a
shell burst over the Canadian patrol cruiser, cutting her halliards to
ribbons.

"Well--by--God!" gasped Renoux. Barres and Westmore stood petrified;
but the three Frenchmen, with one accord, and standing up very
straight, uncovered in the presence of these men who were about to
die.

Suddenly the power-boat broke out a flag at her masthead--a bright
green flag bearing a golden harp.

Again the small gun flashed from her after-deck; another gun spoke
with a splitting report from the starboard bow; both the shells
exploded close to the patrol cruiser, showering her superstructure
with steel fragments.

And, as the concussions subsided, and the landward echoes of the shots
died away, far and clear from the power-boat's decks, across the
water, came the defiant chorus:

    "I saw the Shannon's purple tide
    Roll by the Irish town,
  As I stood in the breach by Donal's side
  When England's flag went down!--"

They were singing "Green Jackets," these doomed men. Barres could hear
them cheering, too, for a moment only--then every gun aboard the
flimsy little craft spat flame at the big Canadian, and the bursting
shells splashed the water all around her with their pigmy fragments.

Now, from the cruiser, a single gun bellowed. Instantly a red glare
wrapped the launch; there was a heavy report, a fountain of rushing
smoke and debris.

Against the infernal flare of light Skeel's tall figure showed in
silhouette, standing there with hat lifted as though cheering. Again,
from the cruiser, a gun crashed. Where the burning launch had been a
horrible flare shot up; and the shocking detonation rocked land and
sky. On the water a vast black cloud rested, almost motionless; and
all around rained charred things that had been wood and steel and
clothing, perhaps--perhaps fragments of living creatures.

       *       *       *       *       *

So passed into eternity Murtagh Skeel and his Green Jackets, hurled
skyward in the twinkling of an eye on the roaring blast of their own
magazine. What was left of their green flag attained an altitude
unparalleled that sunny morning. But their souls soared higher into
that blinding light which makes all things clear at last, solves all
questions, all perplexities--which consoles all griefs and quiets at
last the bitter mirth of those who have laughed at Death for
conscience's sake.

       *       *       *       *       *

Very slowly the dull cloud lifted from the sunlit water. Dead fish
floated there; others, half-stunned, lay awash with fins quivering, or
strove to turn over, shining silver white in the morning sun.




XXIX

ASTHORE


The sun hung low over Northbrook hills as Barres turned his touring
car in between the high, white service gates of Foreland Farms, swung
around the oval and backed into the garage.

Barres senior, very trim in tweeds, the web-straps of a creel and a
fly-book wallet crossing his breast, glanced up from his absorbing
occupation of preparing evening casts on a twelve-foot, tapered
mist-leader.

"Hello," he said absently, glancing from his son to Westmore through
his monocle, "where have you been keeping yourselves all day?"

"I'll tell you all about it later, dad," said Garry, emerging from the
garage with Westmore. "Where is mother?"

"In the kennels, I believe.... What do you think of this cast, Jim?--a
whirling dun for a dropper, a hare's ear for a----" He checked
himself; glanced doubtfully at the two young men.

"You're somewhat muddy," he remarked; and continued to explore his
fly-book for new combinations.

Westmore, very weary, started for the house; Garry walked across to
the kennel gate, let himself in among a dozen segregated and very
demonstrative English setters, walked along the tree-bordered alley
behind the garage, and, shutting out the affectionate but quarantined
dogs, entered the kennels.

His mother, in smock and apron, and wearing rubber gloves, was seated
on the edge of a straw-littered bunk, a bottle in one hand, a
medicine-dropper in the other. Her four-footed patient, swathed in
blankets, lay on the straw beside her.

"Well, dear," she said, looking up at her son, "where have you been
all night, and most of to-day?"

"I'll tell you about it later, mother. There's something else I want
to ask you----" He fell silent, watching her measure out fourteen
drops of Grover's Specific for distemper.

"I'm listening, Garry," she said, bending over the sick pup and gently
forcing open his feverish jaws. Then she dropped her medicine far back
on his tongue; the pup gulped, sneezed, looked at her out of dull eyes
and feebly wagged his tail.

"I'm going to pull him through, Garry," she said. "The other pups are
doing well, too. But your sister and I were up with them all night. I
only hope and pray that the distemper doesn't spread."

She looked up at her son:

"Well, dear, what is it you have to ask me?"

"Mother, do you like Dulcie Soane?"

"I scarcely know her yet.... She's very sweet--very young----"

"Do you like her?"

"Why--yes----" She looked intently at her tall, unsmiling son. "But I
don't even know who she is, Garry."

Her son bent down beside her and put one arm around her shoulder. She
sat quite motionless with the bottle of Grover's Specific in one
rubber-gloved hand, the medicine dropper poised in the other.

He said:

"Dulcie's name is Fane, not Soane. Her grandfather was Sir Barry
Fane, of Fane Court--an Irishman. His daughter, Eileen, was Dulcie's
mother.... Her father--is dead--I believe."

"But--this explains nothing, Garry."

"Is it not explanation enough, mother?"

"Is it enough for you, my son?"

"Yes."

Her head slowly drooped. She sat gazing in silence at the straw-littered
floor.

He looked earnestly, anxiously at his mother's face. Her brooding
expression remained tranquil but inscrutable.

He said, watching her intently:

"I wasn't sure about myself until last night. I don't know about
Dulcie, whether she can care for me--in this new way.... We were
friends. But I am in love with her now.... Deeply."

It was one of the moments in his career which remain fixed forever in
a young man's memory.

