Mademoiselle Suzanne de Freyne was travelling back to England in hot haste. On the French train she received courtesies rarely extended in these days to any solitary passenger, and at Boulogne she was hurried from the gangway of the steamer back on to the dock and into an evil-looking, four-funnelled British destroyer. Almost as she set foot on board, they moved away from the landing-stage. An officer came forward to meet her and saluted.

'The Captain's cabin is at your disposal, Miss de Freyne,' he announced. 'We have an invalided General on board, but we've tucked him up in a bunk. Afraid we shall give you a bit of a shaking up.'

'I am a very good sailor,' Suzanne assured him. 'It is delightful that I am able to come across with you. Time counts for so much, these days.'

'We haven't any stewardess,' the young officer remarked, as he threw open the door of the cabin. 'You'll ring the bell for anything you want, though. Parsons is an awfully good fellow. And you'll excuse me, won't you? I'm on duty.'

He hurried up on deck, and in a few moments the destroyer was clear of the harbour and tearing across the Channel into the sombre blackness of the night. Huge waves, with a thunderous roar, swept her decks. The spray leapt high above the tops of her squat funnels, from which flashed little jets of flame. Suzanne, driven from the cabin by the craving for air, stood half-way up the companion-way, looking into the blackness. Here and there, a star seemed to reel across the face of the sky and more than once a cloud of spray swept over her head. Unhesitatingly, as though driven by some superhuman hand, they ploughed their way through the black wall of space to their destination. After the turmoil of the Channel, their slow gliding up to the side of the dock seemed almost ghostlike. Suzanne felt almost as though she herself were breathless as she stood at last upon the soaking deck. There were a couple of dim lights and a few shadowy figures upon the quay. The young officer who had spoken to her at Boulogne, stood by her side.

'We are throwing a gangway across for you, Miss de Freyne. I'm afraid we gave you rather a rough crossing.

'I do not mind it,' she declared. 'I was only anxious to come quickly. Do you know if I shall be able to get on to London at once?'

'There will be a special for the General,' he told her. 'They'll probably take you, too.'

The gangway was thrown across. The young man saluted, and Suzanne stepped on to the rain-sodden dock. An official stepped up to her at once.

'Miss de Freyne?' he inquired.

'Yes?'

'There is a special waiting here for General Matravers. I have had instructions to attach a coach for you.'

'That is very delightful!' she exclaimed. 'Shall I follow you?'

The man piloted her across the track and handed her into an ordinary first-class compartment attached to the waiting train.

'Sorry we've had to give the saloon to General Matravers,' he explained. 'Will you have any tea or coffee, or anything to eat?'

She gave an order to the refreshment boy whom he summoned, and threw herself down with a sigh of content into the corner seat. Presently a tall man in khaki, with his arm in a sling and leaning upon a stick, came up the platform, followed by two junior officers. He was shown at once into the saloon and a little murmur of animated conversation arose. Five minutes later the train glided away, leaving the two junior officers disconsolate upon the long, wooden platform; passed through the two stations, and, gathering speed at every moment, rushed away northwards.

Suzanne had more than once boasted that she had no nerves. She finished her coffee and sandwiches, lit a cigarette and curled herself up in her corner. For a few moments she looked out into the darkness, watching the scanty lights. Then her eyes turned, entirely by chance, towards the door which connected her carriage with the saloon. They had no sooner rested upon it than a queer, inexplicable sense of uneasiness crept over her. She tried to look away from it, to look out of the opposite window, to interest herself in the evening paper. She read a line or two, then found herself slowly lowering the sheet, found herself peering over the top towards that closed door of dark red mahogany with its brass handle. She threw the paper down, walked to the end of the carriage and back again. She must be going mad, she told herself. The only occupant of that saloon was a wounded soldier of great distinction, a General whose deeds in the earlier stages of the war had made history. He was alone there without even an A.D.C., and in any case the door was probably locked. What cause of uneasiness for her could there be in his proximity? She fought against her fit of nerves valiantly, but she found herself tearing the paper into small pieces, crumbling the remains of her roll between her fingers, sipping desperately the remnants of her cold coffee. And all the time her eyes seemed glued upon that brass door-knob. If it should move! She set her teeth to keep from screaming. When the thing really happened, it seemed to bring, to a certain extent, release from her hysterical fears. Yet for the first few seconds it paralyzed her. The handle turned, slowly and deliberately. The door was pushed open towards her. A man looked in, stooping by reason of his height, a lean, gaunt man clad in the uniform of a General. He looked at her for a moment without speech. Then he came into the compartment and closed the door behind him.

