Gibbs George
The Yellow Dove
“We are quite alone here,” she said coolly. “The others are not even within call. Now what do you want of me?”
Her audacity rather startled him, but he folded his arms and leaned back smiling.
“The papers of Riz-la-Croix, of course,” he said amiably.
“And how do you know they’re in my possession?”
He shrugged.
“Because they couldn’t possibly be anywhere else.”
“How do you know?”
“Because I have exhausted every other resource.”
“You’re frank at least—including the burglary at Ashwater Park and the messing in my box upstairs?”
“And since you must know the full truth,” he continued politely, “the careful search of your room in your absence this evening—including the removal of the rugs and bedding. Oh, don’t be disturbed, I beg of you,” as she made a movement of alarm, “they have all been replaced with a nice care for detail.”
“And if I told Lady Heathcote of this–”
“I am quite sure that the best interests of all,” he said politely, “are conserved—by silence.”
She meditated a moment, her gaze on the coals.
“Yes,” she said slowly, “you’re clever—more than ordinarily clever. I can’t understand how I could ever have refused you. But don’t you think your methods have been a little—er—unchivalrous?”
“The importance of my objects admitted of no delay. I hope you have not been inconvenienced–”
“Not in the least,” calmly. “My recollection of your many civilities merely made me think that your agents were overzealous.”
“I am sorry,” he said genuinely. “It could not be helped. You and I are merely pawns in a game greater than anything the world has ever known.”
“I didn’t want you to apologize. I merely thought in order to avoid comment that you might have come to me yourself.”
“I thought I might save you the unpleasantness of a controversy which can only have one end.”
“You mean—that you will win.”
“I do.”
“How?”
“You will give me the papers—here, tonight.”
“And if I told you that I had destroyed them?”
“That would be manifestly untrue, since at the present moment in the position of your body their outline is quite clearly defined on the inside of your right knee.”
Doris put both slippers upon the ground, her feet together, her face flushing warmly.
“I hope you will forgive my frankness,” she heard him say gently, “but the method of your challenge—is—unusual.”
She clasped her hands around her knees and frowned into the fire.
“You mistake, I think, my friend. It is not a challenge. It is merely a method of defense—the safest, I am sure, against John Rizzio.”
He bowed low with deep ceremony.
“Of course, I am helpless.” And then, “I can only rely on your good sense and”—here his voice sunk a note lower—“and on your loyalty to the cause of England.”
This was the opening that she had been waiting for. She thrust quickly.
“And if the cause is England’s why didn’t Scotland Yard come to Ashwater Park?”
“Dunsinane to Burnam Wood!” he shrugged. “They would have made asinine mistakes as they always do—the chief of which would have been that of denouncing Miss Doris Mather as an agent of England’s enemies.”
The girl tapped her toe reflectively upon the rug.
“I won’t attempt subterfuge. Of course, I know the contents of that packet.”
“You wouldn’t be a woman if you didn’t.”
“And how it was passed from Captain Byfield to Cyril Hammersley.” This was a random shot but it hit the mark. Rizzio’s eyes dilated slightly, but she saw them.
“Byfield! Impossible.”
“Not at all. Cyril told me,” she lied.
“He told you–?” he paused aghast, for now she was laughing at him.
“No—but you have.”
His brow tangled and he folded his arms again.
“Of course, you know the importance to Cyril and Captain Byfield of keeping such a matter secret.”
He had not heard! He did not know! She remembered that the subject of the dreadful news from London had not been reopened and Jack Sandys’ sources of information were probably semiofficial.
She controlled her voice with an effort.
“I would hardly be the one to mention names under the circumstances—since my own fortunes seem to be involved in the matter, but as for Captain Byfield, I’m afraid that further secrecy will hardly help him.”
“What do you mean?”
“Merely that he was arrested late yesterday afternoon as he was leaving the War Office.”
She had not counted on the effect she created. She knew that her last thrust had put him more carefully on guard, but he could not hide the sudden intake of breath and the quick searching glance his dark eyes shot at her.
“What is your source of information?”
“Jack Sandys. He came here directly from Downing Street.”
She saw Rizzio’s lips meet under his mustache in a thin line.
“So. It has come sooner—than I expected.”
