AT the end of ten days the excitement and horror occasioned by the blowing up of the Reynolds plant had succumbed to the great American curse: indifference. Amateur secret service men brazenly proclaiming themselves, went about more actively than ever, showing their badges and looking up clues at the same time, doing more harm than good, for while professional intelligence men were compelled to accept them as liabilities, the grateful aliens quite properly regarded them as assets.
The burning of two grain warehouses in Chicago, the wrecking of a train loaded with motor trucks, three dock fires in Brooklyn, and the partially suppressed account of an explosion on board a man-of-war in home waters, provided the public with its daily supply of pessimism. Scores of alien suspects were seized, examined and interned. Others were caught with “the goods,” so to speak, and were flung into prison to await, in most cases, the minimum penalty for maximum intentions. But at no time was the finger of accusing Justice levelled at any one of the men or women who made the wheels go round.
Late in the afternoon of a cold, blustering day a young man presented himself at the Carstairs home. He was a smart-looking, upstanding chap in the uniform of a captain of Infantry. The new butler announced that Miss Hansbury was at home and was expecting Captain Steele.
You would go far before finding a manlier, handsomer fellow than this young American soldier. Lithe, and tall, and graceful, he was every inch a man and a thoroughbred. Only a few months before, he had given up a splendid position down town, with a salary that few young men commanded and prospects that even fewer entertained, and eagerly offered himself, heart and soul, to the army that was to lift his country out of the pit of commercialism and give it a place among the proud.
He had won his sword and his shoulder straps with the ease of one who earnestly strives, and at the same time he had conquered in an enterprise sweetly remote from the horrors of war. Louise Hansbury, beautiful and gifted, was wearing the emblem of surrender on the third finger of her left hand.
He was to dine with the Carstairs that evening; as a privileged person, he came long ahead of the other guests of the evening. There was to be a distinguished company. A Cabinet officer, a prominent Southern Senator, an Admiral of the Navy, a Foreign Ambassador, to say nothing of more than one potentate in the realm of finance. And women whose names were not more widely-known than their deeds in these days of great endeavour,—women who had put aside frivolity and selfishness and social gluttony for the cold, hard business of making the country safe.
Mrs. Carstairs, herself, was the chairman of one of the most important of the Relief Organizations controlled and operated exclusively by women; far from being a mere figure-head, she was an active, zealous worker, an inspiration to her associates.
One of the guests of the evening was to be an Italian Countess whose labours in the war hospitals of her native land had made her one of the most conspicuous women in all Europe.
Louise Hansbury was the daughter of Davenport Carstairs’ only sister, now deceased. Since the death of her mother,—her father had died when she was a small child,—the girl had made her home with this adoring uncle. She possessed a somewhat meagre fortune,—sufficient to guarantee independence, however, if she chose to care for herself,—-a circumstance that would have excited resistance in Davenport Carstairs had it ever come up for discussion.
“How are you, dearest?” inquired the young officer, holding her off to look anxiously, searchingly into her eyes. The colour of health was just beginning to flow in her cheeks.
“Gorgeous,” she replied, her eyes agleam with love and happiness.
“Go slow,” he said gently. “Don’t tax yourself too much. It’s a serious job, this business of getting well.”
“But I am well, you goose. I never felt better in my life.”
“You never were more beautiful,” he said softly.
“I’d much rather hear you say that than something really serious,” she cried, smiling divinely into his dazzled eyes.
“You’ve had pneumonia,” he said sternly, after the moment it took to regain a temporarily lost air of authority. “Mighty sick you’ve been, darling,—and—”
“And I’m not to get my feet wet, or sit in a draft, or—Very good, Captain! Orders is orders, sir.” She stood off and saluted him with mock solemnity.