'What do you want?' she asked hoarsely.

He saluted mechanically.

'I am General Matravers,' he announced. 'May I sit down?'

She glanced at the communication cord—it was on the distant side of the carriage. Why she should have been afraid of him she could not tell, yet she felt as though she had never been in such danger in her life as when he took the seat opposite to her.

'I am General Matravers,' he repeated. 'You have heard of me, perhaps?'

'But naturally,' she assented. 'We have all read of your wonderful exploits at Mons.'

He moistened his lips with his tongue. His face seemed curiously dried up, his eyes were hard, his features grim and bony. He presented somehow a queer impression of lifelessness.

'Mons!' he muttered ruminatingly. 'You've never been to Hell, have you, young lady?'

'Not yet,' she answered, watching him closely.

'That was the beginning of it,' he went on. 'We need a Dante, young lady, to sing to us of those days, when the winds were driven from the face of the earth by the screeching of the shells and the roar and the clash of the guns, and they seemed to be always nearer.... Every foot of ground was red with blood, the blood of our dear soldiers, and one thought of the people at home.... I know men who lost their reason at Mons.'

'It must have been terrible,' she faltered.

He sat opposite to her, nervously opening and closing the interlocked fingers of his hands.

'You know why I am coming home?' he asked abruptly. 'Medals enough here, you see, for a field-marshal, and I am sent home in disgrace.'

She murmured something to which he paid no attention whatever.

'I left my two A.D.C.'s at Folkestone,' he went on, 'forbade them to enter the train. They are worried about me. Perhaps they are right. You see, it was at—but we don't mention names—my headquarters last week. It was the night before our advance. You read about that. I won't mention the name of the place. We called it a partial success. But for the thing I am going to tell you, it might have been the turning point of the war. The attack failed—my fault.'

'I read that your division did splendidly,' she remarked.

Again he moistened his dry lips. His hands were shaking now by his side; he seemed like a man on the verge of paralysis.

'This is what happened,' he continued. 'I was at headquarters, my own headquarters. My orderly reported a Staff Officer from the French headquarters. He came in, a typical-looking young French soldier, wearing the uniform of one of their best regiments, one of those which I knew were in the division which was to join up with ours in the morning. He was tall and dark, with a thin, black moustache, long, narrow eyes, a scar on his right cheek, sallow, and with a queer habit of swinging his left arm. He brought me some intelligible, perfectly coherent verbal instructions, asked a few questions as to my plans for the next day, gave me a personal message from the French General commanding the division, saluted, got back into his motor-car and drove off. And I thought no more about it until we found out that our whole scheme of attack was known to the enemy, and that they were prepared for us at every point. He was a German. We were sold. Thousands of my men were lost through that. My fault. He was a German. Are you a German, young lady?'

'Ah, but no!' she exclaimed, shrinking a little back.

'You are not wholly English.'

'I am half French and half English,' she told him.

'The French are good people,' he went on, relapsing into his former far-away tone, 'very fine people. They can fight too, and they can tell Germans when they see them. That is why I am going home—because I couldn't. I've sworn that the next German I see, I'll kill. You're not a German, are you?'

'I told you just now,' she reminded him quietly, 'that I am half French and half English—mostly French. I am in the service of the French Government at the present moment, trying to help you, General.'

'Good girl,' he said absently. 'I thought there might have been a German in here when I heard some one moving. If I can't find one, I suppose I must shoot myself.'

He took out a little revolver and examined it. He opened the breech and she saw that it was fully loaded.

'May I look?' she asked.

He handed it to her at once. The window by which they sat was half down. She calmly threw it out. He looked at her in a mildly-vexed manner.

'You should not have done that, young lady,' he expostulated. 'I was very fond of that revolver. Besides, how am I to kill myself now?'

'I should wait,' she advised him. 'When you get to London you will easily find Germans—too many of them.'

He shook his head.

'But I've nothing to kill them with, and I've left my army behind. I am sent home,' he added, with a sudden hoarse pathos.

Her sense of personal fear had passed. She knew that the dangerous moment, if indeed there had been one, lay behind.

'There is so much work to be done in England,' she said.