He got up and paced the floor, his fingers twitching behind his back. She said nothing, waiting for him to rejoin her. When he did, it was with a serious expression.
“I suppose you know what this means to—to Hammersley,” he said in a low voice.
Doris sat without moving, but her brain was busy weighing Rizzio.
“No,” she replied calmly, “I don’t. Won’t you tell me?”
He leaned forward toward her along the back of their seat, his look and voice concentrated upon her.
“Is it possible,” he continued, “that you haven’t realized by this time exactly what Cyril Hammersley is?”
“No,” she said staunchly. “I will believe nothing of him unless he tells it to me himself.”
He waited a moment, watching her, and fancied that he saw her lips tremble slightly. Her loyalty to Hammersley inflamed him. He followed up his advantage quickly.
“There are reasons why I should dislike to give you pain, greater reasons why I should be generous with a successful rival, and I have done what I can to take this matter out of your hands. There is still time. Will you give me that packet?”
She shook her head.
“Then I must speak,” he went on. “My duty demands it, whatever happens to him—whatever happens to you. Don’t make me go to extremes with you. I cannot bear to do it. Hammersley is a German spy. Those papers were to be forwarded to Germany. You are saving them for him, that he may betray England.”
“That is not true,” she said chokingly. “I do not believe it.”
“You must. Isn’t there proof enough in what you have read?”
“There is some mistake.”
“No. There can’t be. Your sentiments are blinding you.”
“One moment, please.” Doris had risen and faced him across the hearth, a new fire of resolution in her eyes. To Rizzio, the lover of beauty, she was a mockery of lost happiness. She was Diana, not the huntress but the hunted.
“You have told me what Cyril Hammersley is. Now if you please I would like to know what you are!”
He paused a moment and then with a step toward her said gently:
“I think my interests should be fairly obvious. I am acting for the English Government.”
“I have only your word for it. Have you any papers that would prove it—in your card-case, for instance?”
He started back, his fingers instinctively reaching upward. Then he shrugged and laughed.
“You are surely the most amazing person. Unfortunately I have no documents. I am only doing my duty as a private citizen—a loyal resident of the Empire.”
“But not a Briton. Neither am I. We meet on equal terms.”
“Then you refuse me—definitely, finally.”
“Yes, I must.”
“I beg that you will consider carefully the alternatives. If you give me the papers—silence on my part—safety for Hammersley. If you refuse to give them up–” he paused.
“Then what will you do?” she defied him.
“It would be the most terrible moment of my life—but I will denounce him—here tonight—tomorrow in London. Those papers must not reach Germany—even if I have to denounce you, too.”
“And if I promise that the papers will not reach Germany?”
He hesitated a moment.
“There is too much at stake. I can’t take the risk. No woman can be trusted–”
“Not even the woman John Rizzio would have made his wife?”
He moved his shoulders expressively. Her youth and cleverness were bewildering him.
“No, that will not do,” he said in desperation. “You must give me the papers.”
“I will not. You shall have to take them from me.”
He leaned toward her along the mantel aware of her dominant loveliness.
“You would not drive me to that!”
“Yes. It is a challenge. I offer it. I will fight you, and I am strong. I have a voice and I will raise an outcry. They will come and I will tell them. Then you can denounce me? Will you dare?”
He came toward her while she fled around the davenport, eluding him with ease. She was swifter of foot than he. He stopped a moment near the gun-rack to plead. She kept the huge oak lounge between them and listened by the fire. Something she saw in his eyes decided her, for as he came forward to leap over the davenport she threw something yellow toward him.
He gave a gasp of relief, picked the object up and made a cry of dismay.
“The cover! I must have the papers,” he cried, coming forward again.
By this time the girl was standing upright, a poker in one hand, the thin cigarette papers cramped in the fingers of the other, over the open fire.
Rizzio paused in the very act of leaping.
“Not that,” he whispered hoarsely, “for God’s sake—not that.”
“Stay where you are, then,” said the girl in a low resolute tone.
Rizzio straightened. Doris still bent over the fire.
“Give it to me,” he said again.
“No. England’s secrets shall be safe.”
“Don’t you understand?” he whispered wildly. “I’ve got to prove that they are.”
