"MR STANDFAST\n\n\nby\n\nJOHN BUCHAN\n\n\n\n\n\n  TO THAT MOST GALLANT COMPANY\n  THE OFFICERS AND MEN\n  OF THE\n  SOUTH AFRICAN INFANTRY BRIGADE\n  on the Western Front\n\n\n\nCONTENTS\n\n\nPART I\n\n   1.  The Wicket-Gate\n   2.  'The Village Named Morality'\n   3.  The Reflections of a Cured Dyspeptic\n   4.  Andrew Amos\n   5.  Various Doings in the West\n   6.  The Skirts of the Coolin\n   7.  I Hear of the Wild Birds\n   8.  The Adventures of a Bagman\n   9.  I Take the Wings of a Dove\n  10.  The Advantages of an Air Raid\n  11.  The Valley of Humiliation\n\nPART II\n\n  12.  I Become a Combatant Once More\n  13.  The Adventure of the Picardy Chateau\n  14.  Mr Blenkiron Discourses on Love and War\n  15.  St Anton\n  16.  I Lie on a Hard Bed\n  17.  The Col of the Swallows\n  18.  The Underground Railway\n  19.  The Cage of the Wild Birds\n  20.  The Storm Breaks in the West\n  21.  How an Exile Returned to His Own People\n  22.  The Summons Comes for Mr Standfast\n\n\n\nNOTE\n\nThe earlier adventures of Richard Hannay, to which occasional reference\nis made in this narrative, are recounted in _The Thirty-Nine Steps_ and\n_Greenmantle_.\n\nJ.B.\n\n\n\n\n\nPART I\n\n\n\nCHAPTER ONE\n\nThe Wicket-Gate\n\nI spent one-third of my journey looking out of the window of a\nfirst-class carriage, the next in a local motor-car following the\ncourse of a trout stream in a shallow valley, and the last tramping\nover a ridge of downland through great beech-woods to my quarters for\nthe night. In the first part I was in an infamous temper; in the second\nI was worried and mystified; but the cool twilight of the third stage\ncalmed and heartened me, and I reached the gates of Fosse Manor with a\nmighty appetite and a quiet mind.\n\nAs we slipped up the Thames valley on the smooth Great Western line I\nhad reflected ruefully on the thorns in the path of duty. For more than\na year I had never been out of khaki, except the months I spent in\nhospital. They gave me my battalion before the Somme, and I came out of\nthat weary battle after the first big September fighting with a crack\nin my head and a D.S.O. I had received a C.B. for the Erzerum business,\nso what with these and my Matabele and South African medals and the\nLegion of Honour, I had a chest like the High Priest's breastplate. I\nrejoined in January, and got a brigade on the eve of Arras. There we\nhad a star turn, and took about as many prisoners as we put infantry\nover the top. After that we were hauled out for a month, and\nsubsequently planted in a bad bit on the Scarpe with a hint that we\nwould soon be used for a big push. Then suddenly I was ordered home to\nreport to the War Office, and passed on by them to Bullivant and his\nmerry men. So here I was sitting in a railway carriage in a grey tweed\nsuit, with a neat new suitcase on the rack labelled C.B. The initials\nstood for Cornelius Brand, for that was my name now. And an old boy in\nthe corner was asking me questions and wondering audibly why I wasn't\nfighting, while a young blood of a second lieutenant with a wound\nstripe was eyeing me with scorn.\n\nThe old chap was one of the cross-examining type, and after he had\nborrowed my matches he set to work to find out all about me. He was a\ntremendous fire-eater, and a bit of a pessimist about our slow progress\nin the west. I told him I came from South Africa and was a mining\nengineer.\n\n'Been fighting with Botha?' he asked.\n\n'No,' I said. 'I'm not the fighting kind.'\n\nThe second lieutenant screwed up his nose.\n\n'Is there no conscription in South Africa?'\n\n'Thank God there isn't,' I said, and the old fellow begged permission\nto tell me a lot of unpalatable things. I knew his kind and didn't give\nmuch for it. He was the sort who, if he had been under fifty, would\nhave crawled on his belly to his tribunal to get exempted, but being\nover age was able to pose as a patriot. But I didn't like the second\nlieutenant's grin, for he seemed a good class of lad. I looked steadily\nout of the window for the rest of the way, and wasn't sorry when I got\nto my station.\n\nI had had the queerest interview with Bullivant and Macgillivray. They\nasked me first if I was willing to serve again in the old game, and I\nsaid I was. I felt as bitter as sin, for I had got fixed in the\nmilitary groove, and had made good there. Here was I--a brigadier and\nstill under forty, and with another year of the war there was no saying\nwhere I might end. I had started out without any ambition, only a great\nwish to see the business finished. But now I had acquired a\nprofessional interest in the thing, I had a nailing good brigade, and I\nhad got the hang of our new kind of war as well as any fellow from\nSandhurst and Camberley. They were asking me to scrap all I had learned\nand start again in a new job. I had to agree, for discipline's\ndiscipline, but I could have knocked their heads together in my\nvexation.\n\nWhat was worse they wouldn't, or couldn't, tell me anything about what\nthey wanted me for. It was the old game of running me in blinkers. They\nasked me to take it on trust and put myself unreservedly in their\nhands. I would get my instructions later, they said.\n\nI asked if it was important.\n\nBullivant narrowed his eyes. 'If it weren't, do you suppose we could\nhave wrung an active brigadier out of the War Office? As it was, it was\nlike drawing teeth.'\n\n'Is it risky?' was my next question.\n\n'In the long run--damnably,' was the answer.\n\n'And you can't tell me anything more?'\n\n'Nothing as yet. You'll get your instructions soon enough. You know\nboth of us, Hannay, and you know we wouldn't waste the time of a good\nman on folly. We are going to ask you for something which will make a\nbig call on your patriotism. It will be a difficult and arduous task,\nand it may be a very grim one before you get to the end of it, but we\nbelieve you can do it, and that no one else can ... You know us pretty\nwell. Will you let us judge for you?'\n\nI looked at Bullivant's shrewd, kind old face and Macgillivray's steady\neyes. These men were my friends and wouldn't play with Me.\n\n'All right,' I said. 'I'm willing. What's the first step?'\n\n'Get out of uniform and forget you ever were a soldier. Change your\nname. Your old one, Cornelis Brandt, will do, but you'd better spell it\n\"Brand\" this time. Remember that you are an engineer just back from\nSouth Africa, and that you don't care a rush about the war. You can't\nunderstand what all the fools are fighting about, and you think we\nmight have peace at once by a little friendly business talk. You\nneedn't be pro-German--if you like you can be rather severe on the Hun.\nBut you must be in deadly earnest about a speedy peace.'\n\nI expect the corners of my mouth fell, for Bullivant burst out laughing.\n\n'Hang it all, man, it's not so difficult. I feel sometimes inclined to\nargue that way myself, when my dinner doesn't agree with me. It's not\nso hard as to wander round the Fatherland abusing Britain, which was\nyour last job.'\n\n'I'm ready,' I said. 'But I want to do one errand on my own first. I\nmust see a fellow in my brigade who is in a shell-shock hospital in the\nCotswolds. Isham's the name of the place.'\n\nThe two men exchanged glances. 'This looks like fate,' said Bullivant.\n'By all means go to Isham. The place where your work begins is only a\ncouple of miles off. I want you to spend next Thursday night as the\nguest of two maiden ladies called Wymondham at Fosse Manor. You will go\ndown there as a lone South African visiting a sick friend. They are\nhospitable souls and entertain many angels unawares.'\n\n'And I get my orders there?'\n\n'You get your orders, and you are under bond to obey them.' And\nBullivant and Macgillivray smiled at each other.\n\nI was thinking hard about that odd conversation as the small Ford car,\nwhich I had wired for to the inn, carried me away from the suburbs of\nthe county town into a land of rolling hills and green water-meadows.\nIt was a gorgeous afternoon and the blossom of early June was on every\ntree. But I had no eyes for landscape and the summer, being engaged in\nreprobating Bullivant and cursing my fantastic fate. I detested my new\npart and looked forward to naked shame. It was bad enough for anyone to\nhave to pose as a pacifist, but for me, strong as a bull and as\nsunburnt as a gipsy and not looking my forty years, it was a black\ndisgrace. To go into Germany as an anti-British Afrikander was a\nstoutish adventure, but to lounge about at home talking rot was a very\ndifferent-sized job. My stomach rose at the thought of it, and I had\npretty well decided to wire to Bullivant and cry off. There are some\nthings that no one has a right to ask of any white man.\n\nWhen I got to Isham and found poor old Blaikie I didn't feel happier.\nHe had been a friend of mine in Rhodesia, and after the German\nSouth-West affair was over had come home to a Fusilier battalion, which\nwas in my brigade at Arras. He had been buried by a big crump just\nbefore we got our second objective, and was dug out without a scratch\non him, but as daft as a hatter. I had heard he was mending, and had\npromised his family to look him up the first chance I got. I found him\nsitting on a garden seat, staring steadily before him like a lookout at\nsea. He knew me all right and cheered up for a second, but very soon he\nwas back at his staring, and every word he uttered was like the careful\nspeech of a drunken man. A bird flew out of a bush, and I could see him\nholding himself tight to keep from screaming. The best I could do was\nto put a hand on his shoulder and stroke him as one strokes a\nfrightened horse. The sight of the price my old friend had paid didn't\nput me in love with pacificism.\n\nWe talked of brother officers and South Africa, for I wanted to keep\nhis thoughts off the war, but he kept edging round to it.\n\n'How long will the damned thing last?' he asked.\n\n'Oh, it's practically over,' I lied cheerfully. 'No more fighting for\nyou and precious little for me. The Boche is done in all right ... What\nyou've got to do, my lad, is to sleep fourteen hours in the twenty-four\nand spend half the rest catching trout. We'll have a shot at the\ngrouse-bird together this autumn and we'll get some of the old gang to\njoin us.'\n\nSomeone put a tea-tray on the table beside us, and I looked up to see\nthe very prettiest girl I ever set eyes on. She seemed little more than\na child, and before the war would probably have still ranked as a\nflapper. She wore the neat blue dress and apron of a V.A.D. and her\nwhite cap was set on hair like spun gold. She smiled demurely as she\narranged the tea-things, and I thought I had never seen eyes at once so\nmerry and so grave. I stared after her as she walked across the lawn,\nand I remember noticing that she moved with the free grace of an\nathletic boy.\n\n'Who on earth's that?' I asked Blaikie.\n\n'That? Oh, one of the sisters,' he said listlessly. 'There are squads\nof them. I can't tell one from another.'\n\nNothing gave me such an impression of my friend's sickness as the fact\nthat he should have no interest in something so fresh and jolly as that\ngirl. Presently my time was up and I had to go, and as I looked back I\nsaw him sunk in his chair again, his eyes fixed on vacancy, and his\nhands gripping his knees.\n\nThe thought of him depressed me horribly. Here was I condemned to some\nrotten buffoonery in inglorious safety, while the salt of the earth\nlike Blaikie was paying the ghastliest price. From him my thoughts flew\nto old Peter Pienaar, and I sat down on a roadside wall and read his\nlast letter. It nearly made me howl. Peter, you must know, had shaved\nhis beard and joined the Royal Flying Corps the summer before when we\ngot back from the Greenmantle affair. That was the only kind of reward\nhe wanted, and, though he was absurdly over age, the authorities\nallowed it. They were wise not to stickle about rules, for Peter's\neyesight and nerve were as good as those of any boy of twenty. I knew\nhe would do well, but I was not prepared for his immediately blazing\nsuccess. He got his pilot's certificate in record time and went out to\nFrance; and presently even we foot-sloggers, busy shifting ground\nbefore the Somme, began to hear rumours of his doings. He developed a\nperfect genius for air-fighting. There were plenty better trick-flyers,\nand plenty who knew more about the science of the game, but there was\nno one with quite Peter's genius for an actual scrap. He was as full of\ndodges a couple of miles up in the sky as he had been among the rocks\nof the Berg. He apparently knew how to hide in the empty air as\ncleverly as in the long grass of the Lebombo Flats. Amazing yarns began\nto circulate among the infantry about this new airman, who could take\ncover below one plane of an enemy squadron while all the rest were\nlooking for him. I remember talking about him with the South Africans\nwhen we were out resting next door to them after the bloody Delville\nWood business. The day before we had seen a good battle in the clouds\nwhen the Boche plane had crashed, and a Transvaal machine-gun officer\nbrought the report that the British airman had been Pienaar. 'Well\ndone, the old _takhaar_!' he cried, and started to yarn about Peter's\nmethods. It appeared that Peter had a theory that every man has a blind\nspot, and that he knew just how to find that blind spot in the world of\nair. The best cover, he maintained, was not in cloud or a wisp of fog,\nbut in the unseeing patch in the eye of your enemy. I recognized that\ntalk for the real thing. It was on a par with Peter's doctrine of\n'atmosphere' and 'the double bluff' and all the other principles that\nhis queer old mind had cogitated out of his rackety life.\n\nBy the end of August that year Peter's was about the best-known figure\nin the Flying Corps. If the reports had mentioned names he would have\nbeen a national hero, but he was only 'Lieutenant Blank', and the\nnewspapers, which expatiated on his deeds, had to praise the Service\nand not the man. That was right enough, for half the magic of our\nFlying Corps was its freedom from advertisement. But the British Army\nknew all about him, and the men in the trenches used to discuss him as\nif he were a crack football-player. There was a very big German airman\ncalled Lensch, one of the Albatross heroes, who about the end of August\nclaimed to have destroyed thirty-two Allied machines. Peter had then\nonly seventeen planes to his credit, but he was rapidly increasing his\nscore. Lensch was a mighty man of valour and a good sportsman after his\nfashion. He was amazingly quick at manoeuvring his machine in the\nactual fight, but Peter was supposed to be better at forcing the kind\nof fight he wanted. Lensch, if you like, was the tactician and Peter\nthe strategist. Anyhow the two were out to get each other. There were\nplenty of fellows who saw the campaign as a struggle not between Hun\nand Briton, but between Lensch and Pienaar.\n\nThe 15th September came, and I got knocked out and went to hospital.\nWhen I was fit to read the papers again and receive letters, I found to\nmy consternation that Peter had been downed. It happened at the end of\nOctober when the southwest gales badly handicapped our airwork. When\nour bombing or reconnaissance jobs behind the enemy lines were\ncompleted, instead of being able to glide back into safety, we had to\nfight our way home slowly against a head-wind exposed to Archies and\nHun planes. Somewhere east of Bapaume on a return journey Peter fell in\nwith Lensch--at least the German Press gave Lensch the credit. His\npetrol tank was shot to bits and he was forced to descend in a wood\nnear Morchies. 'The celebrated British airman, Pinner,' in the words of\nthe German communique, was made prisoner.\n\nI had no letter from him till the beginning of the New Year, when I was\npreparing to return to France. It was a very contented letter. He\nseemed to have been fairly well treated, though he had always a low\nstandard of what he expected from the world in the way of comfort. I\ninferred that his captors had not identified in the brilliant airman\nthe Dutch miscreant who a year before had broken out of a German jail.\nHe had discovered the pleasures of reading and had perfected himself in\nan art which he had once practised indifferently. Somehow or other he\nhad got a _Pilgrim's Progress_, from which he seemed to extract\nenormous pleasure. And then at the end, quite casually, he mentioned\nthat he had been badly wounded and that his left leg would never be\nmuch use again.\n\nAfter that I got frequent letters, and I wrote to him every week and\nsent him every kind of parcel I could think of. His letters used to\nmake me both ashamed and happy. I had always banked on old Peter, and\nhere he was behaving like an early Christian martyr--never a word of\ncomplaint, and just as cheery as if it were a winter morning on the\nhigh veld and we were off to ride down springbok. I knew what the loss\nof a leg must mean to him, for bodily fitness had always been his\npride. The rest of life must have unrolled itself before him very drab\nand dusty to the grave. But he wrote as if he were on the top of his\nform and kept commiserating me on the discomforts of my job. The\npicture of that patient, gentle old fellow, hobbling about his compound\nand puzzling over his _Pilgrim's Progress_, a cripple for life after\nfive months of blazing glory, would have stiffened the back of a\njellyfish.\n\nThis last letter was horribly touching, for summer had come and the\nsmell of the woods behind his prison reminded Peter of a place in the\nWoodbush, and one could read in every sentence the ache of exile. I sat\non that stone wall and considered how trifling were the crumpled leaves\nin my bed of life compared with the thorns Peter and Blaikie had to lie\non. I thought of Sandy far off in Mesopotamia, and old Blenkiron\ngroaning with dyspepsia somewhere in America, and I considered that\nthey were the kind of fellows who did their jobs without complaining.