He seemed to be looking through the carriage windows; his hands were twitching horribly.

'Those nights,' he muttered, 'when we thought that an hour's rest had come, and the red fires came spitting from our flanks just when we thought ourselves safe, when we thought them far and away behind——'

His words became unintelligible. He sat quite quiet. Presently, to her joy, she saw a carpet of lights on either side and knew that they were running into London.

'You had better get back to your saloon,' she said. 'We shall be at Charing Cross in a few minutes, and there will probably be some one to meet you.'

He rose obediently to his feet. The tears were in her eyes as he turned away with a stiff little salute, and, stooping low, disappeared through the doorway. Then she leaned back with a long-drawn sigh of relief. It was a strange little episode, another of the little adventures which gave colour to her life. She leaned out of the window and saw the last of him as they drew up. He was met by an officer and an elderly lady. She saw him pass out and take his place in a waiting motor-car. Then she stepped out herself, handed her bag to a porter and was conducted to a taxicab.

*****

Suzanne sat, the next afternoon, under the trees at Ranelagh with Lavendale. She leaned back in her chair and breathed a little sigh of contentment.

'And you, my friend,' she asked, 'what have you been doing?

'Nothing,' he answered. I am waiting for a man to arrive from America. His coming, I fancy, will provide me with work, but until then there is nothing for me. To pass the time while you were in France, I went over to Holland last week.'

She nodded.

'The one country left which may provide us with a sensation,' she remarked. 'I suppose that is why you went.'

'I made a few inquiries,' he replied. 'My own impression of the people was that they wanted peace very badly and Schnapps more than anything else in the world.'

She laughed softly. It was significant of his attitude towards her that he asked no questions of her own doings.

'I had a curious adventure on my way back from Paris yesterday,' she told him. 'I travelled up from Boulogne in a special with General Matravers.'

'Matravers?' he repeated. 'Isn't he one of the British Generals who have been sent home?'

'I believe so,' she assented, 'in fact I am sure of it. He told me the whole story on the way up. Afterwards he brought out a revolver and swore that he was going to shoot himself.'

'What on earth did you do?' he exclaimed.

'I took it away from him,' she replied. 'He wasn't in the least dangerous, really.'

'Look here,' Lavendale declared earnestly, 'I think it's quite time you left off this travelling about alone.'

She laughed gaily.

'But, my friend,' she protested, 'what would you have? Can a trusted agent'—she glanced around for a moment and lowered her voice—'of the French and English Secret Service engage a chaperon?'

'I don't care,' he answered, a little doggedly. 'It's all very well for us men to take a risk or two, but it's no sort of life for a girl——'

She checked him at once.

'You don't understand,' she interrupted. 'I am a daughter of France. Every drop of blood in my body, every part of myself, my soul, even, belongs to my country. The work I am doing I shall go on with, whatever it might cost me.'

He did not attempt to argue with her, the finality of her tone was too absolute.

'I suppose it is because of this spirit,' he said, 'that France is invincible. Tell me——'

He broke off in his sentence. Her fingers had suddenly gripped his arm, she had leaned forward in her place. Coming down the steps on to the terrace was a little group of soldiers in staff uniform. One of them, in the centre of the group, was obviously a foreigner, and, from the respect with which they all treated him, a person of distinction.

'Who are they?' she asked.

'I expect they are members of the military mission from France,' he explained. 'They are being entertained down here to dinner to-night by some officials from the War Office. The head-waiter told me about it. I tackled him about a table in case you cared to stay down.'

'But only one of them is a foreigner,' she observed.

He shrugged his shoulders.

'I really don't know anything more about it,' he said. 'I don't suppose any one does. Why are you so interested?'

She said nothing for a moment. The Frenchman was standing chatting amiably in the centre of the terrace, and Suzanne watched him with curious intensity. He was tall, he had a slight black moustache, his eyes were long and narrow, there was a scar on his right cheek. He was the very prototype of the man who had arisen in her mind a few hours ago, called into being by those hoarse, broken-hearted words of the ruined General.

'I must know his name,' she insisted.

He looked at her wonderingly.

'But, my dear——'

'I must know his name,' she repeated. 'Please help me. Don't ask me why.'

He rose at once.

'I'll do my best,' he promised her.

He disappeared into the house. The little party of men strolled backwards and forwards along the terrace. In about five minutes Lavendale reappeared. He smiled as he approached.