“I can prove that as well as you–”
“But you won’t. Hammersley is–”
He paused and both of them straightened, listening. Outside in the hall there was a commotion and a familiar voice as the Honorable Cyril, his face and fur coat spattered with mud, came into the room.
CHAPTER VII
AN INTRUDER
He looked from one to the other with a quickly appraising eye. The girl was fingering the lace of her bodice. Rizzio had turned toward the newcomer recovering his poise.
“Hope I’m not intrudin’,” said Hammersley, with a laugh.
“Well, hardly. You’ve come in a hurry.”
“Yes,” drawled Hammersley. “I missed your train, I think. Too bad. Jolly slow work travelin’ alone. Stryker picked me up at Edinburgh and we came on by motor.”
He took off his fur coat in leisurely fashion and crossing to the fireplace took Doris’s proffered hand. “You had my note?” he asked carelessly.
The girl nodded. “I was glad,” she said.
“Well, I’m here. Jolly happy, too. Had a narrow squeak of it, though. Some bally idiot stretched rope across the road over by Saltham Rocks, but we saw it in time, and went around. Fired a few shots at us, too. Must have taken me for Rizzio. What?” he laughed.
Thus directly appealed to, Rizzio smiled grudgingly.
“You don’t ask me to believe that story, Hammersley,” he said dryly.
“You don’t have to, Rizzio.”
The girl’s look was fixed on Hammersley’s face. Suddenly she broke in with a voice of alarm.
“Cyril—you’re hurt—and there’s blood on your coat–”
“Is there? By Jove, so there is—it doesn’t matter. I wouldn’t mind a peg though—and a cigarette.”
Doris had started for the door in alarm.
“Wait!” Hammersley’s voice came sharply. And as she paused, “Ring, Doris.”
She understood and touched the button beside the door.
“We might as well have an understanding before they come, Rizzio,” put in Hammersley quickly. “Do you prefer to believe my story—or would you like to invent one of your own?”
Rizzio shrugged. “As you please,” he said. “It seems that I am de trop here.” At the door he paused and finished distinctly. “I hope that your explanations will prove satisfactory.”
Doris had helped Cyril off with his coat and by the time the maid brought Betty Heathcote, had cut away the sleeve of his shirt with Cyril’s pocket knife. It was merely a gash across the upper arm, which a bandage and some old-fashioned remedies would set right.
Lady Heathcote heard the story (from which Hammersley eliminated the rope) with amazement, and was for sending at once for the local constabulary.
“Oh, it’s hardly worth while,” said the Honorable Cyril, sipping his whiskey and water, comfortably. “Poor devils—out of work, I fancy. Wanted my money. If they’d come to Ben-a-Chielt tomorrow I’d give it to ’em. But I wouldn’t mind, Betty, if you could put me up for the night. I’m not keen to be dodgin’ bullets in the dark.”
“Of course,” said Lady Heathcote. “How extraordinary! I can’t understand—Saltham Rocks—that’s on my place. Something must be done, Cyril.”
Hammersley yawned. “Oh, tomorrow will do. Couldn’t catch the beggars in the dark. Besides, it’s late. Do me a favor, Betty. Don’t let those people come in here again. I want a word with Doris.”
He had stretched himself out comfortably on the Davenport, his eyes on the girl, who still stood uncertainly beside him.
Lady Betty shrugged, and taking up her basin and lotion moved toward the door.
“It’s most mysterious. Are you sure we’re quite safe?”
“Quite. But I think it might be better if I had the room between yours and Doris’s.”
“I was putting John Rizzio there.”
“Well, change—there’s a dear. And say nothing about it. I—I might need a new dressing on this thing in the night.”
She examined him curiously, but he was looking lazily into the fire, having already taken her acquiescence for granted.
When she went out, Hammersley sat up and threw his cigarette into the fire.
“You have it still?” he whispered anxiously, taking Doris by both hands.
She nodded.
“Thank God for that. I seemed to have arrived at the proper moment.”
“I was about to burn them.”
He drew a long breath of relief.
“You know what they are?”
“Yes. I read them.”
“I was afraid you would. You have spoken to no one.”
“No,” proudly. “Hardly. After what I went through.” And, with an air of restraint, she told him everything.