\nThe result was that when I got up to go on I had recovered a manlier\ntemper. I wasn't going to shame my friends or pick and choose my duty.\nI would trust myself to Providence, for, as Blenkiron used to say,\nProvidence was all right if you gave him a chance.\n\nIt was not only Peter's letter that steadied and calmed me. Isham stood\nhigh up in a fold of the hills away from the main valley, and the road\nI was taking brought me over the ridge and back to the stream-side. I\nclimbed through great beechwoods, which seemed in the twilight like\nsome green place far below the sea, and then over a short stretch of\nhill pasture to the rim of the vale. All about me were little fields\nenclosed with walls of grey stone and full of dim sheep. Below were\ndusky woods around what I took to be Fosse Manor, for the great Roman\nFosse Way, straight as an arrow, passed over the hills to the south and\nskirted its grounds. I could see the stream slipping among its\nwater-meadows and could hear the plash of the weir. A tiny village\nsettled in a crook of the hill, and its church-tower sounded seven with\na curiously sweet chime. Otherwise there was no noise but the twitter\nof small birds and the night wind in the tops of the beeches.\n\nIn that moment I had a kind of revelation. I had a vision of what I had\nbeen fighting for, what we all were fighting for. It was peace, deep\nand holy and ancient, peace older than the oldest wars, peace which\nwould endure when all our swords were hammered into ploughshares. It\nwas more; for in that hour England first took hold of me. Before my\ncountry had been South Africa, and when I thought of home it had been\nthe wide sun-steeped spaces of the veld or some scented glen of the\nBerg. But now I realized that I had a new home. I understood what a\nprecious thing this little England was, how old and kindly and\ncomforting, how wholly worth striving for. The freedom of an acre of\nher soil was cheaply bought by the blood of the best of us. I knew what\nit meant to be a poet, though for the life of me I could not have made\na line of verse. For in that hour I had a prospect as if from a hilltop\nwhich made all the present troubles of the road seem of no account. I\nsaw not only victory after war, but a new and happier world after\nvictory, when I should inherit something of this English peace and wrap\nmyself in it till the end of my days.\n\nVery humbly and quietly, like a man walking through a cathedral, I went\ndown the hill to the Manor lodge, and came to a door in an old\nred-brick facade, smothered in magnolias which smelt like hot lemons in\nthe June dusk. The car from the inn had brought on my baggage, and\npresently I was dressing in a room which looked out on a water-garden.\nFor the first time for more than a year I put on a starched shirt and a\ndinner-jacket, and as I dressed I could have sung from pure\nlightheartedness. I was in for some arduous job, and sometime that\nevening in that place I should get my marching orders. Someone would\narrive--perhaps Bullivant--and read me the riddle. But whatever it was,\nI was ready for it, for my whole being had found a new purpose. Living\nin the trenches, you are apt to get your horizon narrowed down to the\nfront line of enemy barbed wire on one side and the nearest rest\nbillets on the other. But now I seemed to see beyond the fog to a happy\ncountry.\n\nHigh-pitched voices greeted my ears as I came down the broad staircase,\nvoices which scarcely accorded with the panelled walls and the austere\nfamily portraits; and when I found my hostesses in the hall I thought\ntheir looks still less in keeping with the house. Both ladies were on\nthe wrong side of forty, but their dress was that of young girls. Miss\nDoria Wymondham was tall and thin with a mass of nondescript pale hair\nconfined by a black velvet fillet. Miss Claire Wymondham was shorter\nand plumper and had done her best by ill-applied cosmetics to make\nherself look like a foreign _demi-mondaine_. They greeted me with the\nfriendly casualness which I had long ago discovered was the right\nEnglish manner towards your guests; as if they had just strolled in and\nbilleted themselves, and you were quite glad to see them but mustn't be\nasked to trouble yourself further. The next second they were cooing\nlike pigeons round a picture which a young man was holding up in the\nlamplight.\n\nHe was a tallish, lean fellow of round about thirty years, wearing grey\nflannels and shoes dusty from the country roads. His thin face was\nsallow as if from living indoors, and he had rather more hair on his\nhead than most of us. In the glow of the lamp his features were very\nclear, and I examined them with interest, for, remember, I was\nexpecting a stranger to give me orders. He had a long, rather strong\nchin and an obstinate mouth with peevish lines about its corners. But\nthe remarkable feature was his eyes. I can best describe them by saying\nthat they looked hot--not fierce or angry, but so restless that they\nseemed to ache physically and to want sponging with cold water.\n\nThey finished their talk about the picture--which was couched in a\njargon of which I did not understand one word--and Miss Doria turned to\nme and the young man.\n\n'My cousin Launcelot Wake--Mr Brand.'\n\nWe nodded stiffly and Mr Wake's hand went up to smooth his hair in a\nself-conscious gesture.\n\n'Has Barnard announced dinner? By the way, where is Mary?'\n\n'She came in five minutes ago and I sent her to change,' said Miss\nClaire. 'I won't have her spoiling the evening with that horrid\nuniform. She may masquerade as she likes out-of-doors, but this house\nis for civilized people.'\n\nThe butler appeared and mumbled something. 'Come along,' cried Miss\nDoria, 'for I'm sure you are starving, Mr Brand. And Launcelot has\nbicycled ten miles.'\n\nThe dining-room was very unlike the hall. The panelling had been\nstripped off, and the walls and ceiling were covered with a dead-black\nsatiny paper on which hung the most monstrous pictures in large\ndull-gold frames. I could only see them dimly, but they seemed to be a\nmere riot of ugly colour. The young man nodded towards them. 'I see you\nhave got the Degousses hung at last,' he said.\n\n'How exquisite they are!' cried Miss Claire. 'How subtle and candid and\nbrave! Doria and I warm our souls at their flame.'\n\nSome aromatic wood had been burned in the room, and there was a queer\nsickly scent about. Everything in that place was strained and uneasy\nand abnormal--the candle shades on the table, the mass of faked china\nfruit in the centre dish, the gaudy hangings and the nightmarish walls.\nBut the food was magnificent. It was the best dinner I had eaten since\n1914.\n\n'Tell me, Mr Brand,' said Miss Doria, her long white face propped on a\nmuch-beringed hand. 'You are one of us? You are in revolt against this\ncrazy war?'\n\n'Why, yes,' I said, remembering my part. 'I think a little common-sense\nwould settle it right away.'\n\n'With a little common-sense it would never have started,' said Mr Wake.\n\n'Launcelot's a C.O., you know,' said Miss Doria.\n\nI did not know, for he did not look any kind of soldier ... I was just\nabout to ask him what he commanded, when I remembered that the letters\nstood also for 'Conscientious Objector,' and stopped in time.\n\nAt that moment someone slipped into the vacant seat on my right hand. I\nturned and saw the V.A.D. girl who had brought tea to Blaikie that\nafternoon at the hospital.\n\n'He was exempted by his Department,' the lady went on, 'for he's a\nCivil Servant, and so he never had a chance of testifying in court, but\nno one has done better work for our cause. He is on the committee of\nthe L.D.A., and questions have been asked about him in Parliament.'\n\nThe man was not quite comfortable at this biography. He glanced\nnervously at me and was going to begin some kind of explanation, when\nMiss Doria cut him short. 'Remember our rule, Launcelot. No turgid war\ncontroversy within these walls.'\n\nI agreed with her. The war had seemed closely knit to the Summer\nlandscape for all its peace, and to the noble old chambers of the\nManor. But in that demented modish dining-room it was shriekingly\nincongruous.\n\nThen they spoke of other things. Mostly of pictures or common friends,\nand a little of books. They paid no heed to me, which was fortunate,\nfor I know nothing about these matters and didn't understand half the\nlanguage. But once Miss Doria tried to bring me in. They were talking\nabout some Russian novel--a name like Leprous Souls--and she asked me\nif I had read it. By a curious chance I had. It had drifted somehow\ninto our dug-out on the Scarpe, and after we had all stuck in the\nsecond chapter it had disappeared in the mud to which it naturally\nbelonged. The lady praised its 'poignancy' and 'grave beauty'. I\nassented and congratulated myself on my second escape--for if the\nquestion had been put to me I should have described it as God-forgotten\ntwaddle.\n\nI turned to the girl, who welcomed me with a smile. I had thought her\npretty in her V.A.D. dress, but now, in a filmy black gown and with her\nhair no longer hidden by a cap, she was the most ravishing thing you\never saw. And I observed something else. There was more than good looks\nin her young face. Her broad, low brow and her laughing eyes were\namazingly intelligent. She had an uncanny power of making her eyes go\nsuddenly grave and deep, like a glittering river narrowing into a pool.\n\n'We shall never be introduced,' she said, 'so let me reveal myself. I'm\nMary Lamington and these are my aunts ... Did you really like Leprous\nSouls?'\n\nIt was easy enough to talk to her. And oddly enough her mere presence\ntook away the oppression I had felt in that room. For she belonged to\nthe out-of-doors and to the old house and to the world at large. She\nbelonged to the war, and to that happier world beyond it--a world which\nmust be won by going through the struggle and not by shirking it, like\nthose two silly ladies.\n\nI could see Wake's eyes often on the girl, while he boomed and\noraculated and the Misses Wymondham prattled. Presently the\nconversation seemed to leave the flowery paths of art and to verge\nperilously near forbidden topics. He began to abuse our generals in the\nfield. I could not choose but listen. Miss Lamington's brows were\nslightly bent, as if in disapproval, and my own temper began to rise.\n\nHe had every kind of idiotic criticism--incompetence,\nfaint-heartedness, corruption. Where he got the stuff I can't imagine,\nfor the most grousing Tommy, with his leave stopped, never put together\nsuch balderdash. Worst of all he asked me to agree with him.\n\nIt took all my sense of discipline. 'I don't know much about the\nsubject,' I said, 'but out in South Africa I did hear that the British\nleading was the weak point. I expect there's a good deal in what you\nsay.'\n\nIt may have been fancy, but the girl at my side seemed to whisper 'Well\ndone!'\n\nWake and I did not remain long behind before joining the ladies; I\npurposely cut it short, for I was in mortal fear lest I should lose my\ntemper and spoil everything. I stood up with my back against the\nmantelpiece for as long as a man may smoke a cigarette, and I let him\nyarn to me, while I looked steadily at his face. By this time I was\nvery clear that Wake was not the fellow to give me my instructions. He\nwasn't playing a game. He was a perfectly honest crank, but not a\nfanatic, for he wasn't sure of himself. He had somehow lost his\nself-respect and was trying to argue himself back into it. He had\nconsiderable brains, for the reasons he gave for differing from most of\nhis countrymen were good so far as they went. I shouldn't have cared to\ntake him on in public argument. If you had told me about such a fellow\na week before I should have been sick at the thought of him. But now I\ndidn't dislike him. I was bored by him and I was also tremendously\nsorry for him. You could see he was as restless as a hen.\n\nWhen we went back to the hall he announced that he must get on the\nroad, and commandeered Miss Lamington to help him find his bicycle. It\nappeared he was staying at an inn a dozen miles off for a couple of\ndays' fishing, and the news somehow made me like him better. Presently\nthe ladies of the house departed to bed for their beauty sleep and I\nwas left to my own devices.\n\nFor some time I sat smoking in the hall wondering when the messenger\nwould arrive. It was getting late and there seemed to be no preparation\nin the house to receive anybody. The butler came in with a tray of\ndrinks and I asked him if he expected another guest that night.\n\n'I 'adn't 'eard of it, sir,' was his answer. 'There 'asn't been a\ntelegram that I know of, and I 'ave received no instructions.'\n\nI lit my pipe and sat for twenty minutes reading a weekly paper. Then I\ngot up and looked at the family portraits. The moon coming through the\nlattice invited me out-of-doors as a cure for my anxiety. It was after\neleven o'clock, and I was still without any knowledge of my next step.\nIt is a maddening business to be screwed up for an unpleasant job and\nto have the wheels of the confounded thing tarry.\n\nOutside the house beyond a flagged terrace the lawn fell away, white in\nthe moonshine, to the edge of the stream, which here had expanded into\na miniature lake. By the water's edge was a little formal garden with\ngrey stone parapets which now gleamed like dusky marble. Great wafts of\nscent rose from it, for the lilacs were scarcely over and the may was\nin full blossom. Out from the shade of it came suddenly a voice like a\nnightingale.\n\nIt was singing the old song 'Cherry Ripe', a common enough thing which\nI had chiefly known from barrel-organs. But heard in the scented\nmoonlight it seemed to hold all the lingering magic of an elder England\nand of this hallowed countryside. I stepped inside the garden bounds\nand saw the head of the girl Mary.\n\nShe was conscious of my presence, for she turned towards me.\n\n'I was coming to look for you,' she said, 'now that the house is quiet.\nI have something to say to you, General Hannay.'\n\nShe knew my name and must be somehow in the business. The thought\nentranced me.\n\n'Thank God I can speak to you freely,' I cried. 'Who and what are\nyou--living in that house in that kind of company?'\n\n'My good aunts!' She laughed softly. 'They talk a great deal about\ntheir souls, but they really mean their nerves. Why, they are what you\ncall my camouflage, and a very good one too.'\n\n'And that cadaverous young prig?'\n\n'Poor Launcelot! Yes--camouflage too--perhaps something a little more.\nYou must not judge him too harshly.'\n\n'But ... but--' I did not know how to put it, and stammered in my\neagerness. 'How can I tell that you are the right person for me to\nspeak to? You see I am under orders, and I have got none about you.'\n\n'I will give You Proof,' she said. 'Three days ago Sir Walter Bullivant\nand Mr Macgillivray told you to come here tonight and to wait here for\nfurther instructions. You met them in the little smoking-room at the\nback of the Rota Club. You were bidden take the name of Cornelius\nBrand, and turn yourself from a successful general into a pacifist\nSouth African engineer. Is that correct?'\n\n'Perfectly.'\n\n'You have been restless all evening looking for the messenger to give\nyou these instructions. Set your mind at ease. No messenger is coming.\nYou will get your orders from me.'\n\n'I could not take them from a more welcome source,' I said.\n\n'Very prettily put. If you want further credentials I can tell you much\nabout your own doings in the past three years. I can explain to you who\ndon't need the explanation, every step in the business of the Black\nStone. I think I could draw a pretty accurate map of your journey to\nErzerum. You have a letter from Peter Pienaar in your pocket--I can\ntell you its contents. Are you willing to trust me?'\n\n'With all my heart,' I said.\n\n'Good. Then my first order will try you pretty hard. For I have no\norders to give you except to bid you go and steep yourself in a\nparticular kind of life. Your first duty is to get \"atmosphere\", as\nyour friend Peter used to say. Oh, I will tell you where to go and how\nto behave. But I can't bid you do anything, only live idly with open\neyes and ears till you have got the \"feel\" of the situation.'\n\nShe stopped and laid a hand on my arm.\n\n'It won't be easy. It would madden me, and it will be a far heavier\nburden for a man like you. You have got to sink down deep into the life\nof the half-baked, the people whom this war hasn't touched or has\ntouched in the wrong way, the people who split hairs all day and are\nengrossed in what you and I would call selfish little fads. Yes. People\nlike my aunts and Launcelot, only for the most part in a different\nsocial grade. You won't live in an old manor like this, but among\ngimcrack little \"arty\" houses. You will hear everything you regard as\nsacred laughed at and condemned, and every kind of nauseous folly\nacclaimed, and you must hold your tongue and pretend to agree. You will\nhave nothing in the world to do except to let the life soak into you,\nand, as I have said, keep your eyes and ears open.'\n\n'But you must give me some clue as to what I should be looking for?'\n\n'My orders are to give you none. Our chiefs--yours and mine--want you\nto go where you are going without any kind of _parti pris_. Remember we\nare still in the intelligence stage of the affair. The time hasn't yet\ncome for a plan of campaign, and still less for action.'\n\n'Tell me one thing,' I said. 