“I’m so glad you came early, Derrol,” she cried, abruptly abandoning her frivolous air. “I’ve—I’ve wanted you so much. This has been a long—oh, an age, dear. You knew that poor Hodges was killed by an automobile, didn’t you? I never know what I put in my letters. And there is all this talk about Belgium being a nest of spies at the outset, and—oh, that would be too much. Sit here with me, Derrol, and—you might hold me close to you,—just for a little while. It—yes, it does give me strength to feel your arms about me.” After a few moments, the troubled look that had been lurking in his eyes for a long time, reappeared. A light frown clouded his brow. He glanced over his shoulder, and, when he spoke, his voice was even lower than it had been before.
“Louise dear, something very strange and mysterious has happened. Don’t be alarmed, dear. It has turned out all right. But,—‘gad, it might have resulted very seriously. Do you remember that I told you about ten days ago,—in this very room,—that I suspected a certain officer in our camp of being—well, crooked?”
“Yes,—I remember quite well, Derrol. Is—is he?”
He smiled grimly. “That remains to be seen. I had observed one or two things about him that excited my suspicions, but I mentioned the matter to no one. The next day after I spoke to you about it, I decided to go to headquarters with my fears. As a matter of fact, by that time I really had something tangible to report. I was received by the general himself. He was dumbfounded. Instantly an investigation was started. The officer I mentioned was missing from camp. It was found that he had gone to New York the night before, but was expected back in the morning—just as I was. That was ten days ago. He has never returned. It has been proved beyond all question that he was a spy. There is no doubt in my mind that he got a tip while in New York, and beat it for parts unknown. Now the infernal part of the business is that I never mentioned my suspicions to a soul except to you,—never even breathed them outside of this room until the next day.”
She was staring at him in perplexity. “But—but, Derrol dear, what does it all mean? You—you certainly cannot think that I repeated—”
“Of course not, dear,—certainly not. I—”
“In the first place, I had not been outside the apartment,” she went on in suppressed excitement. “And I give you my word of honour that I did not mention the matter to a soul in this house. Not one word, Derrol. If you—”
“Calm yourself, Louise,” he urged, pressing her hands. “The chances are that he found out he was suspected before he left camp, and even as I was telling you he may have been on his way to safety. I have not told any one that I spoke of the matter here,—you may be quite sure of that. That would bring trouble and annoyance to you and—well, I couldn’t allow that, you know. Just the same, he has disappeared, completely, utterly. He got the scent somehow, and didn’t lose a minute. Saved himself from facing a firing squad, you may be sure. So far as we have been able to discover, I am the only man who knew that he was up to something wrong. That’s the maddening part of it. I—you see, I actually had the goods on him.”
“You looked over your shoulder just now, Derrol,” she said, the colour ebbing from her cheek. “Do you—do you suspect any one here? Any one of the servants? They have all been with us for years,—except poor Hodges, and he is dead,—and I know that Uncle Davenport trusts them implicitly.”
He held her a little closer. His lips were close to her ear, and the half-whispered words were fraught with the deepest meaning.
“See here, Louise, it’s a desperately serious thing to say,—and I know I’m a fresh, half-baked upstart, and all that sort of thing,—but I just can’t help feeling that if I hadn’t spoken of that matter here last week, we would have nabbed Mr. Spy practically red-handed.”
“Oh, Derrol!” she whispered, aghast. “You don’t know what you are saying.”
“It’s the way I feel, just the same,” said he stubbornly.
“Then you do think the warning came from this house?” She attempted to withdraw herself from his arms.
“God bless you, darling,—I don’t think it came from you, or in any way through you,” he cried miserably.
“Then, whom do you suspect?” she demanded.
“It might have been Hodges,” he said, his eyes narrowing as he looked away from her.
“But Hodges was an Englishman, and violently anti-German. It couldn’t have been Hodges.”
“In any event, he’s dead and can’t defend himself,” said he. “I trust you, dearest, not to repeat a word of what I’ve just been saying,—not a word to any one.”