He listened, a serious look in his eyes.
“It was my fault. I should have left them in the machine. I got away scot free.”
“Yes, I know. I saw you.”
“You poor child,” he said softly. “I was desperate. I thought it necessary. How can I ever thank you?”
“You can’t.” The tones of her voice were strange.
“I’d jolly well give my life for you, Doris. You know that,” he said earnestly.
“It’s something less than that that I want, and something more—your word of honor.”
“My word–?”
“Yes,” she went on quietly. “To forswear your German kinship and give me an oath of loyalty to England. Difficult as it is, I’ll believe you.”
“Sh—!” He glanced toward the door. All the windows of the room were closed. “He told you that I was a German spy?” he whispered anxiously.
“You forget that I had proof of that already.”
He sat up and looked into the fire. “I hoped you wouldn’t read ’em. It has done no good.”
“I have no regrets. I will not betray England, Cyril, even for you.”
He rose and paced the rug in front of her for a moment. Then he spoke incredulously in a whisper.
“You mean that you won’t give ’em to me?”
“I mean that—precisely.”
“But that is impossible,” he went on, with greater signs of excitement than she had ever seen in him. “Don’t you realize now that every moment the things are in your possession you’re in danger—great danger? Isn’t what you’ve gone through—isn’t this”—and he indicated his arm—“the proof of it?”
“Yes,” she said firmly. “But I would rather suffer injury myself than see you share the fate of Captain Byfield.”
He started. “Oh, you heard that?”
“Yes. Jack Sandys is here.” She put her face in her hands in the throes of her doubts of him and then suddenly thrust out her hands and laced her fingers around his arm.
“Oh, give it up, Cyril, for my sake give it all up. Can’t you see the terrible position you’ve placed me in? If I give these papers to Jack Sandys they’ll come and take you as they took Captain Byfield. I’ve kept them for you, because I promised. But I cannot let this information get to Germany. I would die first. What shall I do?” she wailed. “What on earth can I do?”
His reply made her gasp.
“There’s a fire,” he said quietly. “Burn ’em.”
Her fingers went to her corsage and her eyes gleamed with a new hope. She took the crumpled rice-papers out and looked at them. Then in a flash the thought came to her.
“You know the information contained in these papers?” she asked in an accent of deprecation.
“No,” he replied shortly. “I merely glanced at them.”
“You hadn’t the chance to study them?”
“No.”
Still she hesitated. “But what—what is Rizzio?”
He walked to the door of the room, opening it suddenly. Then he shut it quietly and coming back to the fire took the poker and made a hole between the glowing coals.
“Burn ’em!” he commanded.
She obeyed him wonderingly and together they watched the package of rice-papers flame into a live coal and then turn to ashes. When the last vestige of them had disappeared, they sat together on the davenport, Cyril thoughtful, the girl bewildered.
“What is Rizzio?” she repeated. “He told me that he was an agent of the English Government.”
“I can’t tell you,” he whispered hoarsely. “I can’t tell you anything—even you. Don’t you understand?”
“No, I don’t. It’s your word against his. I would rather believe you than him. I want to, Cyril. God knows I want to.”
“Didn’t I ask you to burn the papers? Didn’t he try to prevent it?”
“Yes.”
“Can’t you see? If he were acting for England, it wouldn’t matter what became of ’em if they didn’t reach Germany.”
“Oh, I thought of that—but what you have told me bewilders me. Why should you run away with secrets of England—given you by a traitor who is about to pay the penalty with—with death? What does it mean? Why didn’t you take those papers at once to the War Office? Why did Captain Byfield give them to you? He—a traitor—to you—Cyril! It is all so horrible. I am frightened. Your danger—Rizzio’s men, here—tonight—all about us.”
“If they were English secret service men,” Cyril put in quietly, “wouldn’t they come here to this house and arrest me in the name of the law?”
“Yes. There must be other reasons why they can’t. What is the contest between you and Rizzio? Tell me. Tell me everything! I will believe you. Haven’t I kept your trust? If I could do that—for your sake—do you not think that I could keep silent for England’s sake?”
Her arms were about his neck, and her lips very close to his, but he turned his head away so that the temptation might not be too strong for him.