'I got hold of the dinner cards,' he announced in triumph. 'His name is Lieutenant-Colonel Leychelles.'

The little company of soldiers at that moment began to descend the steps. Suzanne rose to her feet and, standing under the shadow of the trees, she leaned forward. The man whom she had been watching with so much interest, was distinctly swinging his left arm. She gripped Lavendale by the elbow.

'Come with me,' she insisted. 'Come with me at once. Take me up to town.'

He obeyed promptly. They passed through the house and Lavendale ordered up his car.

'Where to?' he asked, as he took his place at the driving wheel.

'I must find General Matravers,' she declared. 'Drive up towards London. I must think as we go.'

They glided down the drive, over Hammersmith Bridge and up to the Park.

'Don't you belong to a club somewhere?' she asked. 'We must get a Who's Who.'

'Why, of course,' he answered. 'We can manage that easily enough.'

He pulled up presently outside the door of the Bath Club in Dover Street.

'If you'll wait here for half a moment,' he suggested.

She nodded and he sprang down and ran lightly up the steps. He was back again almost at once.

'The first name I came across,' he announced,—'17 Belgrave Square is the town address. Shall I drive there? It's quite close.'

She assented. In a few moments they arrived at their destination. Suzanne stood under the stone portico and rang the bell. In due course a butler appeared.

'General Matravers is not seeing anybody, madam,' was his prompt reply to Suzanne's inquiry. 'The doctor has ordered him complete rest.'

'My business,' Suzanne explained, 'is very urgent.'

'So every reporter who has been here to-day has told me,' the man replied a little wearily. No one has been allowed to see him.'

'Is Lady Matravers in?' Suzanne persisted.

'Lady Matravers is not receiving. Perhaps you would like to leave your name and a message, madam?' the man suggested.

A tall, dark-haired woman, who had been crossing the hall, paused. She came a few steps towards Suzanne.

'I am Lady Matravers,' she announced, 'Can I do anything for you?'

Suzanne pressed forward and the butler stood on one side.

'Lady Matravers,' the former said earnestly, I have the most important business with your husband. I know he is ill—I came up from Folkestone with him yesterday—and yet I must see him.'

'You were his companion in the special train?' Lady Matravers asked. 'He spoke of a young lady who travelled up with him.'

'I am the young lady,' Suzanne assented. 'I am in the Secret Service of France,' she went on, dropping her voice a little. 'Your husband told me some curious things last night. It is in connection with one of them that I wish to see him. It isn't for my own sake, Lady Matravers. It is for the sake of the country.'

The door was thrown open. General Matravers, leaning upon his stick, came into the hall. He was looking very white and shaken, but he seemed to recognize Suzanne. He looked at her doubtfully.

'It is the young lady whom I found last night in the carriage attached to my saloon,' he remarked, 'the young lady, my dear,' he added, turning to his wife, 'who threw my revolver out of the window.'

Lady Matravers glanced towards the servant who was lingering in the background and led Suzanne back into the room from which she herself had issued. The General followed her. A quiet-faced woman in nurse's uniform rose from a chair as they entered.

'If you are really the young lady who travelled with my husband from Folkestone last night,' Lady Matravers said kindly, 'I am very glad indeed to meet you. He has told me such very nice things about you. The doctor's orders are that he is not to be disturbed on any account, but if you wish to speak to him for a few minutes, here he is. I was just trying to persuade him to go to bed when you came.'

'Perhaps what I have come to say may do your husband more good than harm,' Suzanne assured her. 'General,' she added, turning towards him, 'do you mind describing to me once more the man who came to your headquarters masquerading as a French officer, an envoy from the French Brigadier-General?'

The General's face darkened.

'Describe him!' he exclaimed. 'Why, I can't get him out of my thoughts for a minute! He was tall, soldierly, dark, sallow, black moustache, narrow eyes, black hair cut short, a scar on his right cheek, and he had a habit swinging his left arm when he walked.'

'I need not ask you whether you would know him again,' Suzanne said, 'because I am sure you would. I may be very foolish and I may be making a very silly mistake, but there is a man over here now attached to the French Military Mission. He is being entertained to-night at Ranelagh by officials from the War Office. He leaves to-morrow, ostensibly for French headquarters, and he answers your description exactly.'

All the nervousness had left the General's manner. He was perfectly calm, a little eager. He picked up his cap and cane from a table.