'Is it a really big thing we're after?'\n\n'A--really--big--thing,' she said slowly and very gravely. 'You and I\nand some hundred others are hunting the most dangerous man in all the\nworld. Till we succeed everything that Britain does is crippled. If we\nfail or succeed too late the Allies may never win the victory which is\ntheir right. I will tell you one thing to cheer you. It is in some sort\na race against time, so your purgatory won't endure too long.'\n\nI was bound to obey, and she knew it, for she took my willingness for\ngranted.\n\nFrom a little gold satchel she selected a tiny box, and opening it\nextracted a thing like a purple wafer with a white St Andrew's Cross on\nit.\n\n'What kind of watch have you? Ah, a hunter. Paste that inside the lid.\nSome day you may be called on to show it ... One other thing. Buy\ntomorrow a copy of the _Pilgrim's Progress_ and get it by heart. You\nwill receive letters and messages some day and the style of our friends\nis apt to be reminiscent of John Bunyan ... The car will be at the door\ntomorrow to catch the ten-thirty, and I will give you the address of\nthe rooms that have been taken for you ... Beyond that I have nothing\nto say, except to beg you to play the part well and keep your temper.\nYou behaved very nicely at dinner.'\n\nI asked one last question as we said good night in the hall. 'Shall I\nsee you again?'\n\n'Soon, and often,' was the answer. 'Remember we are colleagues.'\n\nI went upstairs feeling extraordinarily comforted. I had a perfectly\nbeastly time ahead of me, but now it was all glorified and coloured\nwith the thought of the girl who had sung 'Cherry Ripe' in the garden.\nI commended the wisdom of that old serpent Bullivant in the choice of\nhis intermediary, for I'm hanged if I would have taken such orders from\nanyone else.\n\n\n\nCHAPTER TWO\n\n'The Village Named Morality'\n\nUP on the high veld our rivers are apt to be strings of pools linked by\nmuddy trickles--the most stagnant kind of watercourse you would look\nfor in a day's journey. But presently they reach the edge of the\nplateau and are tossed down into the flats in noble ravines, and roll\nthereafter in full and sounding currents to the sea. So with the story\nI am telling. It began in smooth reaches, as idle as a mill-pond; yet\nthe day soon came when I was in the grip of a torrent, flung breathless\nfrom rock to rock by a destiny which I could not control. But for the\npresent I was in a backwater, no less than the Garden City of\nBiggleswick, where Mr Cornelius Brand, a South African gentleman\nvisiting England on holiday, lodged in a pair of rooms in the cottage\nof Mr Tancred Jimson.\n\nThe house--or 'home' as they preferred to name it at Biggleswick--was\none of some two hundred others which ringed a pleasant Midland common.\nIt was badly built and oddly furnished; the bed was too short, the\nwindows did not fit, the doors did not stay shut; but it was as clean\nas soap and water and scrubbing could make it. The three-quarters of an\nacre of garden were mainly devoted to the culture of potatoes, though\nunder the parlour window Mrs Jimson had a plot of sweet-smelling herbs,\nand lines of lank sunflowers fringed the path that led to the front\ndoor. It was Mrs Jimson who received me as I descended from the station\nfly--a large red woman with hair bleached by constant exposure to\nweather, clad in a gown which, both in shape and material, seemed to\nhave been modelled on a chintz curtain. She was a good kindly soul, and\nas proud as Punch of her house.\n\n'We follow the simple life here, Mr Brand,' she said. 'You must take us\nas you find us.'\n\nI assured her that I asked for nothing better, and as I unpacked in my\nfresh little bedroom with a west wind blowing in at the window I\nconsidered that I had seen worse quarters.\n\nI had bought in London a considerable number of books, for I thought\nthat, as I would have time on my hands, I might as well do something\nabout my education. They were mostly English classics, whose names I\nknew but which I had never read, and they were all in a little\nflat-backed series at a shilling apiece. I arranged them on top of a\nchest of drawers, but I kept the _Pilgrim's Progress_ beside my bed,\nfor that was one of my working tools and I had got to get it by heart.\n\nMrs Jimson, who came in while I was unpacking to see if the room was to\nmy liking, approved my taste. At our midday dinner she wanted to\ndiscuss books with me, and was so full of her own knowledge that I was\nable to conceal my ignorance.\n\n'We are all labouring to express our personalities,' she informed me.\n'Have you found your medium, Mr Brand? is it to be the pen or the\npencil? Or perhaps it is music? You have the brow of an artist, the\nfrontal \"bar of Michelangelo\", you remember!'\n\nI told her that I concluded I would try literature, but before writing\nanything I would read a bit more.\n\nIt was a Saturday, so Jimson came back from town in the early\nafternoon. He was a managing clerk in some shipping office, but you\nwouldn't have guessed it from his appearance. His city clothes were\nloose dark-grey flannels, a soft collar, an orange tie, and a soft\nblack hat. His wife went down the road to meet him, and they returned\nhand-in-hand, swinging their arms like a couple of schoolchildren. He\nhad a skimpy red beard streaked with grey, and mild blue eyes behind\nstrong glasses. He was the most friendly creature in the world, full of\nrapid questions, and eager to make me feel one of the family. Presently\nhe got into a tweed Norfolk jacket, and started to cultivate his\ngarden. I took off my coat and lent him a hand, and when he stopped to\nrest from his labours--which was every five minutes, for he had no kind\nof physique--he would mop his brow and rub his spectacles and declaim\nabout the good smell of the earth and the joy of getting close to\nNature.\n\nOnce he looked at my big brown hands and muscular arms with a kind of\nwistfulness. 'You are one of the doers, Mr Brand,' he said, 'and I\ncould find it in my heart to envy you. You have seen Nature in wild\nforms in far countries. Some day I hope you will tell us about your\nlife. I must be content with my little corner, but happily there are no\nterritorial limits for the mind. This modest dwelling is a watch-tower\nfrom which I look over all the world.'\n\nAfter that he took me for a walk. We met parties of returning\ntennis-players and here and there a golfer. There seemed to be an\nabundance of young men, mostly rather weedy-looking, but with one or\ntwo well-grown ones who should have been fighting. The names of some of\nthem Jimson mentioned with awe. An unwholesome youth was Aronson, the\ngreat novelist; a sturdy, bristling fellow with a fierce moustache was\nLetchford, the celebrated leader-writer of the Critic. Several were\npointed out to me as artists who had gone one better than anybody else,\nand a vast billowy creature was described as the leader of the new\nOrientalism in England. I noticed that these people, according to\nJimson, were all 'great', and that they all dabbled in something 'new'.\nThere were quantities of young women, too, most of them rather badly\ndressed and inclining to untidy hair. And there were several decent\ncouples taking the air like house-holders of an evening all the world\nOver. Most of these last were Jimson's friends, to whom he introduced\nme. They were his own class--modest folk, who sought for a coloured\nbackground to their prosaic city lives and found it in this odd\nsettlement.\n\nAt supper I was initiated into the peculiar merits of Biggleswick.\n\n'It is one great laboratory of thought,' said Mrs Jimson. 'It is\nglorious to feel that you are living among the eager, vital people who\nare at the head of all the newest movements, and that the intellectual\nhistory of England is being made in our studies and gardens. The war to\nus seems a remote and secondary affair. As someone has said, the great\nfights of the world are all fought in the mind.'\n\nA spasm of pain crossed her husband's face. 'I wish I could feel it far\naway. After all, Ursula, it is the sacrifice of the young that gives\npeople like us leisure and peace to think. Our duty is to do the best\nwhich is permitted to us, but that duty is a poor thing compared with\nwhat our young soldiers are giving! I may be quite wrong about the war\n... I know I can't argue with Letchford. But I will not pretend to a\nsuperiority I do not feel.'\n\nI went to bed feeling that in Jimson I had struck a pretty sound\nfellow. As I lit the candles on my dressing-table I observed that the\nstack of silver which I had taken out of my pockets when I washed\nbefore supper was top-heavy. It had two big coins at the top and\nsixpences and shillings beneath. Now it is one of my oddities that ever\nsince I was a small boy I have arranged my loose coins symmetrically,\nwith the smallest uppermost. That made me observant and led me to\nnotice a second point. The English classics on the top of the chest of\ndrawers were not in the order I had left them. Izaak Walton had got to\nthe left of Sir Thomas Browne, and the poet Burns was wedged\ndisconsolately between two volumes of Hazlitt. Moreover a receipted\nbill which I had stuck in the _Pilgrim's Progress_ to mark my place had\nbeen moved. Someone had been going through my belongings.\n\nA moment's reflection convinced me that it couldn't have been Mrs\nJimson. She had no servant and did the housework herself, but my things\nhad been untouched when I left the room before supper, for she had come\nto tidy up before I had gone downstairs. Someone had been here while we\nwere at supper, and had examined elaborately everything I possessed.\nHappily I had little luggage, and no papers save the new books and a\nbill or two in the name of Cornelius Brand. The inquisitor, whoever he\nwas, had found nothing ... The incident gave me a good deal of comfort.\nIt had been hard to believe that any mystery could exist in this public\nplace, where people lived brazenly in the open, and wore their hearts\non their sleeves and proclaimed their opinions from the rooftops. Yet\nmystery there must be, or an inoffensive stranger with a kit-bag would\nnot have received these strange attentions. I made a practice after\nthat of sleeping with my watch below my pillow, for inside the case was\nMary Lamington's label. Now began a period of pleasant idle\nreceptiveness. Once a week it was my custom to go up to London for the\nday to receive letters and instructions, if any should come. I had\nmoved from my chambers in Park Lane, which I leased under my proper\nname, to a small flat in Westminster taken in the name of Cornelius\nBrand. The letters addressed to Park Lane were forwarded to Sir Walter,\nwho sent them round under cover to my new address. For the rest I used\nto spend my mornings reading in the garden, and I discovered for the\nfirst time what a pleasure was to be got from old books. They recalled\nand amplified that vision I had seen from the Cotswold ridge, the\nrevelation of the priceless heritage which is England. I imbibed a\nmighty quantity of history, but especially I liked the writers, like\nWalton, who got at the very heart of the English countryside. Soon,\ntoo, I found the _Pilgrim's Progress_ not a duty but a delight. I\ndiscovered new jewels daily in the honest old story, and my letters to\nPeter began to be as full of it as Peter's own epistles. I loved, also,\nthe songs of the Elizabethans, for they reminded me of the girl who had\nsung to me in the June night.\n\nIn the afternoons I took my exercise in long tramps along the good\ndusty English roads. The country fell away from Biggleswick into a\nplain of wood and pasture-land, with low hills on the horizon. The\nPlace was sown with villages, each with its green and pond and ancient\nchurch. Most, too, had inns, and there I had many a draught of cool\nnutty ale, for the inn at Biggleswick was a reformed place which sold\nnothing but washy cider. Often, tramping home in the dusk, I was so\nmuch in love with the land that I could have sung with the pure joy of\nit. And in the evening, after a bath, there would be supper, when a\nrather fagged Jimson struggled between sleep and hunger, and the lady,\nwith an artistic mutch on her untidy head, talked ruthlessly of culture.\n\nBit by bit I edged my way into local society. The Jimsons were a great\nhelp, for they were popular and had a nodding acquaintance with most of\nthe inhabitants. They regarded me as a meritorious aspirant towards a\nhigher life, and I was paraded before their friends with the suggestion\nof a vivid, if Philistine, past. If I had any gift for writing, I would\nmake a book about the inhabitants of Biggleswick. About half were\nrespectable citizens who came there for country air and low rates, but\neven these had a touch of queerness and had picked up the jargon of the\nplace. The younger men were mostly Government clerks or writers or\nartists. There were a few widows with flocks of daughters, and on the\noutskirts were several bigger houses--mostly houses which had been\nthere before the garden city was planted. One of them was brand-new, a\nstaring villa with sham-antique timbering, stuck on the top of a hill\namong raw gardens. It belonged to a man called Moxon Ivery, who was a\nkind of academic pacificist and a great god in the place. Another, a\nquiet Georgian manor house, was owned by a London publisher, an ardent\nLiberal whose particular branch of business compelled him to keep in\ntouch with the new movements. I used to see him hurrying to the station\nswinging a little black bag and returning at night with the fish for\ndinner.\n\nI soon got to know a surprising lot of people, and they were the\nrummiest birds you can imagine. For example, there were the Weekeses,\nthree girls who lived with their mother in a house so artistic that you\nbroke your head whichever way you turned in it. The son of the family\nwas a conscientious objector who had refused to do any sort of work\nwhatever, and had got quodded for his pains. They were immensely proud\nof him and used to relate his sufferings in Dartmoor with a gusto which\nI thought rather heartless. Art was their great subject, and I am\nafraid they found me pretty heavy going. It was their fashion never to\nadmire anything that was obviously beautiful, like a sunset or a pretty\nwoman, but to find surprising loveliness in things which I thought\nhideous. Also they talked a language that was beyond me. This kind of\nconversation used to happen.--MISS WEEKES: 'Don't you admire Ursula\nJimson?' SELF: 'Rather!' MISS W.: 'She is so John-esque in her lines.'\nSELF: 'Exactly!' MISS W.: 'And Tancred, too--he is so full of nuances.'\nSELF: 'Rather!' MISS W.: 'He suggests one of Degousse's countrymen.'\nSELF: 'Exactly!'\n\nThey hadn't much use for books, except some Russian ones, and I\nacquired merit in their eyes for having read Leprous Souls. If you\ntalked to them about that divine countryside, you found they didn't\ngive a rap for it and had never been a mile beyond the village. But\nthey admired greatly the sombre effect of a train going into Marylebone\nstation on a rainy day.\n\nBut it was the men who interested me most. Aronson, the novelist,\nproved on acquaintance the worst kind of blighter. He considered\nhimself a genius whom it was the duty of the country to support, and he\nsponged on his wretched relatives and anyone who would lend him money.\nHe was always babbling about his sins, and pretty squalid they were. I\nshould like to have flung him among a few good old-fashioned\nfull-blooded sinners of my acquaintance; they would have scared him\nconsiderably. He told me that he sought 'reality' and 'life' and\n'truth', but it was hard to see how he could know much about them, for\nhe spent half the day in bed smoking cheap cigarettes, and the rest\nsunning himself in the admiration of half-witted girls. The creature\nwas tuberculous in mind and body, and the only novel of his I read,\npretty well turned my stomach. Mr Aronson's strong point was jokes\nabout the war. If he heard of any acquaintance who had joined up or was\neven doing war work his merriment knew no bounds. My fingers used to\nitch to box the little wretch's ears.\n\nLetchford was a different pair of shoes. He was some kind of a man, to\nbegin with, and had an excellent brain and the worst manners\nconceivable. He contradicted everything you said, and looked out for an\nargument as other people look for their dinner. He was a\ndouble-engined, high-speed pacificist, because he was the kind of\ncantankerous fellow who must always be in a minority. If Britain had\nstood out of the war he would have been a raving militarist, but since\nshe was in it he had got to find reasons why she was wrong. And jolly\ngood reasons they were, too. I couldn't have met his arguments if I had\nwanted to, so I sat docilely at his feet. The world was all crooked for\nLetchford, and God had created him with two left hands. But the fellow\nhad merits. He had a couple of jolly children whom he adored, and he\nwould walk miles with me on a Sunday, and spout poetry about the beauty\nand greatness of England. He was forty-five; if he had been thirty and\nin my battalion I could have made a soldier out of him.