“I can’t,” he muttered, “I cannot speak—even to you. I am sworn to secrecy.”
She drooped upon his arms and then moved away despairingly. It was the failure of the appeal of her femininity that condemned him.
“Oh, you won’t let me believe in you. You won’t let me. It’s too great a test you’re asking of me. Everything is against you—but the worst witness is your silence!”
He stood by the mantel, his head lowered.
“It is hard for you—hard for us both,” he said softly, “but I can’t tell you anythin’—anythin’.” He raised his head and looked at her with pity. She had sunk upon the divan, her head upon her arms in a despair too deep for tears.
He crossed and laid his hand gently upon her shoulder.
“You must trust in me if you can. I will try to be worthy of it. That’s all I can say.” He paused. “And now you must go to bed. You’re a bit fagged. Perhaps in the mornin’ you’ll pull up a bit and see things differently.”
She straightened slowly and their eyes met for a moment. His never wavered, and she saw that they were very kind, but she rose silently and without offering him her lips or even her hand, moved slowly toward the door.
He reached it in a stride before her and put his hand upon the knob.
“There’s one thing more I’ve got to ask.”
Her look questioned.
“You must sleep in my room tonight, next to Betty’s. I shall sleep in yours.”
Her weary eyes sought his with an effort.
“You mean you think Rizzio—would still–?”
She paused.
“Yes, he thinks you would not give them to me.” And then, with a laugh, “You wouldn’t, you know.”
“And if I tell him I have burned them–”
“He will not believe you.”
“He would not believe me,” she repeated in a daze.
“You must do what I ask,” Cyril went on quietly. “I know what is best. I’ll arrange it with Betty.” He glanced at his watch. “One o’clock. By Jove! It’s time even for auction players.”
She promised him at last after a protest on his own account.
“Nothin’ to worry about,” he laughed. “They may not try anythin’, and when they find I’m there they’ll bundle out in a hurry.”
Thus reassured she went out to the drawing-room where the card players were just rising. Rizzio was nowhere to be seen. Cyril at once took their hostess aside and told her that Doris was a little upset by the shooting, asking if Betty would mind letting her take the room next to her own, so that she could open the door between.
“Don’t say anything about it, Betty,” he urged. “Just ask her in, won’t you, when you get upstairs.”
“And you?”
“I could do a turn on steel spikes,” he laughed.
“Your arm?”
“Right as rain. It’s nothing at all.”
Doris accepted the situation without a word. Indeed she was numbed with the fatigue of strained nerves. The swift rush of incident since Betty’s London dinner, with its rapid alternations of hope and fear, had left her bewildered and helpless. But it was the interview with Cyril tonight that had plunged her into the dark abyss of despair. She had tried so hard to believe in him, but he would do nothing to take away the weight that had been dragging her down further and further from the light. A new kind of love had come to her, born of the new Cyril who had won her over by the sheer force of a personality, the existence of which she had not dreamed. A short time ago she had wanted to see him awake—a firebrand—and she had had her wish, for she had kindled to his touch like tinder. But tonight, in her utter weariness, it seemed as though her spirit was charred, burnt to a cinder, like the package of papers in the grate in the gun-room, destroyed, as the secret message had been, in the great game that Cyril was playing.
She undressed slowly, listening for any sounds that might come from the room next door, but the only sign she had of him was the familiar smell of his pipe tobacco which came through the cracks and key-hole. A little later Betty Heathcote came in prepared for what she called a “back hair talk,” but found her guest so unresponsive that at last she went into her own room and bed. Doris lay for a while watching the line of light under Cyril’s door, wondering what he was doing and what the night was to bring forth. One memory persisted in the chaos of the night’s events. Cyril didn’t know the contents of the papers and yet he had commanded her to burn them. The thought quieted her, and at last she saw the light in his room go out, then, after a time, in spite of her weariness, she slept.
She awakened, trembling with terror, listening for she knew not what. And then as her wits slowly came to her, she was aware of the sounds which had awakened her. They were suppressed, secret, and strange, but none the less terrible, the shuffling of feet, hoarse whispers, and the creaking of straining furniture. She sat upright, slipped to the floor quickly, and, getting into the dressing-gown at the foot of the bed, stood for a moment in the middle of the room, her heart beating wildly. Then with quick resolution she moved swiftly to Betty Heathcote’s room and, after assuring herself that her hostess still slept, closed the door softly and passed the bolt.