'Where is he to be found?' he asked.

'If you will come with me,' Suzanne promised, 'I will take you to him.'

The nurse hastened towards them. The General pushed her aside. His tone had acquired a new firmness.

'Please understand, both of you,' he said, 'that no nurse or doctor's injunctions will keep me from doing my duty. My dear,' he added, turning to his wife and kissing her upon the forehead, 'this is not a matter in which you must interfere. If the young lady is mistaken, I shall come back at once. If by any chance she is right, it is imperative that I should go. I am at your service, madam.'

'I will take care of him,' Suzanne whispered to Lady Matravers.

They let him go, doubtfully but of compulsion. He took his place in the car and acknowledged his introduction to Lavendale with a stiff salute. They started off at once. For the first time Suzanne began to be a little nervous about the outcome of their journey.

'This man,' she explained, 'is being entertained at dinner at Ranelagh at the present moment. We can go down there and you can see from the open doorway of the dining-room whether there is any truth in my suspicions. If we are wrong——'

'You need have no fear, young lady,' the General assured her calmly. 'I am a member of Ranelagh and well-known there. It will be quite in order that I stroll round the place and glance in at the dining-room. If your suspicions are, as you suggest, ill-founded, no harm will be done. If they are true,' he added, his voice shaking for a moment, 'if really it is vouchsafed to me in this life to find myself face to face once more with that man——'

He broke off abruptly and muttered something under his breath. Not another word was spoken until they had turned in at the avenue and pulled up in front of the clubhouse. The General had become preternaturally calm. He waited, however, for Suzanne to precede him.

'If you will lead the way, young lady,' he suggested.

They crossed through the two rooms, out on to the terrace the other side, and turned towards the dining-room. The gardens were bright with flowers, and the glow of the sunset seemed still to linger about the place. One or two visitors who had dined early were already having their coffee under the trees. From a hidden spot the musicians were tuning their instruments. Suzanne felt her heart beat rapidly as they drew near the dining-room; the General, apparently unmoved, walked with measured tread, a commanding and dignified figure. A couple of young soldiers stood up as he passed, and he accepted their salute genially. Then he passed into the dining-room. Almost immediately in front of him, at the table usually reserved for the golfers' luncheon, the dinner-party was proceeding, and on the right-hand side of the host sat the distinguished Frenchman. He was facing the door and he glanced up at the entrance of the little party. Suzanne asked no questions. She felt her breath almost stop, a little sob choked her. The faces of almost every one in the room, the laughter, the murmur of conversation, seemed suddenly in her mind to have become arrested. More than anything else in the world she was conscious of this one thing—the man who sat there knew that his hour had come, knew that Fate was marching towards him in the shape of that grim, military figure.

The General walked towards the party very much with the air of one who had come to make some casual inquiry. It was only when he was recognized that a little interested murmur stole around the room. He walked to within a few feet of the Frenchman and his right hand seemed to have disappeared for a moment.

'Gentlemen,' he said, without unduly raising his voice but with curious distinctness, 'the man whom you are entertaining here as an emissary from our French allies, is an impostor, a German and a spy. He cost me, a few weeks ago, the lives of two thousand of my men. A far smaller thing, he is responsible for the ruin of my reputation. This is less than he deserves.'

With hand as steady as a rock, the General held his revolver out before him and deliberately fired three times at the man whom he had accused, and who had fallen forward now, his outstretched hands sweeping the wineglasses from in front of him—stone dead. The General watched his victim without emotion. He even leaned forward to make sure that the wounds were mortal. Then he walked deliberately out into the garden, heedless of the shrieking of the women, the crowd of diners who had sprung to their feet, the passing of the paralysis which had seemed to keep every one in the room seated and silent.

*****

They found the proofs upon his body that night—horrifying, stupefying proofs—and the censor's hand came down. No word of that tragedy ever appeared under any sensational headline in any newspaper. In the face of that grim silence, even many of those who had been present found themselves wondering whether that lightning tragedy had not been a nightmare of the brain. To Suzanne de Freyne, however, it remained always one of the tense moments of her life. The General, with the revolver still in his hand, turned towards her with a polite gesture and a happy smile as he led the way into the garden. He tossed the weapon into a bed of geraniums and seemed utterly indifferent to the turmoil around.

'You were right, young lady,' he said. 'That was the man.'