\n\nThere were dozens more whose names I have forgotten, but they had one\ncommon characteristic. They were puffed up with spiritual pride, and I\nused to amuse myself with finding their originals in the _Pilgrim's\nProgress_. When I tried to judge them by the standard of old Peter,\nthey fell woefully short. They shut out the war from their lives, some\nout of funk, some out of pure levity of mind, and some because they\nwere really convinced that the thing was all wrong. I think I grew\nrather popular in my role of the seeker after truth, the honest\ncolonial who was against the war by instinct and was looking for\ninstruction in the matter. They regarded me as a convert from an alien\nworld of action which they secretly dreaded, though they affected to\ndespise it. Anyhow they talked to me very freely, and before long I had\nall the pacifist arguments by heart. I made out that there were three\nschools. One objected to war altogether, and this had few adherents\nexcept Aronson and Weekes, C.O., now languishing in Dartmoor. The\nsecond thought that the Allies' cause was tainted, and that Britain had\ncontributed as much as Germany to the catastrophe. This included all\nthe adherents of the L.D.A.--or League of Democrats against\nAggression--a very proud body. The third and much the largest, which\nembraced everybody else, held that we had fought long enough and that\nthe business could now be settled by negotiation, since Germany had\nlearned her lesson. I was myself a modest member of the last school,\nbut I was gradually working my way up to the second, and I hoped with\nluck to qualify for the first. My acquaintances approved my progress.\nLetchford said I had a core of fanaticism in my slow nature, and that I\nwould end by waving the red flag.\n\nSpiritual pride and vanity, as I have said, were at the bottom of most\nof them, and, try as I might, I could find nothing very dangerous in it\nall. This vexed me, for I began to wonder if the mission which I had\nembarked on so solemnly were not going to be a fiasco. Sometimes they\nworried me beyond endurance. When the news of Messines came nobody took\nthe slightest interest, while I was aching to tooth every detail of the\ngreat fight. And when they talked on military affairs, as Letchford and\nothers did sometimes, it was difficult to keep from sending them all to\nthe devil, for their amateur cocksureness would have riled Job. One had\ngot to batten down the recollection of our fellows out there who were\nsweating blood to keep these fools snug. Yet I found it impossible to\nbe angry with them for long, they were so babyishly innocent. Indeed, I\ncouldn't help liking them, and finding a sort of quality in them. I had\nspent three years among soldiers, and the British regular, great follow\nthat he is, has his faults. His discipline makes him in a funk of\nred-tape and any kind of superior authority. Now these people were\nquite honest and in a perverted way courageous. Letchford was, at any\nrate. I could no more have done what he did and got hunted off\nplatforms by the crowd and hooted at by women in the streets than I\ncould have written his leading articles.\n\nAll the same I was rather low about my job. Barring the episode of the\nransacking of my effects the first night, I had not a suspicion of a\nclue or a hint of any mystery. The place and the people were as open\nand bright as a Y.M.C.A. hut. But one day I got a solid wad of comfort.\nIn a corner of Letchford's paper, the _Critic_, I found a letter which\nwas one of the steepest pieces of invective I had ever met with. The\nwriter gave tongue like a beagle pup about the prostitution, as he\ncalled it, of American republicanism to the vices of European\naristocracies. He declared that Senator La Follette was a\nmuch-misunderstood patriot, seeing that he alone spoke for the toiling\nmillions who had no other friend. He was mad with President Wilson, and\nhe prophesied a great awakening when Uncle Sam got up against John Bull\nin Europe and found out the kind of standpatter he was. The letter was\nsigned 'John S. Blenkiron' and dated 'London, 3 July'.\n\nThe thought that Blenkiron was in England put a new complexion on my\nbusiness. I reckoned I would see him soon, for he wasn't the man to\nstand still in his tracks. He had taken up the role he had played\nbefore he left in December 1915, and very right too, for not more than\nhalf a dozen people knew of the Erzerum affair, and to the British\npublic he was only the man who had been fired out of the Savoy for\ntalking treason. I had felt a bit lonely before, but now somewhere\nwithin the four corners of the island the best companion God ever made\nwas writing nonsense with his tongue in his old cheek.\n\nThere was an institution in Biggleswick which deserves mention. On the\nsouth of the common, near the station, stood a red-brick building\ncalled the Moot Hall, which was a kind of church for the very undevout\npopulation. Undevout in the ordinary sense, I mean, for I had already\ncounted twenty-seven varieties of religious conviction, including three\nBuddhists, a Celestial Hierarch, five Latter-day Saints, and about ten\nvarieties of Mystic whose names I could never remember. The hall had\nbeen the gift of the publisher I have spoken of, and twice a week it\nwas used for lectures and debates. The place was managed by a committee\nand was surprisingly popular, for it gave all the bubbling intellects a\nchance of airing their views. When you asked where somebody was and\nwere told he was 'at Moot,' the answer was spoken in the respectful\ntone in which you would mention a sacrament.\n\nI went there regularly and got my mind broadened to cracking point. We\nhad all the stars of the New Movements. We had Doctor Chirk, who\nlectured on 'God', which, as far as I could make out, was a new name he\nhad invented for himself. There was a woman, a terrible woman, who had\ncome back from Russia with what she called a 'message of healing'. And\nto my joy, one night there was a great buck nigger who had a lot to say\nabout 'Africa for the Africans'. I had a few words with him in Sesutu\nafterwards, and rather spoiled his visit. Some of the people were\nextraordinarily good, especially one jolly old fellow who talked about\nEnglish folk songs and dances, and wanted us to set up a Maypole. In\nthe debates which generally followed I began to join, very coyly at\nfirst, but presently with some confidence. If my time at Biggleswick\ndid nothing else it taught me to argue on my feet.\n\nThe first big effort I made was on a full-dress occasion, when\nLauncelot Wake came down to speak. Mr Ivery was in the chair--the first\nI had seen of him--a plump middle-aged man, with a colourless face and\nnondescript features. I was not interested in him till he began to\ntalk, and then I sat bolt upright and took notice. For he was the\ngenuine silver-tongue, the sentences flowing from his mouth as smooth\nas butter and as neatly dovetailed as a parquet floor. He had a sort of\nman-of-the-world manner, treating his opponents with condescending\ngeniality, deprecating all passion and exaggeration and making you feel\nthat his urbane statement must be right, for if he had wanted he could\nhave put the case so much higher. I watched him, fascinated, studying\nhis face carefully; and the thing that struck me was that there was\nnothing in it--nothing, that is to say, to lay hold on. It was simply\nnondescript, so almightily commonplace that that very fact made it\nrather remarkable.\n\nWake was speaking of the revelations of the Sukhomhnov trial in Russia,\nwhich showed that Germany had not been responsible for the war. He was\njolly good at the job, and put as clear an argument as a first-class\nlawyer. I had been sweating away at the subject and had all the\nordinary case at my fingers' ends, so when I got a chance of speaking I\ngave them a long harangue, with some good quotations I had cribbed out\nof the _Vossische Zeitung_, which Letchford lent me. I felt it was up\nto me to be extra violent, for I wanted to establish my character with\nWake, seeing that he was a friend of Mary and Mary would know that I\nwas playing the game. I got tremendously applauded, far more than the\nchief speaker, and after the meeting Wake came up to me with his hot\neyes, and wrung my hand. 'You're coming on well, Brand,' he said, and\nthen he introduced me to Mr Ivery. 'Here's a second and a better\nSmuts,' he said.\n\nIvery made me walk a bit of the road home with him. 'I am struck by\nyour grip on these difficult problems, Mr Brand,' he told me. 'There is\nmuch I can tell you, and you may be of great value to our cause.' He\nasked me a lot of questions about my past, which I answered with easy\nmendacity. Before we parted he made me promise to come one night to\nsupper.\n\nNext day I got a glimpse of Mary, and to my vexation she cut me dead.\nShe was walking with a flock of bare-headed girls, all chattering hard,\nand though she saw me quite plainly she turned away her eyes. I had\nbeen waiting for my cue, so I did not lift my hat, but passed on as if\nwe were strangers. I reckoned it was part of the game, but that\ntrifling thing annoyed me, and I spent a morose evening.\n\nThe following day I saw her again, this time talking sedately with Mr\nIvery, and dressed in a very pretty summer gown, and a broad-brimmed\nstraw hat with flowers in it. This time she stopped with a bright smile\nand held out her hand. 'Mr Brand, isn't it?' she asked with a pretty\nhesitation. And then, turning to her companion--'This is Mr Brand. He\nstayed with us last month in Gloucestershire.'\n\nMr Ivery announced that he and I were already acquainted. Seen in broad\ndaylight he was a very personable fellow, somewhere between forty-five\nand fifty, with a middle-aged figure and a curiously young face. I\nnoticed that there were hardly any lines on it, and it was rather that\nof a very wise child than that of a man. He had a pleasant smile which\nmade his jaw and cheeks expand like indiarubber. 'You are coming to sup\nwith me, Mr Brand,' he cried after me. 'On Tuesday after Moot. I have\nalready written.' He whisked Mary away from me, and I had to content\nmyself with contemplating her figure till it disappeared round a bend\nof the road.\n\nNext day in London I found a letter from Peter. He had been very solemn\nof late, and very reminiscent of old days now that he concluded his\nactive life was over. But this time he was in a different mood. '_I\nthink,_' he wrote, '_that you and I will meet again soon, my old\nfriend. Do you remember when we went after the big black-maned lion in\nthe Rooirand and couldn't get on his track, and then one morning we\nwoke up and said we would get him today?--and we did, but he very near\ngot you first. I've had a feel these last days that we're both going\ndown into the Valley to meet with Apolyon, and that the devil will give\nus a bad time, but anyhow we'll be together._'\n\nI had the same kind of feel myself, though I didn't see how Peter and I\nwere going to meet, unless I went out to the Front again and got put in\nthe bag and sent to the same Boche prison. But I had an instinct that\nmy time in Biggleswick was drawing to a close, and that presently I\nwould be in rougher quarters. I felt quite affectionate towards the\nplace, and took all my favourite walks, and drank my own health in the\nbrew of the village inns, with a consciousness of saying goodbye. Also\nI made haste to finish my English classics, for I concluded I wouldn't\nhave much time in the future for miscellaneous reading.\n\nThe Tuesday came, and in the evening I set out rather late for the Moot\nHall, for I had been getting into decent clothes after a long, hot\nstride. When I reached the place it was pretty well packed, and I could\nonly find a seat on the back benches. There on the platform was Ivery,\nand beside him sat a figure that thrilled every inch of me with\naffection and a wild anticipation. 'I have now the privilege,' said the\nchairman, 'of introducing to you the speaker whom we so warmly welcome,\nour fearless and indefatigable American friend, Mr Blenkiron.'\n\nIt was the old Blenkiron, but almightily changed. His stoutness had\ngone, and he was as lean as Abraham Lincoln. Instead of a puffy face,\nhis cheek-bones and jaw stood out hard and sharp, and in place of his\nformer pasty colour his complexion had the clear glow of health. I saw\nnow that he was a splendid figure of a man, and when he got to his feet\nevery movement had the suppleness of an athlete in training. In that\nmoment I realized that my serious business had now begun. My senses\nsuddenly seemed quicker, my nerves tenser, my brain more active. The\nbig game had started, and he and I were playing it together.\n\nI watched him with strained attention. It was a funny speech, stuffed\nwith extravagance and vehemence, not very well argued and terribly\ndiscursive. His main point was that Germany was now in a fine\ndemocratic mood and might well be admitted into a brotherly\npartnership--that indeed she had never been in any other mood, but had\nbeen forced into violence by the plots of her enemies. Much of it, I\nshould have thought, was in stark defiance of the Defence of the Realm\nActs, but if any wise Scotland Yard officer had listened to it he would\nprobably have considered it harmless because of its contradictions. It\nwas full of a fierce earnestness, and it was full of humour--long-drawn\nAmerican metaphors at which that most critical audience roared with\nlaughter. But it was not the kind of thing that they were accustomed\nto, and I could fancy what Wake would have said of it. The conviction\ngrew upon me that Blenkiron was deliberately trying to prove himself an\nhonest idiot. If so, it was a huge success. He produced on one the\nimpression of the type of sentimental revolutionary who ruthlessly\nknifes his opponent and then weeps and prays over his tomb.\n\nJust at the end he seemed to pull himself together and to try a little\nargument. He made a great point of the Austrian socialists going to\nStockholm, going freely and with their Government's assent, from a\ncountry which its critics called an autocracy, while the democratic\nwestern peoples held back. 'I admit I haven't any real water-tight\nproof,' he said, 'but I will bet my bottom dollar that the influence\nwhich moved the Austrian Government to allow this embassy of freedom\nwas the influence of Germany herself. And that is the land from which\nthe Allied Pharisees draw in their skirts lest their garments be\ndefiled!'\n\nHe sat down amid a good deal of applause, for his audience had not been\nbored, though I could see that some of them thought his praise of\nGermany a bit steep. It was all right in Biggleswick to prove Britain\nin the wrong, but it was a slightly different thing to extol the enemy.\nI was puzzled about his last point, for it was not of a piece with the\nrest of his discourse, and I was trying to guess at his purpose. The\nchairman referred to it in his concluding remarks. 'I am in a\nposition,' he said, 'to bear out all that the lecturer has said. I can\ngo further. I can assure him on the best authority that his surmise is\ncorrect, and that Vienna's decision to send delegates to Stockholm was\nlargely dictated by representations from Berlin. I am given to\nunderstand that the fact has in the last few days been admitted in the\nAustrian Press.'\n\nA vote of thanks was carried, and then I found myself shaking hands\nwith Ivery while Blenkiron stood a yard off, talking to one of the\nMisses Weekes. The next moment I was being introduced.\n\n'Mr Brand, very pleased to meet you,' said the voice I knew so well.\n'Mr Ivery has been telling me about you, and I guess we've got\nsomething to say to each other. We're both from noo countries, and\nwe've got to teach the old nations a little horse-sense.'\n\nMr Ivery's car--the only one left in the neighbourhood--carried us to\nhis villa, and presently we were seated in a brightly-lit dining-room.\nIt was not a pretty house, but it had the luxury of an expensive hotel,\nand the supper we had was as good as any London restaurant. Gone were\nthe old days of fish and toast and boiled milk. Blenkiron squared his\nshoulders and showed himself a noble trencherman.\n\n'A year ago,' he told our host, 'I was the meanest kind of dyspeptic. I\nhad the love of righteousness in my heart, but I had the devil in my\nstomach. Then I heard stories about the Robson Brothers, the star\nsurgeons way out west in White Springs, Nebraska. They were reckoned\nthe neatest hands in the world at carving up a man and removing\ndevilments from his intestines. Now, sir, I've always fought pretty shy\nof surgeons, for I considered that our Maker never intended His\nhandiwork to be reconstructed like a bankrupt Dago railway. But by that\ntime I was feeling so almighty wretched that I could have paid a man to\nput a bullet through my head. \"There's no other way,\" I said to myself.\n\"Either you forget your religion and your miserable cowardice and get\ncut up, or it's you for the Golden Shore.\" So I set my teeth and\njourneyed to White Springs, and the Brothers had a look at my duodenum.\nThey saw that the darned thing wouldn't do, so they sidetracked it and\nmade a noo route for my noo-trition traffic. It was the cunningest\npiece of surgery since the Lord took a rib out of the side of our First\nParent. They've got a mighty fine way of charging, too, for they take\nfive per cent of a man's income, and it's all one to them whether he's\na Meat King or a clerk on twenty dollars a week. I can tell you I took\nsome trouble to be a very rich man last year.'\n\nAll through the meal I sat in a kind of stupor. I was trying to\nassimilate the new Blenkiron, and drinking in the comfort of his\nheavenly drawl, and I was puzzling my head about Ivery. I had a\nridiculous notion that I had seen him before, but, delve as I might\ninto my memory, I couldn't place him. He was the incarnation of the\ncommonplace, a comfortable middle-class sentimentalist, who patronized\npacificism out of vanity, but was very careful not to dip his hands too\nfar. He was always damping down Blenkiron's volcanic utterances. 'Of\ncourse, as you know, the other side have an argument which I find\nrather hard to meet ...' 'I can sympathize with patriotism, and even\nwith jingoism, in certain moods, but I always come back to this\ndifficulty.' 