Again she hesitated. The sounds from Cyril’s room continued, the hard breathing of men who seemed with one accord to be trying to keep their struggles silent. Aware of her danger, but considering it less than the physical need for immediate action, with trembling fingers she turned the key and quickly opened the door.
At first, silence, utter and profound, but full of a terror which a breath might reveal.
“Cyril! What is it?” she managed to whisper.
“Sh—” she heard. And dimly, in the pale moonlight, she made out the dark blur of figures upon the floor in the corner of the room.
“Cyril!” she repeated.
“It’s all right,” she heard in a breathless whisper. “Go back to your room. It’s nothin’.”
But having ventured thus far she did not hesitate, and closing the door behind her came forward. Upon the floor, half against the wall, was the figure of a man. Cyril was sitting on his legs and holding him with one hand by the neck cloth.
“You’re safe?” she whispered.
“Yes. Go back to bed. Don’t you understand—if anyone came–?”
“I don’t care.” Her curiosity had triumphed. She leaned forward and saw that it was John Rizzio.
“Rizzio!” she whispered. “My room!”
“I ought to kill him, Doris,” said Cyril savagely, “but I’ve only choked him a little. He’ll come around in a minute.” And then more quietly: “Get me a glass of water, but don’t make a fuss, and don’t make a light. There are men outside.”
She obeyed, and in a moment Rizzio revived and sat up, Cyril standing over him, his fist clenched.
“Oh, let him go, Cyril, please,” Doris pleaded.
At the sound of the girl’s voice Rizzio started and with Cyril’s help struggled to his feet.
“Yes, he’s going the way he came—by the window,” growled Hammersley. “Head first, if I have my way.”
Rizzio succeeded in a smile, though he was still struggling for breath.
“I suppose—I—I must thank you for your generosity, Hammersley,” he said with as fine a return of his composure as his throat permitted. “I have been guilty of—of an error in judgment–”
“I’m sorry you think it’s only that,” said Cyril dryly. “Now go,” he whispered threateningly, pointing to the window.
“In a moment—with your permission,” he said, recovering his suavity with his breath. “In extenuation of this visit, terrible as it seems to Miss Mather, I—I can only say that if I had succeeded I would have saved her from remembering some day that she had given England’s secrets into the hands of the enemy.”
“You’re mistaken,” said Doris quietly. “I have burned them.”
“You—you burned them?”
“Yes—tonight.”
Rizzio peered at her in silence for a long moment and then shrugged. “Oh,” he said, “in that case, I have made two errors in judgment–”
“You’ll make a third, if you’re not out of that window in half a second,” said Cyril.
But Rizzio laughed at him.
“I don’t think it would be wise to make a disturbance–” he said coolly. “I think Miss Mather will admit my generosity to herself and to you when I say that I’ve only to raise my voice and have half a dozen men up here in a moment.”
Doris clutched him fearfully by the arm, thinking of Cyril.
“You’d not do that–?”
Hammersley laughed dryly.
“There’s no danger,” he said.
“No,” returned Rizzio with a touch of his old magnificence. “There is no danger of that—the reasons are obvious.”
As he moved toward the window Hammersley touched him lightly on the arm.
“I warn you, Rizzio,” he said in a low concentrated tone, “that you’re playing a dangerous hand. I should punish you—but other agencies–”
Rizzio halted. “Yes, other agencies–” he replied significantly. He bowed in the girl’s direction and sitting on the window-sill he threw his feet outside. “I bid you good night.” And carefully feeling for his footing he slowly descended.
Cyril Hammersley followed him to the window, and Doris took a step in his direction, when her thinly slippered foot touched something in the wooden floor—something which slid upon the polished surface from the shadow into the moonlight. Instinctively she glanced down and then started—scarcely restraining a gasp. There, unmistakable in the shape and color for so many hours graven on her mind, was a yellow packet of Riz-la-Croix cigarette papers. She glanced at Cyril, who was closing the casement window, then stooped and, picking up the packet, fled noiselessly into her room and quickly locked the door.
