Tells of my experience in the night, and brings my formal narrative to a close. The household was gone to bed when I reached the little inn, but the fire had been left burning for me, and I hung my dripping garments before it and sank down on the massive settle. The candle was burning out but the blaze in the big fireplace diffused its grateful warmth and gave out a dim, fitful brightness. I remember how it checkered up the rough wainscot and low-raftered ceiling so that my eye was ever and again caught by moving figures which were nothing but the reflection of the dancing blaze. Outside the blown rain beat against the little windows in intermittent splashes, which seemed to heighten the sense of comfort and security within.
But I took small comfort in the dim warmth, for I was sick at heart—sick with horror and disgust at the renewed memory of that creature’s deeds—treason—cowardly murder—but most of all at myself. I tried to console myself with the reflection that it was better so, that after all I had been giving aid and comfort to the enemy. We do not get much consolation from the mental comforts which we manufacture for ourselves, and the result of all this idle thinking was just to take me back home to Bridgeboro and to conjure up thoughts of my young friend, Roy Blakeley. Do a good turn daily, he had said. I could see him as he said it! Two on Sundays and holidays. Get a turning lathe and turn out good turns. Keep turning. I smiled at the recollection of all his nonsense.... A fine kind of a good turn I had done!
So I fell to thinking, or rather my mind wandered aimlessly back to that day when Roy and I had stood outside the Bridgeboro station, reading the account of Tom Slade’s last exploit. I recalled the little catch in his voice when he asked me if I was “sure it was really true,” and of how he looked across the street at the window of Temple Camp office, where hung the service flag with its single star. Then I thought of the grave in Pevy with its little wooden cross marked with rough lettering—absurdly German. I thought of how, even to the last moment of our parting, when he handed up my grips to the car platform, he clung staunchly to the hope that somehow his pal was yet living.
“Well, at least,” I reflected cynically, “Tom Slade had the decency to leave a few untainted memorials of loyal service behind him—enough to make a story.” And I thanked my stars that no hint of other things had escaped from my pen, in that tale which I had written for Roy. That did not trouble my conscience at all now. Might it not go down as a good turn? And the girl, whoever she was, she must never know either. Where ignorance was bliss, ’twas folly to be wise. Why should I disgrace my own home town and bring shame upon this noble “good turner” and scout?
Then in my drowsy reverie (for the dying fire had cast its spell on me) I thought of something Slade had said to Jeanne Grigou—that you cannot disgrace yourself alone. Queer he had not thought of that when he had fallen into the web of the unspeakable Dennheimer. Why had he not thought of Bridgeboro then—little Bridgeboro which was first over the top with its loan quota. Had not the Schmitt affair been quite enough for little Bridgeboro which had had its name sprawled all over the New York papers on account of it?
Well, in any event, there should be no more of this business....
Roy—Roy—he would get over the shock of death, I mused. Nature provides for that. But the shock of disgrace.... That was a pretty good story, too—stopping just short of.... Yes, it was a pretty good story. And I would give it to Roy and say, “Here’s a good turn I have turned out for you.” And then....
Whew! How the rain beat against the window! The rattling of the loose frame interrupted my reverie so that I got up and stretched myself and went over and forced a folded scrap of paper between it and the jamb.
“I’ll be thankful,” I half yawned as I resumed my seat before the fire, “if this thing is over soon.” I don’t know whether I was thinking of the storm or the war.
But the rattling did not cease. Oh, it was the door and not the window. So I got up again—then stood stark still, feeling a tremor all over me. Not an inch could I move, only stand there, every nerve on edge, listening. If I had been certain of a tapping on that door I would have experienced no suspense, for suspense is tense uncertainty, and I knew not whether it was a tapping or not.
I thought it was not, and to make sure I went over, unbarred the heavy door and threw it open.
Never while I live shall I forget that sight. He stood there, dripping, trembling; and if there had ever been a touch of the ridiculous in his appearance in that tattered, ill-fitting German coat, there was nothing but pathos in it now; his clothes hung in shining wetness to his form so that I saw with horror how gaunt and emaciated he was. He wore no hat and his blonde hair was streaking down over his face and he gazed out from between those drooping strands with such a pitiful look of appeal as I had never seen before.
 
HE STOOD THERE, DRIPPING, TREMBLING.
“Yes,” I said roughly, “come in—I’m glad you’ve come. No, don’t touch me, but sit there by the fire—you’re welcome. I was to blame. I’m sorry.” It was odd, perhaps, but even in my relief at seeing him and giving him shelter, a little of my anger and resentment returned so that I was at an effort to repress it. “Dennheimer is worse than you, for he seduced you. Sit down—you needn’t be afraid.”
I seated myself in the great chair before the fire, but he remained standing with one hand upon its massive back. His sleeve was tight and clinging, like a woman’s, which gave him a grotesque look and somehow went to my heart. So standing, he spoke with a painful effort at composure as if his few words had been contemplated and rehearsed. As he spoke, I thought I saw in his eyes a kind of forced calmness as if he had at last groped his way to some peg to hang his wits on.
“That other name,” he said, “say it.”
I was surprised that after his experience he did not clutch my arm, but instead the chair and clung to it as if that were a part of his resolve. The poor, heroic effort at self-control was touching and I answered in a kinder tone.
“Other name? There isn’t any other name. I want you to sit close to the fire and take off your coat and shoes; then we’ll talk. See, I’ll put a fresh log on.”
“Say that name,” he repeated, and already I could see his will power tottering. It had been strong enough for a request but not for continued insistence.
“I think you must remember Dennheimer,” I said, “and I know of no other name. Of course, you knew Dennheimer.”
He shook his head.
“Well,” I persisted, “it is more important to get dry and warm. I wonder how you found your way here in such a night.”
“I can find my way anywhere,” he said; “I had to find my way to ask about the name.”
I was puzzled.
“You mean your own name—Tasso?” I ventured.
“Two traitors,” he said; “the other one. You said—you said—you said—I was one.”
“Indeed,” I said, “I am not burdening my mind with the names of traitors and if I named one it must have been in anger. As for you, I’ll not be your judge—so sit down. You are tired and——”
“I’ve known a night like this before,” he said, clutching the chair and gulping in the labor of his effort to be calm and rational; “I am glad on account of it—the rain—because—it—it—reminds me. You are a coward if you are afraid of a storm—you—are—scouts—the—they——” and his voice trailed away.
“Shh,” I said. “You must be quiet I will tell you the other name——”
“Yes,” he said eagerly.
“It was a young fellow who lived in my town in America and came over here and after a while he got mixed up with the Germans somehow. Slade was his name—Tom Slade; and I’m sorry I mentioned it before. He’s dead now——”
“Say his name again,” he interrupted, trembling like a leaf.
“Slade—Tom Slade.”
“Tomasso—not Tasso,” he cried; “that is what he used to call me.”
I thought his wits were wandering now, so I spoke soothingly, telling him again to s............