'Our opponents are not ill-meaning so much as\nill-judging,'--these were the sort of sentences he kept throwing in.\nAnd he was full of quotations from private conversations he had had\nwith every sort of person--including members of the Government. I\nremember that he expressed great admiration for Mr Balfour.\n\nOf all that talk, I only recalled one thing clearly, and I recalled it\nbecause Blenkiron seemed to collect his wits and try to argue, just as\nhe had done at the end of his lecture. He was speaking about a story he\nhad heard from someone, who had heard it from someone else, that\nAustria in the last week of July 1914 had accepted Russia's proposal to\nhold her hand and negotiate, and that the Kaiser had sent a message to\nthe Tsar saying he agreed. According to his story this telegram had\nbeen received in Petrograd, and had been re-written, like Bismarck's\nEms telegram, before it reached the Emperor. He expressed his disbelief\nin the yarn. 'I reckon if it had been true,' he said, 'we'd have had\nthe right text out long ago. They'd have kept a copy in Berlin. All the\nsame I did hear a sort of rumour that some kind of message of that sort\nwas published in a German paper.'\n\nMr Ivery looked wise. 'You are right,' he said. 'I happen to know that\nit has been published. You will find it in the _Wiener Zeitung_.'\n\n'You don't say?' he said admiringly. 'I wish I could read the old\ntombstone language. But if I could they wouldn't let me have the\npapers.'\n\n'Oh yes they would.' Mr Ivery laughed pleasantly. 'England has still a\ngood share of freedom. Any respectable person can get a permit to\nimport the enemy press. I'm not considered quite respectable, for the\nauthorities have a narrow definition of patriotism, but happily I have\nrespectable friends.'\n\nBlenkiron was staying the night, and I took my leave as the clock\nstruck twelve. They both came into the hall to see me off, and, as I\nwas helping myself to a drink, and my host was looking for my hat and\nstick, I suddenly heard Blenkiron's whisper in my ear. 'London ... the\nday after tomorrow,' he said. Then he took a formal farewell. 'Mr\nBrand, it's been an honour for me, as an American citizen, to make your\nacquaintance, sir. I will consider myself fortunate if we have an early\nreunion. I am stopping at Claridge's Ho-tel, and I hope to be\nprivileged to receive you there.'\n\n\n\nCHAPTER THREE\n\nThe Reflections of a Cured Dyspeptic\n\nThirty-five hours later I found myself in my rooms in Westminster. I\nthought there might be a message for me there, for I didn't propose to\ngo and call openly on Blenkiron at Claridge's till I had his\ninstructions. But there was no message--only a line from Peter, saying\nhe had hopes of being sent to Switzerland. That made me realize that he\nmust be pretty badly broken up.\n\nPresently the telephone bell rang. It was Blenkiron who spoke. 'Go down\nand have a talk with your brokers about the War Loan. Arrive there\nabout twelve o'clock and don't go upstairs till you have met a friend.\nYou'd better have a quick luncheon at your club, and then come to\nTraill's bookshop in the Haymarket at two. You can get back to\nBiggleswick by the 5.16.'\n\nI did as I was bid, and twenty minutes later, having travelled by\nUnderground, for I couldn't raise a taxi, I approached the block of\nchambers in Leadenhall Street where dwelt the respected firm who\nmanaged my investments. It was still a few minutes before noon, and as\nI slowed down a familiar figure came out of the bank next door.\n\nIvery beamed recognition. 'Up for the day, Mr Brand?' he asked. 'I have\nto see my brokers,' I said, 'read the South African papers in my club,\nand get back by the 5.16. Any chance of your company?'\n\n'Why, yes--that's my train. _Au revoir_. We meet at the station.' He\nbustled off, looking very smart with his neat clothes and a rose in his\nbutton-hole.\n\nI lunched impatiently, and at two was turning over some new books in\nTraill's shop with an eye on the street-door behind me. It seemed a\npublic place for an assignation. I had begun to dip into a big\nillustrated book on flower-gardens when an assistant came up. 'The\nmanager's compliments, sir, and he thinks there are some old works of\ntravel upstairs that might interest you.' I followed him obediently to\nan upper floor lined with every kind of volume and with tables littered\nwith maps and engravings. 'This way, sir,' he said, and opened a door\nin the wall concealed by bogus book-backs. I found myself in a little\nstudy, and Blenkiron sitting in an armchair smoking.\n\nHe got up and seized both my hands. 'Why, Dick, this is better than\ngood noos. I've heard all about your exploits since we parted a year\nago on the wharf at Liverpool. We've both been busy on our own jobs,\nand there was no way of keeping you wise about my doings, for after I\nthought I was cured I got worse than hell inside, and, as I told you,\nhad to get the doctor-men to dig into me. After that I was playing a\npretty dark game, and had to get down and out of decent society. But,\nholy Mike! I'm a new man. I used to do my work with a sick heart and a\ntaste in my mouth like a graveyard, and now I can eat and drink what I\nlike and frolic round like a colt. I wake up every morning whistling\nand thank the good God that I'm alive. It was a bad day for Kaiser when\nI got on the cars for White Springs.'\n\n'This is a rum place to meet,' I said, 'and you brought me by a\nroundabout road.'\n\nHe grinned and offered me a cigar.\n\n'There were reasons. It don't do for you and me to advertise our\nacquaintance in the street. As for the shop, I've owned it for five\nyears. I've a taste for good reading, though you wouldn't think it, and\nit tickles me to hand it out across the counter ... First, I want to\nhear about Biggleswick.'\n\n'There isn't a great deal to it. A lot of ignorance, a large slice of\nvanity, and a pinch or two of wrong-headed honesty--these are the\ningredients of the pie. Not much real harm in it. There's one or two\ndirty literary gents who should be in a navvies' battalion, but they're\nabout as dangerous as yellow Kaffir dogs. I've learned a lot and got\nall the arguments by heart, but you might plant a Biggleswick in every\nshire and it wouldn't help the Boche. I can see where the danger lies\nall the same. These fellows talked academic anarchism, but the genuine\narticle is somewhere about and to find it you've got to look in the big\nindustrial districts. We had faint echoes of it in Biggleswick. I mean\nthat the really dangerous fellows are those who want to close up the\nwar at once and so get on with their blessed class war, which cuts\nacross nationalities. As for being spies and that sort of thing, the\nBiggleswick lads are too callow.'\n\n'Yes,' said Blenkiron reflectively. 'They haven't got as much sense as\nGod gave to geese. You're sure you didn't hit against any heavier\nmetal?'\n\n'Yes. There's a man called Launcelot Wake, who came down to speak once.\nI had met him before. He has the makings of a fanatic, and he's the\nmore dangerous because you can see his conscience is uneasy. I can\nfancy him bombing a Prime Minister merely to quiet his own doubts.'\n\n'So,' he said. 'Nobody else?'\n\nI reflected. 'There's Mr Ivery, but you know him better than I. I\nshouldn't put much on him, but I'm not precisely certain, for I never\nhad a chance of getting to know him.'\n\n'Ivery,' said Blenkiron in surprise. 'He has a hobby for half-baked\nyouth, just as another rich man might fancy orchids or fast trotters.\nYou sure can place him right enough.'\n\n'I dare say. Only I don't know enough to be positive.'\n\nHe sucked at his cigar for a minute or so. 'I guess, Dick, if I told\nyou all I've been doing since I reached these shores you would call me\na romancer. I've been way down among the toilers. I did a spell as\nunskilled dilooted labour in the Barrow shipyards. I was barman in a\nhotel on the Portsmouth Road, and I put in a black month driving a\ntaxicab in the city of London. For a while I was the accredited\ncorrespondent of the Noo York Sentinel and used to go with the rest of\nthe bunch to the pow-wows of under-secretaries of State and War Office\ngenerals. They censored my stuff so cruel that the paper fired me. Then\nI went on a walking-tour round England and sat for a fortnight in a\nlittle farm in Suffolk. By and by I came back to Claridge's and this\nbookshop, for I had learned most of what I wanted.\n\n'I had learned,' he went on, turning his curious, full, ruminating eyes\non me, 'that the British working-man is about the soundest piece of\nhumanity on God's earth. He grumbles a bit and jibs a bit when he\nthinks the Government are giving him a crooked deal, but he's gotten\nthe patience of Job and the sand of a gamecock. And he's gotten humour\ntoo, that tickles me to death. There's not much trouble in that quarter\nfor it's he and his kind that's beating the Hun ... But I picked up a\nthing or two besides that.'\n\nHe leaned forward and tapped me on the knee. 'I reverence the British\nIntelligence Service. Flies don't settle on it to any considerable\nextent. It's got a mighty fine mesh, but there's one hole in that mesh,\nand it's our job to mend it. There's a high-powered brain in the game\nagainst us. I struck it a couple of years ago when I was hunting Dumba\nand Albert, and I thought it was in Noo York, but it wasn't. I struck\nits working again at home last year and located its head office in\nEurope. So I tried Switzerland and Holland, but only bits of it were\nthere. The centre of the web where the old spider sits is right here in\nEngland, and for six months I've been shadowing that spider. There's a\ngang to help, a big gang, and a clever gang, and partly an innocent\ngang. But there's only one brain, and it's to match that that the\nRobson Brothers settled my duodenum.'\n\nI was listening with a quickened pulse, for now at last I was getting\nto business.\n\n'What is he--international socialist, or anarchist, or what?' I asked.\n\n'Pure-blooded Boche agent, but the biggest-sized brand in the\ncatalogue--bigger than Steinmeier or old Bismarck's Staubier. Thank God\nI've got him located ... I must put you wise about some things.'\n\nHe lay back in his rubbed leather armchair and yarned for twenty\nminutes. He told me how at the beginning of the war Scotland Yard had\nhad a pretty complete register of enemy spies, and without making any\nfuss had just tidied them away. After that, the covey having been\nbroken up, it was a question of picking off stray birds. That had taken\nsome doing. There had been all kinds of inflammatory stuff around, Red\nMasons and international anarchists, and, worst of all, international\nfinance-touts, but they had mostly been ordinary cranks and rogues, the\ntools of the Boche agents rather than agents themselves. However, by\nthe middle of 1915 most of the stragglers had been gathered in. But\nthere remained loose ends, and towards the close of last year somebody\nwas very busy combining these ends into a net. Funny cases cropped up\nof the leakage of vital information. They began to be bad about October\n1916, when the Hun submarines started on a special racket. The enemy\nsuddenly appeared possessed of a knowledge which we thought to be\nshared only by half a dozen officers. Blenkiron said he was not\nsurprised at the leakage, for there's always a lot of people who hear\nthings they oughtn't to. What surprised him was that it got so quickly\nto the enemy.\n\nThen after last February, when the Hun submarines went in for\nfrightfulness on a big scale, the thing grew desperate. Leakages\noccurred every week, and the business was managed by people who knew\ntheir way about, for they avoided all the traps set for them, and when\nbogus news was released on purpose, they never sent it. A convoy which\nhad been kept a deadly secret would be attacked at the one place where\nit was helpless. A carefully prepared defensive plan would be\ncheckmated before it could be tried. Blenkiron said that there was no\nevidence that a single brain was behind it all, for there was no\nsimilarity in the cases, but he had a strong impression all the time\nthat it was the work of one man. We managed to close some of the\nbolt-holes, but we couldn't put our hands near the big ones. 'By this\ntime,' said he, 'I reckoned I was about ready to change my methods. I\nhad been working by what the highbrows call induction, trying to argue\nup from the deeds to the doer. Now I tried a new lay, which was to\ncalculate down from the doer to the deeds. They call it deduction. I\nopined that somewhere in this island was a gentleman whom we will call\nMr X, and that, pursuing the line of business he did, he must have\ncertain characteristics. I considered very carefully just what sort of\npersonage he must be. I had noticed that his device was apparently the\nDouble Bluff. That is to say, when he had two courses open to him, A\nand B, he pretended he was going to take B, and so got us guessing that\nhe would try A. Then he took B after all. So I reckoned that his\ncamouflage must correspond to this little idiosyncrasy. Being a Boche\nagent, he wouldn't pretend to be a hearty patriot, an honest old\nblood-and-bones Tory. That would be only the Single Bluff. I considered\nthat he would be a pacifist, cunning enough just to keep inside the\nlaw, but with the eyes of the police on him. He would write books which\nwould not be allowed to be exported. He would get himself disliked in\nthe popular papers, but all the mugwumps would admire his moral\ncourage. I drew a mighty fine picture to myself of just the man I\nexpected to find. Then I started out to look for him.'\n\nBlenkiron's face took on the air of a disappointed child. 'It was no\ngood. I kept barking up the wrong tree and wore myself out playing the\nsleuth on white-souled innocents.'\n\n'But you've found him all right,' I cried, a sudden suspicion leaping\ninto my brain.\n\n'He's found,' he said sadly, 'but the credit does not belong to John S.\nBlenkiron. That child merely muddied the pond. The big fish was left\nfor a young lady to hook.'\n\n'I know,' I cried excitedly. 'Her name is Miss Mary Lamington.'\n\nHe shook a disapproving head. 'You've guessed right, my son, but you've\nforgotten your manners. This is a rough business and we won't bring in\nthe name of a gently reared and pure-minded young girl. If we speak to\nher at all we call her by a pet name out of the _Pilgrim's Progress_\n... Anyhow she hooked the fish, though he isn't landed. D'you see any\nlight?'\n\n'Ivery,' I gasped.\n\n'Yes. Ivery. Nothing much to look at, you say. A common, middle-aged,\npie-faced, golf-playing high-brow, that you wouldn't keep out of a\nSunday school. A touch of the drummer, too, to show he has no dealings\nwith your effete aristocracy. A languishing silver-tongue that adores\nthe sound of his own voice. As mild, you'd say, as curds and cream.'\n\nBlenkiron got out of his chair and stood above me. 'I tell you, Dick,\nthat man makes my spine cold. He hasn't a drop of good red blood in\nhim. The dirtiest apache is a Christian gentleman compared to Moxon\nIvery. He's as cruel as a snake and as deep as hell. But, by God, he's\ngot a brain below his hat. He's hooked and we're playing him, but Lord\nknows if he'll ever be landed!'\n\n'Why on earth don't you put him away?' I asked.\n\n'We haven't the proof--legal proof, I mean; though there's buckets of\nthe other kind. I could put up a morally certain case, but he'd beat me\nin a court of law. And half a hundred sheep would get up in Parliament\nand bleat about persecution. He has a graft with every collection of\ncranks in England, and with all the geese that cackle about the liberty\nof the individual when the Boche is ranging about to enslave the world.\nNo, sir, that's too dangerous a game! Besides, I've a better in hand,\nMoxon Ivery is the best-accredited member of this State. His _dossier_\nis the completest thing outside the Recording Angel's little note-book.\nWe've taken up his references in every corner of the globe and they're\nall as right as Morgan's balance sheet. From these it appears he's been\na high-toned citizen ever since he was in short-clothes. He was raised\nin Norfolk, and there are people living who remember his father. He was\neducated at Melton School and his name's in the register. He was in\nbusiness in Valparaiso, and there's enough evidence to write three\nvolumes of his innocent life there. Then he came home with a modest\ncompetence two years before the war, and has been in the public eye\never since. He was Liberal candidate for a London constitooency and he\nhas decorated the board of every institootion formed for the\namelioration of mankind. He's got enough alibis to choke a boa\nconstrictor, and they're water-tight and copper-bottomed, and they're\nmostly damned lies ... But you can't beat him at that stunt. The man's\nthe superbest actor that ever walked the earth. You can see it in his\nface. It isn't a face, it's a mask. He could make himself look like\nShakespeare or Julius Caesar or Billy Sunday or Brigadier-General\nRichard Hannay if he wanted to. He hasn't got any personality\neither--he's got fifty, and there's no one he could call his own. I\nreckon when the devil gets the handling of him at last he'll have to\nput sand on his claws to keep him from slipping through.'\n\nBlenkiron was settled in his chair again, with one leg hoisted over the\nside.