Chambers Robert William
The Moonlit Way: A Novel

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 329 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 330 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 332 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 333 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 334 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 335 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 337 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; 341 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 342 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? 343 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 345 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 346 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 348 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.