“You are very foolish, Derrol,—but I promise. Not even to Uncle Davenport or Aunt Frieda. They would be shocked beyond words if they knew you—”
“That’s right, dear,—not even to Mr. or Mrs. Carstairs,—or that bustling young son of theirs.”
“It would be far more sensible to suspect me than either of them,” she said.
A latch-key turned in the front door, and a moment later young Alfred Carstairs came whistling into the hall.
“Hullo!” he called out, peering in upon them from the dimly lighted hallway. He was shedding his overcoat. “How’s the camp, Derrol? Getting into shape?”
“Getting shapelier every minute,” said Derrol Steele, crossing over to shake hands with the youth.
“Where’s mother?” inquired Alfred, looking over the officer’s shoulder at his cousin, who had not risen.
“Lying down, Alfie. She has been on the go all day. Much beauty is required for this evening. She’s giving it a chance to catch her napping.”
“By golly, it’s the only thing that ever does catch her napping,” said Alfred warmly. “She’s a wonder, Derrol. She’d be a field-marshal if she ever got into the army.”
“I haven’t the least doubt of it,” said Captain Steele, smiling. Even as he uttered the jesting words, a strange, uncanny sense of their importance took root in his mind.
Very serious topics were discussed by the guests at Mrs. Carstairs’ dinner that evening. No one felt the least restraint, nor the slightest hesitancy in speaking freely of matters that never were mentioned in the open. Questions that could not have been answered outside the most secret recesses of the State department were frankly asked here,—and answered by some one who spoke with authority. No man feared his neighbour, nor his neighbour’s wife, for here were assembled only those to whom the Government itself could look with confidence. These were the people on the inside of everything, the spokes of the inner wheel,—the people who knew what was going on in Washington, in London, and in Paris. No alien ears were here to listen, no alien eyes to watch; sanctuary for the true and loyal.
One man there held his tongue, and spoke not of the things that were vital: Captain Derrol Steele. It was not modesty alone that kept him silent in this imposing group, nor the recognition of his own insignificance. He had had his lesson. He was young enough to profit by it.
True, the wine may have had something to do with it. It usually does. A beguiling lubricant is this thing that gets into the rustiest of brains and produces a smooth combination of thought and thoughtlessness. In any case, tongues wagged loosely and wits were never keener than in this atmosphere of ripe security. A good many secrets were out for an airing. They were supposed, in good time, to get back into their closets and lie there as snugly as if they had never been disturbed.
Mrs. Carstairs was never more brilliant than on this particular evening. Always clever,—but never witty,—she was at her best when surrounded by personalities such as these; when confronted by problems which permitted her profound mentality to rise to its highest level and her singularly clear-headed vision to project itself across spaces that defy even the most far-seeing of men. She went below the surface of everything; she saw nothing from a superficial point of view. What men liked in her, and what other women envied and sometimes hated, was the rare faculty of saying little unless she was prepared to say a great deal more.
More than one great statesman had said, on occasion, that it was too bad she wasn’t a man! With a mind like that, well, there’s no telling! No wonder Davenport Carstairs was proud of her!
And yet, with all this unstinted praise, with all this respectful admiration, there was not a man among them who would have exchanged places with Davenport Carstairs. Despite her beauty, her no uncertain charm of manner, her strangely old-fashioned femininity, no man coveted her. As a matter of fact, they were a little bit awed by Frieda Carstairs.
The foreign ambassador was leaving early. He explained to his hostess that a very important conference was to be held that night in his rooms at the hotel. He was profoundly apologetic, but if she knew how much depended on the outcome of this very, very important meeting,—and so on, and so on. She said she understood perfectly; affairs of state, she went on to say, always lead up to a state of affairs, and that, of course, was hopeless unless taken in time.
He was a little bewildered. Fearing that she had not fully grasped his meaning, he proceeded to elaborate a little. It wasn’t really a state of affairs, nor, for that matter, an affair of state. Time, of course,—yes, time was the essence of everything in these bitter days. She was quite right; the whole trouble wi............