\n\n'We've closed a fair number of his channels in the last few months. No,\nhe don't suspect me. The world knows nothing of its greatest men, and\nto him I'm only a Yankee peace-crank, who gives big subscriptions to\nloony societies and will travel a hundred miles to let off steam before\nany kind of audience. He's been to see me at Claridge's and I've\narranged that he shall know all my record. A darned bad record it is\ntoo, for two years ago I was violent pro-British before I found\nsalvation and was requested to leave England. When I was home last I\nwas officially anti-war, when I wasn't stretched upon a bed of pain. Mr\nMoxon Ivery don't take any stock in John S. Blenkiron as a serious\nproposition. And while I've been here I've been so low down in the\nsocial scale and working in so many devious ways that he can't connect\nme up ... As I was saying, we've cut most of his wires, but the biggest\nwe haven't got at. He's still sending stuff out, and mighty\ncompromising stuff it is. Now listen close, Dick, for we're coming near\nyour own business.'\n\nIt appeared that Blenkiron had reason to suspect that the channel still\nopen had something to do with the North. He couldn't get closer than\nthat, till he heard from his people that a certain Abel Gresson had\nturned up in Glasgow from the States. This Gresson he discovered was\nthe same as one Wrankester, who as a leader of the Industrial Workers\nof the World had been mixed up in some ugly cases of sabotage in\nColorado. He kept his news to himself, for he didn't want the police to\ninterfere, but he had his own lot get into touch with Gresson and\nshadow him closely. The man was very discreet but very mysterious, and\nhe would disappear for a week at a time, leaving no trace. For some\nunknown reason--he couldn't explain why--Blenkiron had arrived at the\nconclusion that Gresson was in touch with Ivery, so he made experiments\nto prove it.\n\n'I wanted various cross-bearings to make certain, and I got them the\nnight before last. My visit to Biggleswick was good business.'\n\n'I don't know what they meant,' I said, 'but I know where they came in.\nOne was in your speech when you spoke of the Austrian socialists, and\nIvery took you up about them. The other was after supper when he quoted\nthe _Wiener Zeitung_.'\n\n'You're no fool, Dick,' he said, with his slow smile. 'You've hit the\nmark first shot. You know me and you could follow my process of thought\nin those remarks. Ivery, not knowing me so well, and having his head\nfull of just that sort of argument, saw nothing unusual. Those bits of\nnoos were pumped into Gresson that he might pass them on. And he did\npass them on--to Ivery. They completed my chain.'\n\n'But they were commonplace enough things which he might have guessed\nfor himself.'\n\n'No, they weren't. They were the nicest tit-bits of political noos\nwhich all the cranks have been reaching after.'\n\n'Anyhow, they were quotations from German papers. He might have had the\npapers themselves earlier than you thought.'\n\n'Wrong again. The paragraph never appeared in the _Wiener Zeitung_. But\nwe faked up a torn bit of that noospaper, and a very pretty bit of\nforgery it was, and Gresson, who's a kind of a scholar, was allowed to\nhave it. He passed it on. Ivery showed it me two nights ago. Nothing\nlike it ever sullied the columns of Boche journalism. No, it was a\nperfectly final proof ... Now, Dick, it's up to you to get after\nGresson.'\n\n'Right,' I said. 'I'm jolly glad I'm to start work again. I'm getting\nfat from lack of exercise. I suppose you want me to catch Gresson out\nin some piece of blackguardism and have him and Ivery snugly put away.'\n\n'I don't want anything of the kind,' he said very slowly and\ndistinctly. 'You've got to attend very close to your instructions, I\ncherish these two beauties as if they were my own white-headed boys. I\nwouldn't for the world interfere with their comfort and liberty. I want\nthem to go on corresponding with their friends. I want to give them\nevery facility.'\n\nHe burst out laughing at my mystified face.\n\n'See here, Dick. How do we want to treat the Boche? Why, to fill him up\nwith all the cunningest lies and get him to act on them. Now here is\nMoxon Ivery, who has always given them good information. They trust him\nabsolutely, and we would be fools to spoil their confidence. Only, if\nwe can find out Moxon's methods, we can arrange to use them ourselves\nand send noos in his name which isn't quite so genooine. Every word he\ndispatches goes straight to the Grand High Secret General Staff, and\nold Hindenburg and Ludendorff put towels round their heads and cipher\nit out. We want to encourage them to go on doing it. We'll arrange to\nsend true stuff that don't matter, so as they'll continue to trust him,\nand a few selected falsehoods that'll matter like hell. It's a game you\ncan't play for ever, but with luck I propose to play it long enough to\nconfuse Fritz's little plans.'\n\nHis face became serious and wore the air that our corps commander used\nto have at the big pow-wow before a push.\n\n'I'm not going to give you instructions, for you're man enough to make\nyour own. But I can give you the general hang of the situation. You\ntell Ivery you're going North to inquire into industrial disputes at\nfirst hand. That will seem to him natural and in line with your recent\nbehaviour. He'll tell his people that you're a guileless colonial who\nfeels disgruntled with Britain, and may come in useful. You'll go to a\nman of mine in Glasgow, a red-hot agitator who chooses that way of\ndoing his bit for his country. It's a darned hard way and darned\ndangerous. Through him you'll get in touch with Gresson, and you'll\nkeep alongside that bright citizen. Find out what he is doing, and get\na chance of following him. He must never suspect you, and for that\npurpose you must be very near the edge of the law yourself. You go up\nthere as an unabashed pacifist and you'll live with folk that will turn\nyour stomach. Maybe you'll have to break some of these two-cent rules\nthe British Government have invented to defend the realm, and it's up\nto you not to get caught out ... Remember, you'll get no help from me.\nYou've got to wise up about Gresson with the whole forces of the\nBritish State arrayed officially against you. I guess it's a steep\nproposition, but you're man enough to make good.'\n\nAs we shook hands, he added a last word. 'You must take your own time,\nbut it's not a case for slouching. Every day that passes Ivery is\nsending out the worst kind of poison. The Boche is blowing up for a big\ncampaign in the field, and a big effort to shake the nerve and confuse\nthe judgement of our civilians. The whole earth's war-weary, and we've\nabout reached the danger-point. There's pretty big stakes hang on you,\nDick, for things are getting mighty delicate.'\n\n            *       *       *       *       *\n\nI purchased a new novel in the shop and reached St Pancras in time to\nhave a cup of tea at the buffet. Ivery was at the bookstall buying an\nevening paper. When we got into the carriage he seized my _Punch_ and\nkept laughing and calling my attention to the pictures. As I looked at\nhim, I thought that he made a perfect picture of the citizen turned\ncountryman, going back of an evening to his innocent home. Everything\nwas right--his neat tweeds, his light spats, his spotted neckcloth, and\nhis Aquascutum.\n\nNot that I dared look at him much. What I had learned made me eager to\nsearch his face, but I did not dare show any increased interest. I had\nalways been a little off-hand with him, for I had never much liked him,\nso I had to keep on the same manner. He was as merry as a grig, full of\nchat and very friendly and amusing. I remember he picked up the book I\nhad brought off that morning to read in the train--the second volume of\nHazlitt's _Essays_, the last of my English classics--and discoursed so\nwisely about books that I wished I had spent more time in his company\nat Biggleswick.\n\n'Hazlitt was the academic Radical of his day,' he said. 'He is always\nlashing himself into a state of theoretical fury over abuses he has\nnever encountered in person. Men who are up against the real thing save\ntheir breath for action.'\n\nThat gave me my cue to tell him about my journey to the North. I said I\nhad learned a lot in Biggleswick, but I wanted to see industrial life\nat close quarters. 'Otherwise I might become like Hazlitt,' I said.\n\nHe was very interested and encouraging. 'That's the right way to set\nabout it,' he said. 'Where were you thinking of going?'\n\nI told him that I had half thought of Barrow, but decided to try\nGlasgow, since the Clyde seemed to be a warm corner.\n\n'Right,' he said. 'I only wish I was coming with you. It'll take you a\nlittle while to understand the language. You'll find a good deal of\nsenseless bellicosity among the workmen, for they've got parrot-cries\nabout the war as they used to have parrot-cries about their labour\npolitics. But there's plenty of shrewd brains and sound hearts too. You\nmust write and tell me your conclusions.'\n\nIt was a warm evening and he dozed the last part of the journey. I\nlooked at him and wished I could see into the mind at the back of that\nmask-like face. I counted for nothing in his eyes, not even enough for\nhim to want to make me a tool, and I was setting out to try to make a\ntool of him. It sounded a forlorn enterprise. And all the while I was\npuzzled with a persistent sense of recognition. I told myself it was\nidiocy, for a man with a face like that must have hints of resemblance\nto a thousand people. But the idea kept nagging at me till we reached\nour destination.\n\nAs we emerged from the station into the golden evening I saw Mary\nLamington again. She was with one of the Weekes girls, and after the\nBiggleswick fashion was bareheaded, so that the sun glinted from her\nhair. Ivery swept his hat off and made her a pretty speech, while I\nfaced her steady eyes with the expressionlessness of the stage\nconspirator.\n\n'A charming child,' he observed as we passed on. 'Not without a touch\nof seriousness, too, which may yet be touched to noble issues.'\n\nI considered, as I made my way to my final supper with the Jimsons,\nthat the said child was likely to prove a sufficiently serious business\nfor Mr Moxon Ivery before the game was out.\n\n\n\nCHAPTER FOUR\n\nAndrew Amos\n\nI took the train three days later from King's Cross to Edinburgh. I\nwent to the Pentland Hotel in Princes Street and left there a suit-case\ncontaining some clean linen and a change of clothes. I had been\nthinking the thing out, and had come to the conclusion that I must have\na base somewhere and a fresh outfit. Then in well-worn tweeds and with\nno more luggage than a small trench kit-bag, I descended upon the city\nof Glasgow.\n\nI walked from the station to the address which Blenkiron had given me.\nIt was a hot summer evening, and the streets were filled with\nbareheaded women and weary-looking artisans. As I made my way down the\nDumbarton Road I was amazed at the number of able-bodied fellows about,\nconsidering that you couldn't stir a mile on any British front without\nbumping up against a Glasgow battalion. Then I realized that there were\nsuch things as munitions and ships, and I wondered no more.\n\nA stout and dishevelled lady at a close-mouth directed me to Mr Amos's\ndwelling. 'Twa stairs up. Andra will be in noo, havin' his tea. He's no\nyin for overtime. He's generally hame on the chap of six.' I ascended\nthe stairs with a sinking heart, for like all South Africans I have a\nhorror of dirt. The place was pretty filthy, but at each landing there\nwere two doors with well-polished handles and brass plates. On one I\nread the name of Andrew Amos.\n\nA man in his shirt-sleeves opened to me, a little man, without a\ncollar, and with an unbuttoned waistcoat. That was all I saw of him in\nthe dim light, but he held out a paw like a gorilla's and drew me in.\n\nThe sitting-room, which looked over many chimneys to a pale yellow sky\nagainst which two factory stalks stood out sharply, gave me light\nenough to observe him fully. He was about five feet four,\nbroad-shouldered, and with a great towsy head of grizzled hair. He wore\nspectacles, and his face was like some old-fashioned Scots minister's,\nfor he had heavy eyebrows and whiskers which joined each other under\nhis jaw, while his chin and enormous upper lip were clean-shaven. His\neyes were steely grey and very solemn, but full of smouldering energy.\nHis voice was enormous and would have shaken the walls if he had not\nhad the habit of speaking with half-closed lips. He had not a sound\ntooth in his head.\n\nA saucer full of tea and a plate which had once contained ham and eggs\nwere on the table. He nodded towards them and asked me if I had fed.\n\n'Ye'll no eat onything? Well, some would offer ye a dram, but this\nhouse is staunch teetotal. I door ye'll have to try the nearest public\nif ye're thirsty.'\n\nI disclaimed any bodily wants, and produced my pipe, at which he\nstarted to fill an old clay. 'Mr Brand's your name?' he asked in his\ngusty voice. 'I was expectin' ye, but Dod! man ye're late!'\n\nHe extricated from his trousers pocket an ancient silver watch, and\nregarded it with disfavour. 'The dashed thing has stoppit. What do ye\nmake the time, Mr Brand?'\n\nHe proceeded to prise open the lid of his watch with the knife he had\nused to cut his tobacco, and, as he examined the works, he turned the\nback of the case towards me. On the inside I saw pasted Mary\nLamington's purple-and-white wafer.\n\nI held my watch so that he could see the same token. His keen eyes,\nraised for a second, noted it, and he shut his own with a snap and\nreturned it to his pocket. His manner lost its wariness and became\nalmost genial.\n\n'Ye've come up to see Glasgow, Mr Brand? Well, it's a steerin' bit, and\nthere's honest folk bides in it, and some not so honest. They tell me\nye're from South Africa. That's a long gait away, but I ken something\naboot South Africa, for I had a cousin's son oot there for his lungs.\nHe was in a shop in Main Street, Bloomfountain. They called him Peter\nDobson. Ye would maybe mind of him.'\n\nThen he discoursed of the Clyde. He was an incomer, he told me, from\nthe Borders, his native place being the town of Galashiels, or, as he\ncalled it, 'Gawly'. 'I began as a powerloom tuner in Stavert's mill.\nThen my father dee'd and I took up his trade of jiner. But it's no\nworld nowadays for the sma' independent business, so I cam to the Clyde\nand learned a shipwright's job. I may say I've become a leader in the\ntrade, for though I'm no an official of the Union, and not likely to\nbe, there's no man's word carries more weight than mine. And the\nGoavernment kens that, for they've sent me on commissions up and down\nthe land to look at wuds and report on the nature of the timber.\nBribery, they think it is, but Andrew Amos is not to be bribit. He'll\nhave his say about any Goavernment on earth, and tell them to their\nface what he thinks of them. Ay, and he'll fight the case of the\nworkingman against his oppressor, should it be the Goavernment or the\nfatted calves they ca' Labour Members. Ye'll have heard tell o' the\nshop stewards, Mr Brand?'\n\nI admitted I had, for I had been well coached by Blenkiron in the\ncurrent history of industrial disputes.\n\n'Well, I'm a shop steward. We represent the rank and file against\noffice-bearers that have lost the confidence o' the workingman. But I'm\nno socialist, and I would have ye keep mind of that. I'm yin o' the old\nBorder radicals, and I'm not like to change. I'm for individual liberty\nand equal rights and chances for all men. I'll no more bow down before\na Dagon of a Goavernment official than before the Baal of a feckless\nTweedside laird. I've to keep my views to mysel', for thae young lads\nare all drucken-daft with their wee books about Cawpital and\nCollectivism and a wheen long senseless words I wouldna fyle my tongue\nwith. Them and their socialism! There's more gumption in a page of John\nStuart Mill than in all that foreign trash. But, as I say, I've got to\nkeep a quiet sough, for the world is gettin' socialism now like the\nmeasles. It all comes of a defective eddication.'\n\n'And what does a Border radical say about the war?' I asked.\n\nHe took off his spectacles and cocked his shaggy brows at me. 'I'll\ntell ye, Mr Brand. All that was bad in all that I've ever wrestled with\nsince I cam to years o' discretion--Tories and lairds and manufacturers\nand publicans and the Auld Kirk--all that was bad, I say, for there\nwere orra bits of decency, ye'll find in the Germans full measure\npressed down and running over. When the war started, I considered the\nsubject calmly for three days, and then I said: \"Andra Amos, ye've\nfound the enemy at last. The ones ye fought before were in a manner o'\nspeakin' just misguided friends. It's either you or the Kaiser this\ntime, my man!\"'\n\nHis eyes had lost their gravity and had taken on a sombre ferocity.\n'Ay, and I've not wavered. I got a word early in the business as to the\nway I could serve my country best. It's not been an easy job, and\nthere's plenty of honest folk the day will give me a bad name. They\nthink I'm stirrin' up the men at home and desertin' the cause o' the\nlads at the front. Man, I'm keepin' them straight. If I didna fight\ntheir battles on a sound economic isshue, they would take the dorts and\nbe at the mercy of the first blagyird that preached revolution. Me and\nmy like are safety-valves, if ye follow me. And dinna you make ony\nmistake, Mr Brand. The men that are agitating for a rise in wages are\nnot for peace. They're fighting for the lads overseas as much as for\nthemselves. There's not yin in a thousand that wouldna sweat himself\nblind to beat the Germans. The Goavernment has made mistakes, and maun\nbe made to pay for them. If it were not so, the men would feel like a\nmoose in a trap, for they would have no way to make their grievance\nfelt. What for should the big man double his profits and the small man\nbe ill set to get his ham and egg on Sabbath mornin'? That's the\nmeaning o' Labour unrest, as they call it, and it's a good thing, says\nI, for if Labour didna get its leg over the traces now and then, the\nspunk o' the land would be dead in it, and Hindenburg could squeeze it\nlike a rotten aipple.'