In a mother's memory, too. Whatever she says and does then, he never
forgets. She, too, remembers always.

He stood leaning over her in the dim light of the kennel, one arm
around her shoulders, waiting. And presently she lifted her head,
looked him quietly in the eyes, bent forward very gently, and kissed
him.

       *       *       *       *       *

Dulcie was not in the house, nor was Thessalie.

Barres and Westmore exchanged conversation between their open doors
while bathing and dressing.

"You know, Garry," admitted the latter, "I feel all shaken up, yet,
over that ghastly business."

"So do I.... If they hadn't died so gamely.... But Skeel was a
_man_!"

"You bet he was, crazy or sane!... What a pity!... And that poor
devil, Soane! Did you hear them cheering there, at the last? And what
superb nerve--breaking out that green flag!"

"And think of their opening on that big patrol boat! They hadn't a
chance."

"They had no chance anyway," said Westmore. "It meant execution if
they surrendered--at least, they probably thought so. But how do you
suppose that cowardly strangler, Ferez, felt when he realised that
Skeel was going to fight?"

"He certainly got what was coming to him, didn't he?" said Barres
grimly. "You'll tell Thessa, won't you?"

"As soon as I can find her," nodded Westmore, giving his fresh bow-tie
a most killing twist.

He was ready before Barres was, and he lost no time in starting out to
find Thessalie.

Barres, following him later, discovered him on the library lounge with
Thessalie's fair cheek resting against his.

"I'm s-sorry!" he stammered, backing out, and very conscious of
Westmore's unconcealed annoyance. But Thessalie called to him in a
perfectly calm voice, and he ventured to come back.

"Are you going to tell Dulcie about this horrible affair?" she asked.

"Not immediately.... Are you feeling all right, Thessa?"

"Yes. I had a horrid night. Isn't it odd how a girl can so completely
lose her nerve after a thing is all over?"

"That's the best time to lose it," said Westmore. And to Barres:
"She's bruised from head to foot and her neck hurts yet----"

"It is nothing," murmured Thessalie, looking smilingly at her lover.
Then they both glanced at Barres.

There was a silence. Side by side on the library lounge they continued
to gaze expectantly at Barres. And when he got it into his head that
this polite expectancy might express their desire for his early
departure, he backed out again, embarrassed and slightly irritated.

Thessalie called to him very sweetly:

"If you are looking for Dulcie, I left her a few minutes ago over by
the wall-fountain in the rose arbour."

"Thanks," he said, and turned back through the hall, traversing it to
the north veranda.

There was no sign of Dulcie in the garden or on the lawn. He walked
slowly across the clipped grass, beyond the pool, and, turning to the
right past a sun-dial, stepped into the long rose-arbour. At the
further end of the blossoming tunnel he saw her seated on the low wall
in the rear of the tea-house. Her head was turned toward the woods
beyond.

When he was near her she heard him and looked around, was on the point
of rising, but something in his expression held her motionless.

"Where have you been, Garry?"

He ignored the question, seated himself beside her on the wall, and
drew both her hands into his. He saw the swift colour stain her face,
the lovely, disconcerted eyes lower.

"Last night," he said, "did you come back as you promised?"

"Yes."

"And you found me gone."

She nodded.

"What could you have thought of me, Dulcie?"

"I--my thoughts were--not very clear."

"Are they clearer?"

Her head remained lowered but she raised her grey eyes to his. Her
face had become very still and white.

"Dulcie," he said under his breath, "I am in love with you.... What
will you do about it?"

And, after a little while:

"W-what shall I do, Garry?" she whispered.

"Love me. Can you?"

She remained silent.

"Will you?--Dulcie Fane!"

Her lips stirred, but no sound came.

"You are so wonderful," he said. "I am just realising that I began to
fall in love with you a long time ago."

The declining sun sent a red shaft across the fields, painting every
tree-trunk, gilding bramble and brake. A single ray touched the girl's
white neck and turned her copper-tinted hair to burning gold.

"Do you love me? Can you love me, that way, Dulcie?"

She rose abruptly, and he rose too, retaining her hands; but as she
turned her head from him he saw her mouth quiver.

"Dearest--dearest!" But she interrupted him:

"I want to tell you--that I don't understand why I should be called by
my mother's maiden name.... I w-want you to know that I _don't_
understand it ... if that would make a difference--in your c-caring
for me.... And I wish you to know that--that I love and worship her
memory--and that I am happy and proud--and _proud_--to bear her
name."

"My darling----"

"Do you understand?"

"Yes, Dulcie."

"And do you still want me?"

"You adorable child----"

"_Do_ you?"

"Of course I do----" He caught her in his arms, held her close, lifted
her flushed face. "Now, tell me whether you can love _me_! Tell me
everything that's hidden in your mind and heart!"

"Oh, Garry," she faltered, "I do belong to you. I belong to you
anyway, because you made me. And I've always been in love with
you--always!--always from the very beginning of the world, _Asthore_!
And now--if you want me--this way--Garry _mo veel asthore_----" Her
hands crept from his breast to his shoulders; stole up around his
neck. "Asthore," she murmured; and their lips met in their first kiss.
Then she gravely turned her head and laid her cheek against his; and
he heard her murmuring to herself:

"_Drahareen o machree, mo veel asthore!_ This man--this man who takes
my heart--and gives me his...."

"What are you murmuring there all to yourself?" he whispered, laughing
and drawing her closer. But she only clung to him passionately and her
closed lids kept back the starting tears.

"What is it, dear?" he asked.

"H-happiness," she whispered, "and pride, perhaps.... And my love for
you, Asthore!"