\n\nI asked if he spoke for the bulk of the men.\n\n'For ninety per cent in ony ballot. I don't say that there's not plenty\nof riff-raff--the pint-and-a-dram gentry and the soft-heads that are\naye reading bits of newspapers, and muddlin' their wits with foreign\nwhigmaleeries. But the average man on the Clyde, like the average man\nin ither places, hates just three things, and that's the Germans, the\nprofiteers, as they call them, and the Irish. But he hates the Germans\nfirst.'\n\n'The Irish!' I exclaimed in astonishment.\n\n'Ay, the Irish,' cried the last of the old Border radicals. 'Glasgow's\nstinkin' nowadays with two things, money and Irish. I mind the day when\nI followed Mr Gladstone's Home Rule policy, and used to threep about\nthe noble, generous, warm-hearted sister nation held in a foreign\nbondage. My Goad! I'm not speakin' about Ulster, which is a dour,\nill-natured den, but our own folk all the same. But the men that will\nnot do a hand's turn to help the war and take the chance of our\nnecessities to set up a bawbee rebellion are hateful to Goad and man.\nWe treated them like pet lambs and that's the thanks we get. They're\ncoming over here in thousands to tak the jobs of the lads that are\ndoing their duty. I was speakin' last week to a widow woman that keeps\na wee dairy down the Dalmarnock Road. She has two sons, and both in the\nairmy, one in the Cameronians and one a prisoner in Germany. She was\ntelling me that she could not keep goin' any more, lacking the help of\nthe boys, though she had worked her fingers to the bone. \"Surely it's a\ncrool job, Mr Amos,\" she says, \"that the Goavernment should tak baith\nmy laddies, and I'll maybe never see them again, and let the Irish gang\nfree and tak the bread frae our mouth. At the gasworks across the road\nthey took on a hundred Irish last week, and every yin o' them as young\nand well set up as you would ask to see. And my wee Davie, him that's\nin Germany, had aye a weak chest, and Jimmy was troubled wi' a bowel\ncomplaint. That's surely no justice!\". ...'\n\nHe broke off and lit a match by drawing it across the seat of his\ntrousers. 'It's time I got the gas lichtit. There's some men coming\nhere at half-ten.'\n\nAs the gas squealed and flickered in the lighting, he sketched for me\nthe coming guests. 'There's Macnab and Niven, two o' my colleagues. And\nthere's Gilkison of the Boiler-fitters, and a lad Wilkie--he's got\nconsumption, and writes wee bits in the papers. And there's a queer\nchap o' the name o' Tombs--they tell me he comes frae Cambridge, and is\na kind of a professor there--anyway he's more stuffed wi' havers than\nan egg wi' meat. He telled me he was here to get at the heart o' the\nworkingman, and I said to him that he would hae to look a bit further\nthan the sleeve o' the workin'-man's jaicket. There's no muckle in his\nhead, poor soul. Then there'll be Tam Norie, him that edits our weekly\npaper--_Justice for All_. Tam's a humorist and great on Robert Burns,\nbut he hasna the balance o' a dwinin' teetotum ... Ye'll understand, Mr\nBrand, that I keep my mouth shut in such company, and don't express my\nown views more than is absolutely necessary. I criticize whiles, and\nthat gives me a name of whunstane common-sense, but I never let my\ntongue wag. The feck o' the lads comin' the night are not the real\nworkingman--they're just the froth on the pot, but it's the froth that\nwill be useful to you. Remember they've heard tell o' ye already, and\nye've some sort o' reputation to keep up.'\n\n'Will Mr Abel Gresson be here?' I asked.\n\n'No,' he said. 'Not yet. Him and me havena yet got to the point o'\npayin' visits. But the men that come will be Gresson's friends and\nthey'll speak of ye to him. It's the best kind of introduction ye could\nseek.'\n\nThe knocker sounded, and Mr Amos hastened to admit the first comers.\nThese were Macnab and Wilkie: the one a decent middle-aged man with a\nfresh-washed face and a celluloid collar, the other a round-shouldered\nyouth, with lank hair and the large eyes and luminous skin which are\nthe marks of phthisis. 'This is Mr Brand boys, from South Africa,' was\nAmos's presentation. Presently came Niven, a bearded giant, and Mr\nNorie, the editor, a fat dirty fellow smoking a rank cigar. Gilkison of\nthe Boiler-fitters, when he arrived, proved to be a pleasant young man\nin spectacles who spoke with an educated voice and clearly belonged to\na slightly different social scale. Last came Tombs, the Cambridge\nprofessor, a lean youth with a sour mouth and eyes that reminded me of\nLauncelot Wake.\n\n'Ye'll no be a mawgnate, Mr Brand, though ye come from South Africa,'\nsaid Mr Norie with a great guffaw.\n\n'Not me. I'm a working engineer,' I said. 'My father was from Scotland,\nand this is my first visit to my native country, as my friend Mr Amos\nwas telling you.'\n\nThe consumptive looked at me suspiciously. 'We've got two--three of the\ncomrades here that the cawpitalist Government expelled from the\nTransvaal. If ye're our way of thinking, ye will maybe ken them.'\n\nI said I would be overjoyed to meet them, but that at the time of the\noutrage in question I had been working on a mine a thousand miles\nfurther north.\n\nThen ensued an hour of extraordinary talk. Tombs in his sing-song\nnamby-pamby University voice was concerned to get information. He asked\nendless questions, chiefly of Gilkison, who was the only one who really\nunderstood his language. I thought I had never seen anyone quite so\nfluent and so futile, and yet there was a kind of feeble violence in\nhim like a demented sheep. He was engaged in venting some private\nacademic spite against society, and I thought that in a revolution he\nwould be the class of lad I would personally conduct to the nearest\nlamp-post. And all the while Amos and Macnab and Niven carried on their\nown conversation about the affairs of their society, wholly impervious\nto the tornado raging around them.\n\nIt was Mr Norie, the editor, who brought me into the discussion.\n\n'Our South African friend is very blate,' he said in his boisterous\nway. 'Andra, if this place of yours wasn't so damned teetotal and we\nhad a dram apiece, we might get his tongue loosened. I want to hear\nwhat he's got to say about the war. You told me this morning he was\nsound in the faith.'\n\n'I said no such thing,' said Mr Amos. 'As ye ken well, Tam Norie, I\ndon't judge soundness on that matter as you judge it. I'm for the war\nmyself, subject to certain conditions that I've often stated. I know\nnothing of Mr Brand's opinions, except that he's a good democrat, which\nis more than I can say of some o' your friends.'\n\n'Hear to Andra,' laughed Mr Norie. 'He's thinkin' the inspector in the\nSocialist State would be a waur kind of awristocrat then the Duke of\nBuccleuch. Weel, there's maybe something in that. But about the war\nhe's wrong. Ye ken my views, boys. This war was made by the\ncawpitalists, and it has been fought by the workers, and it's the\nworkers that maun have the ending of it. That day's comin' very near.\nThere are those that want to spin it out till Labour is that weak it\ncan be pit in chains for the rest o' time. That's the manoeuvre we're\nout to prevent. We've got to beat the Germans, but it's the workers\nthat has the right to judge when the enemy's beaten and not the\ncawpitalists. What do you say, Mr Brand?'\n\nMr Norie had obviously pinned his colours to the fence, but he gave me\nthe chance I had been looking for. I let them have my views with a\nvengeance, and these views were that for the sake of democracy the war\nmust be ended. I flatter myself I put my case well, for I had got up\nevery rotten argument and I borrowed largely from Launcelot Wake's\narmoury. But I didn't put it too well, for I had a very exact notion of\nthe impression I wanted to produce. I must seem to be honest and in\nearnest, just a bit of a fanatic, but principally a hard-headed\nbusinessman who knew when the time had come to make a deal. Tombs kept\ninterrupting me with imbecile questions, and I had to sit on him. At\nthe end Mr Norie hammered with his pipe on the table.\n\n'That'll sort ye, Andra. Ye're entertain' an angel unawares. What do ye\nsay to that, my man?'\n\nMr Amos shook his head. 'I'll no deny there's something in it, but I'm\nnot convinced that the Germans have got enough of a wheepin'.' Macnab\nagreed with him; the others were with me. Norie was for getting me to\nwrite an article for his paper, and the consumptive wanted me to\naddress a meeting.\n\n'Wull ye say a' that over again the morn's night down at our hall in\nNewmilns Street? We've got a lodge meeting o' the I.W.B., and I'll make\nthem pit ye in the programme.' He kept his luminous eyes, like a sick\ndog's, fixed on me, and I saw that I had made one ally. I told him I\nhad come to Glasgow to learn and not to teach, but I would miss no\nchance of testifying to my faith.\n\n'Now, boys, I'm for my bed,' said Amos, shaking the dottle from his\npipe. 'Mr Tombs, I'll conduct ye the morn over the Brigend works, but\nI've had enough clavers for one evening. I'm a man that wants his eight\nhours' sleep.'\n\nThe old fellow saw them to the door, and came back to me with the ghost\nof a grin in his face.\n\n'A queer crowd, Mr Brand! Macnab didna like what ye said. He had a\nladdie killed in Gallypoly, and he's no lookin' for peace this side the\ngrave. He's my best friend in Glasgow. He's an elder in the Gaelic kirk\nin the Cowcaddens, and I'm what ye call a free-thinker, but we're\nwonderful agreed on the fundamentals. Ye spoke your bit verra well, I\nmust admit. Gresson will hear tell of ye as a promising recruit.'\n\n'It's a rotten job,' I said.\n\n'Ay, it's a rotten job. I often feel like vomiting over it mysel'. But\nit's no for us to complain. There's waur jobs oot in France for better\nmen ... A word in your ear, Mr Brand. Could ye not look a bit more\nsheepish? Ye stare folk ower straight in the een, like a Hieland\nsergeant-major up at Maryhill Barracks.' And he winked slowly and\ngrotesquely with his left eye.\n\nHe marched to a cupboard and produced a black bottle and glass. 'I'm\nblue-ribbon myself, but ye'll be the better of something to tak the\ntaste out of your mouth. There's Loch Katrine water at the pipe there\n... As I was saying, there's not much ill in that lot. Tombs is a black\noffence, but a dominie's a dominie all the world over. They may crack\nabout their Industrial Workers and the braw things they're going to do,\nbut there's a wholesome dampness about the tinder on Clydeside. They\nshould try Ireland.'\n\n'Supposing,' I said, 'there was a really clever man who wanted to help\nthe enemy. You think he could do little good by stirring up trouble in\nthe shops here?'\n\n'I'm positive.'\n\n'And if he were a shrewd fellow, he'd soon tumble to that?'\n\n'Ay.'\n\n'Then if he still stayed on here he would be after bigger\ngame--something really dangerous and damnable?'\n\nAmos drew down his brows and looked me in the face. 'I see what ye're\nettlin' at. Ay! That would be my conclusion. I came to it weeks syne\nabout the man ye'll maybe meet the morn's night.'\n\nThen from below the bed he pulled a box from which he drew a handsome\nflute. 'Ye'll forgive me, Mr Brand, but I aye like a tune before I go\nto my bed. Macnab says his prayers, and I have a tune on the flute, and\nthe principle is just the same.'\n\nSo that singular evening closed with music--very sweet and true\nrenderings of old Border melodies like 'My Peggy is a young thing', and\n'When the kye come hame'. I fell asleep with a vision of Amos, his face\nall puckered up at the mouth and a wandering sentiment in his eye,\nrecapturing in his dingy world the emotions of a boy.\n\n            *       *       *       *       *\n\nThe widow-woman from next door, who acted as house-keeper, cook, and\ngeneral factotum to the establishment, brought me shaving water next\nmorning, but I had to go without a bath. When I entered the kitchen I\nfound no one there, but while I consumed the inevitable ham and egg,\nAmos arrived back for breakfast. He brought with him the morning's\npaper.\n\n'The _Herald_ says there's been a big battle at Eepers,' he announced.\n\nI tore open the sheet and read of the great attack of 31 July which was\nspoiled by the weather. 'My God!' I cried. 'They've got St Julien and\nthat dirty Frezenberg ridge ... and Hooge ... and Sanctuary Wood. I\nknow every inch of the damned place....'\n\n'Mr Brand,' said a warning voice, 'that'll never do. If our friends\nlast night heard ye talk like that ye might as well tak the train back\nto London ... They're speakin' about ye in the yards this morning.\nYe'll get a good turnout at your meeting the night, but they're Sayin'\nthat the polis will interfere. That mightna be a bad thing, but I trust\nye to show discretion, for ye'll not be muckle use to onybody if they\njyle ye in Duke Street. I hear Gresson will be there with a fraternal\nmessage from his lunatics in America ... I've arranged that ye go down\nto Tam Norie this afternoon and give him a hand with his bit paper. Tam\nwill tell ye the whole clash o' the West country, and I look to ye to\nkeep him off the drink. He's aye arguin' that writin' and drinkin' gang\nthegither, and quotin' Robert Burns, but the creature has a wife and\nfive bairns dependin' on him.'\n\nI spent a fantastic day. For two hours I sat in Norie's dirty den,\nwhile he smoked and orated, and, when he remembered his business, took\ndown in shorthand my impressions of the Labour situation in South\nAfrica for his rag. They were fine breezy impressions, based on the\nmost whole-hearted ignorance, and if they ever reached the Rand I\nwonder what my friends there made of Cornelius Brand, their author. I\nstood him dinner in an indifferent eating-house in a street off the\nBroomielaw, and thereafter had a drink with him in a public-house, and\nwas introduced to some of his less reputable friends.\n\nAbout tea-time I went back to Amos's lodgings, and spent an hour or so\nwriting a long letter to Mr Ivery. I described to him everybody I had\nmet, I gave highly coloured views of the explosive material on the\nClyde, and I deplored the lack of clearheadedness in the progressive\nforces. I drew an elaborate picture of Amos, and deduced from it that\nthe Radicals were likely to be a bar to true progress. 'They have\nswitched their old militancy,' I wrote, 'on to another track, for with\nthem it is a matter of conscience to be always militant.' I finished up\nwith some very crude remarks on economics culled from the table-talk of\nthe egregious Tombs. It was the kind of letter which I hoped would\nestablish my character in his mind as an industrious innocent.\n\nSeven o'clock found me in Newmilns Street, where I was seized upon by\nWilkie. He had put on a clean collar for the occasion and had partially\nwashed his thin face. The poor fellow had a cough that shook him like\nthe walls of a power-house when the dynamos are going.\n\nHe was very apologetic about Amos. 'Andra belongs to a past worrld,' he\nsaid. 'He has a big reputation in his society, and he's a fine fighter,\nbut he has no kind of Vision, if ye understand me. He's an auld\nGladstonian, and that's done and damned in Scotland. He's not a Modern,\nMr Brand, like you and me. But tonight ye'll meet one or two chaps\nthat'll be worth your while to ken. Ye'll maybe no go quite as far as\nthem, but ye're on the same road. I'm hoping for the day when we'll\nhave oor Councils of Workmen and Soldiers like the Russians all over\nthe land and dictate our terms to the pawrasites in Pawrliament. They\ntell me, too, the boys in the trenches are comin' round to our side.'\n\nWe entered the hall by a back door, and in a little waiting-room I was\nintroduced to some of the speakers. They were a scratch lot as seen in\nthat dingy place. The chairman was a shop-steward in one of the\nSocieties, a fierce little rat of a man, who spoke with a cockney\naccent and addressed me as 'Comrade'. But one of them roused my\nliveliest interest. I heard the name of Gresson, and turned to find a\nfellow of about thirty-five, rather sprucely dressed, with a flower in\nhis buttonhole. 'Mr Brand,' he said, in a rich American voice which\nrecalled Blenkiron's. 'Very pleased to meet you, sir. We have come from\nremote parts of the globe to be present at this gathering.' I noticed\nthat he had reddish hair, and small bright eyes, and a nose with a\ndroop like a Polish Jew's.\n\nAs soon as we reached the platform I saw that there was going to be\ntrouble. The hall was packed to the door, and in all the front half\nthere was the kind of audience I expected to see--working-men of the\npolitical type who before the war would have thronged to party\nmeetings. But not all the crowd at the back had come to listen. Some\nwere scallawags, some looked like better-class clerks out for a spree,\nand there was a fair quantity of khaki. There were also one or two\ngentlemen not strictly sober.\n\nThe chairman began by putting his foot in it. He said we were there\ntonight to protest against the continuation of the war and to form a\nbranch of the new British Council of Workmen and Soldiers. He told them\nwith a fine mixture of metaphors that we had got to take the reins into\nour own hands, for the men who were running the war had their own axes\nto grind and were marching to oligarchy through the blood of the\nworkers. He added that we had no quarrel with Germany half as bad as we\nhad with our own capitalists. He looked forward to the day when British\nsoldiers would leap from their trenches and extend the hand of\nfriendship to their German comrades.\n\n'No me!' said a solemn voice. 'I'm not seekin' a bullet in my\nwame,'--at which there was laughter and cat-calls.\n\nTombs followed and made a worse hash of it. He was determined to speak,\nas he would have put it, to democracy in its own language, so he said\n'hell' several times, loudly but without conviction. Presently he\nslipped into the manner of the lecturer, and the audience grew\nrestless. 'I propose to ask myself a question--' he began, and from the\nback of the hall came--'And a damned sully answer ye'll get.' After\nthat there was no more Tombs.\n\nI followed with extreme nervousness, and to my surprise got a fair\nhearing. I felt as mean as a mangy dog on a cold morning, for I hated\nto talk rot before soldiers--especially before a couple of Royal Scots\nFusiliers, who, for all I knew, might have been in my own brigade. My\nline was the plain, practical, patriotic man, just come from the\ncolonies, who looked at things with fresh eyes, and called for a new\ndeal. I was very moderate, but to justify my appearance there I had to\nput in a wild patch or two, and I got these by impassioned attacks on\nthe Ministry of Munitions. I mixed up a little mild praise of the\nGermans, whom I said I had known all over the world for decent fellows.\nI received little applause, but no marked dissent, and sat down with\ndeep thankfulness.\n\nThe next speaker put the lid on it. I believe he was a noted agitator,\nwho had already been deported. Towards him there was no lukewarmness,\nfor one half of the audience cheered wildly when he rose, and the other\nhalf hissed and groaned. He began with whirlwind abuse of the idle\nrich, then of the middle-classes (he called them the 'rich man's\nflunkeys'), and finally of the Government. All that was fairly well\nreceived, for it is the fashion of the Briton to run down every\nGovernment and yet to be very averse to parting from it. Then he\nstarted on the soldiers and slanged the officers ('gentry pups' was his\nname for them), and the generals, whom he accused of idleness, of\ncowardice, and of habitual intoxication. He told us that our own kith\nand kin were sacrificed in every battle by leaders who had not the guts\nto share their risks. The Scots Fusiliers looked perturbed, as if they\nwere in doubt of his meaning. Then he put it more plainly. 'Will any\nsoldier deny that the men are the barrage to keep the officers' skins\nwhole?'\n\n'That's a bloody lee,' said one of the Fusilier jocks.\n\nThe man took no notice of the interruption, being carried away by the\ntorrent of his own rhetoric, but he had not allowed for the persistence\nof the interrupter. The jock got slowly to his feet, and announced that\nhe wanted satisfaction. 'If ye open your dirty gab to blagyird honest\nmen, I'll come up on the platform and wring your neck.'\n\nAt that there was a fine old row, some crying out 'Order', some 'Fair\nplay', and some applauding. A Canadian at the back of the hall started\na song, and there was an ugly press forward. The hall seemed to be\nmoving up from the back, and already men were standing in all the\npassages and right to the edge of the platform. I did not like the look\nin the eyes of these new-comers, and among the crowd I saw several who\nwere obviously plain-clothes policemen.\n\nThe chairman whispered a word to the speaker, who continued when the\nnoise had temporarily died down. He kept off the army and returned to\nthe Government, and for a little sluiced out pure anarchism. But he got\nhis foot in it again, for he pointed to the Sinn Feiners as examples of\nmanly independence. At that, pandemonium broke loose, and he never had\nanother look in. There were several fights going on in the hall between\nthe public and courageous supporters of the orator.\n\nThen Gresson advanced to the edge of the platform in a vain endeavour\nto retrieve the day. I must say he did it uncommonly well. He was\nclearly a practised speaker, and for a moment his appeal 'Now, boys,\nlet's cool down a bit and talk sense,' had an effect. But the mischief\nhad been done, and the crowd was surging round the lonely redoubt where\nwe sat. Besides, I could see that for all his clever talk the meeting\ndid not like the look of him. He was as mild as a turtle dove, but they\nwouldn't stand for it. A missile hurtled past my nose, and I saw a\nrotten cabbage envelop the baldish head of the ex-deportee. Someone\nreached out a long arm and grabbed a chair, and with it took the legs\nfrom Gresson. Then the lights suddenly went out, and we retreated in\ngood order by the platform door with a yelling crowd at our heels.\n\nIt was here that the plain-clothes men came in handy. They held the\ndoor while the ex-deportee was smuggled out by some side entrance. That\nclass of lad would soon cease to exist but for the protection of the\nlaw which he would abolish. The rest of us, having less to fear, were\nsuffered to leak into Newmilns Street. I found myself next to Gresson,\nand took his arm. There was something hard in his coat pocket.\n\nUnfortunately there was a big lamp at the point where we emerged, and\nthere for our confusion were the Fusilier jocks. Both were strung to\nfighting pitch, and were determined to have someone's blood. Of me they\ntook no notice, but Gresson had spoken after their ire had been roused,\nand was marked out as a victim. With a howl of joy they rushed for him.\n\nI felt his hand steal to his side-pocket. 'Let that alone, you fool,' I\ngrowled in his ear.\n\n'Sure, mister,' he said, and the next second we were in the thick of it.\n\nIt was like so many street fights I have seen--an immense crowd which\nsurged up around us, and yet left a clear ring. Gresson and I got\nagainst the wall on the side-walk, and faced the furious soldiery. My\nintention was to do as little as possible, but the first minute\nconvinced me that my companion had no idea how to use his fists, and I\nwas mortally afraid that he would get busy with the gun in his pocket.\nIt was that fear that brought me into the scrap. The jocks were\nsportsmen every bit of them, and only one advanced to the combat. He\nhit Gresson a clip on the jaw with his left, and but for the wall would\nhave laid him out. I saw in the lamplight the vicious gleam in the\nAmerican's eye and the twitch of his hand to his pocket. That decided\nme to interfere and I got in front of him.\n\nThis brought the second jock into the fray. He was a broad, thickset\nfellow, of the adorable bandy-legged stocky type that I had seen go\nthrough the Railway Triangle at Arras as though it were blotting-paper.\nHe had some notion of fighting, too, and gave me a rough time, for I\nhad to keep edging the other fellow off Gresson.\n\n'Go home, you fool,' I shouted. 'Let this gentleman alone. I don't want\nto hurt you.'\n\nThe only answer was a hook-hit which I just managed to guard, followed\nby a mighty drive with his right which I dodged so that he barked his\nknuckles on the wall. I heard a yell of rage, and observed that Gresson\nseemed to have kicked his assailant on the shin. I began to long for\nthe police.\n\nThen there was that swaying of the crowd which betokens the approach of\nthe forces of law and order. But they were too late to prevent trouble.\nIn self-defence I had to take my jock seriously, and got in my blow\nwhen he had overreached himself and lost his balance. I never hit\nanyone so unwillingly in my life. He went over like a poled ox, and\nmeasured his length on the causeway.\n\nI found myself explaining things politely to the constables. 'These men\nobjected to this gentleman's speech at the meeting, and I had to\ninterfere to protect him. No, no! I don't want to charge anybody. It\nwas all a misunderstanding.' I helped the stricken jock to rise and\noffered him ten bob for consolation.\n\nHe looked at me sullenly and spat on the ground. 'Keep your dirty\nmoney,' he said. 'I'll be even with ye yet, my man--you and that\nred-headed scab. I'll mind the looks of ye the next time I see ye.'\n\nGresson was wiping the blood from his cheek with a silk handkerchief.\n'I guess I'm in your debt, Mr Brand,' he said. 'You may bet I won't\nforget it.'\n\n            *       *       *       *       *\n\nI returned to an anxious Amos. He heard my story in silence and his\nonly comment was--'Well done the Fusiliers!'\n\n'It might have been worse, I'll not deny,' he went on. 'Ye've\nestablished some kind of a claim upon Gresson, which may come in handy\n... Speaking about Gresson, I've news for ye. He's sailing on Friday as\npurser in the _Tobermory_. The _Tobermory's_ a boat that wanders every\nmonth up the West Highlands as far as Stornoway. I've arranged for ye\nto take a trip on that boat, Mr Brand.'\n\nI nodded. 'How did you find out that?' I asked.\n\n'It took me some finding,' he said dryly, 'but I've ways and means. Now\nI'll not trouble ye with advice, for ye ken your job as well as me. But\nI'm going north myself the morn to look after some of the Ross-shire\nwuds, and I'll be in the way of getting telegrams at the Kyle. Ye'll\nkeep that in mind. Keep in mind, too, that I'm a great reader of the\n_Pilgrim's Progress_ and that I've a cousin of the name of Ochterlony.'\n\n\n\nCHAPTER FIVE\n\nVarious Doings in the West\n\nThe _Tobermory_ was no ship for passengers. Its decks were littered\nwith a hundred oddments, so that a man could barely walk a step without\ntacking, and my bunk was simply a shelf in the frowsty little saloon,\nwhere the odour of ham and eggs hung like a fog. I joined her at\nGreenock and took a turn on deck with the captain after tea, when he\ntold me the names of the big blue hills to the north. He had a fine old\ncopper-coloured face and side-whiskers like an archbishop, and, having\nspent all his days beating up the western seas, had as many yarns in\nhis head as Peter himself.\n\n'On this boat,' he announced, 'we don't ken what a day may bring forth.\nI may put into Colonsay for twa hours and bide there three days. I get\na telegram at Oban and the next thing I'm awa ayont Barra. Sheep's the\ndifficult business. They maun be fetched for the sales, and they're\ndooms slow to lift. So ye see it's not what ye call a pleasure trip,\nMaister Brand.'\n\nIndeed it wasn't, for the confounded tub wallowed like a fat sow as\nsoon as we rounded a headland and got the weight of the south-western\nwind. When asked my purpose, I explained that I was a colonial of Scots\nextraction, who was paying his first visit to his fatherland and wanted\nto explore the beauties of the West Highlands. I let him gather that I\nwas not rich in this world's goods.\n\n'Ye'll have a passport?' he asked. 'They'll no let ye go north o' Fort\nWilliam without one.'\n\nAmos had said nothing about passports, so I looked blank.\n\n'I could keep ye on board for the whole voyage,' he went on, 'but ye\nwouldna be permitted to land. If ye're seekin' enjoyment, it would be a\npoor job sittin' on this deck and admirin' the works o' God and no\nallowed to step on the pier-head. Ye should have applied to the\nmilitary gentlemen in Glesca. But ye've plenty o' time to make up your\nmind afore we get to Oban. We've a heap o' calls to make Mull and Islay\nway.'\n\nThe purser came up to inquire about my ticket, and greeted me with a\ngrin.\n\n'Ye're acquaint with Mr Gresson, then?' said the captain. 'Weel, we're\na cheery wee ship's company, and that's the great thing on this kind o'\njob.'\n\nI made but a poor supper, for the wind had risen to half a gale, and I\nsaw hours of wretchedness approaching. The trouble with me is that I\ncannot be honestly sick and get it over. Queasiness and headache beset\nme and there is no refuge but bed. I turned into my bunk, leaving the\ncaptain and the mate smoking shag not six feet from my head, and fell\ninto a restless sleep. When I woke the place was empty, and smelt\nvilely of stale tobacco and cheese. My throbbing brows made sleep\nimpossible, and I tried to ease them by staggering upon deck. I saw a\nclear windy sky, with every star as bright as a live coal, and a\nheaving waste of dark waters running to ink-black hills. Then a douche\nof spray caught me and sent me down the companion to my bunk again,\nwhere I lay for hours trying to make a plan of campaign.\n\nI argued that if Amos had wanted me to have a passport he would have\nprovided one, so I needn't bother my head about that. But it was my\nbusiness to keep alongside Gresson, and if the boat stayed a week in\nsome port and he went off ashore, I must follow him. Having no passport\nI would have to be always dodging trouble, which would handicap my\nmovements and in all likelihood make me more conspicuous than I wanted.\nI guessed that Amos had denied me the passport for the very reason that\nhe wanted Gresson to think me harmless. The area of danger would,\ntherefore, be the passport country, somewhere north of Fort William.\n\nBut to follow Gresson I must run risks and enter that country. His\nsuspicions, if he had any, would be lulled if I left the boat at Oban,\nbut it was up to me to follow overland to the north and hit the place\nwhere the _Tobermory_ made a long stay. The confounded tub had no\nplans; she wandered about the West Highlands looking for sheep and\nthings; and the captain himself could give me no time-table of her\nvoyage. It was incredible that Gresson should take all this trouble if\nhe did not know that at some place--and the right place--he would have\ntime to get a spell ashore. But I could scarcely ask Gresson for that\ninformation, though I determined to cast a wary fly over him. I knew\nroughly the _Tobermory's_ course--through the Sound of Islay to\nColonsay; then up the east side of Mull to Oban; then through the Sound\nof Mull to the islands with names like cocktails, Rum and Eigg and\nColl; then to Skye; and then for the Outer Hebrides. I thought the last\nwould be the place, and it seemed madness to leave the boat, for the\nLord knew how I should get across the Minch. This consideration upset\nall my plans again, and I fell into a troubled sleep without coming to\nany conclusion.\n\nMorning found us nosing between Jura and Islay, and about midday we\ntouched at a little port, where we unloaded some cargo and took on a\ncouple of shepherds who were going to Colonsay. The mellow afternoon\nand the good smell of salt and heather got rid of the dregs of my\nqueasiness, and I spent a profitable hour on the pier-head with a\nguide-book called _Baddely's Scotland_, and one of Bartholomew's maps.\nI was beginning to think that Amos might be able to tell me something,\nfor a talk with the captain had suggested that the _Tobermory_ would\nnot dally long in the neighbourhood of Rum and Eigg. The big droving\nseason was scarcely on yet, and sheep for the Oban market would be\nlifted on the return journey. In that case Skye was the first place to\nwatch, and if I could get wind of any big cargo waiting there I would\nbe able to make a plan. Amos was somewhere near the Kyle, and that was\nacross the narrows from Skye. Looking at the map, it seemed to me that,\nin spite of being passportless, I might be able somehow to make my way\nup through Morvern and Arisaig to the latitude of Skye. The difficulty\nwould be to get across the strip of sea, but there must be boats to\nbeg, borrow or steal.\n\nI was poring over Baddely when Gresson sat down beside me. He was in a\ngood temper, and disposed to talk, and to my surprise his talk was all\nabout the beauties of the countryside. There was a kind of apple-green\nlight over everything; the steep heather hills cut into the sky like\npurple amethysts, while beyond the straits the western ocean stretched\nits pale molten gold to the sunset. Gresson waxed lyrical over the\nscene. 'This just about puts me right inside, Mr Brand. I've got to get\naway from that little old town pretty frequent or I begin to moult like\na canary. A man feels a man when he gets to a place that smells as good\nas this. Why in hell do we ever get messed up in those stone and lime\ncages? I reckon some day I'll pull my freight for a clean location and\nsettle down there and make little poems. This place would about content\nme. And there's a spot out in California in the Coast ranges that I've\nbeen keeping my eye on,' The odd thing was that I believe he meant it.\nHis ugly face was lit up with a serious delight.\n\nHe told me he had taken this voyage before, so I got out Baddely and\nasked for advice. 'I can't spend too much time on holidaying,' I told\nhim, 'and I want to see all the beauty spots. But the best of them seem\nto be in the area that this fool British Government won't let you into\nwithout a passport. I suppose I shall have to leave you at Oban.'\n\n'Too bad,' he said sympathetically. 'Well, they tell me there's some\npretty sights round Oban.' And he thumbed the guide-book and began to\nread about Glencoe.\n\nI said that was not my purpose, and pitched him a yarn about Prince\nCharlie and how my mother's great-grandfather had played some kind of\npart in that show. I told him I wanted to see the place where the\nPrince landed and where he left for France. 'So far as I can make out\nthat won't take me into the passport country, but I'll have to do a bit\nof footslogging. Well, I'm used to padding the hoof. I must get the\ncaptain to put me off in Morvern, and then I can foot it round the top\nof Lochiel and get back to Oban through Appin. How's that for a holiday\ntrek?'\n\nHe gave the scheme his approval. 'But if it was me, Mr Brand, I would\nhave a shot at puzzling your gallant policemen. You and I don't take\nmuch stock in Governments and their two-cent laws, and it would be a\ngood game to see just how far you could get into the forbidden land. A\nman like you could put up a good bluff on those hayseeds. I don't mind\nhaving a bet ...'\n\n'No,' I said. 'I'm out for a rest, and not for sport. If there was\nanything to be gained I'd undertake to bluff my way to the Orkney\nIslands. But it's a wearing job and I've better things to think about.'\n\n'So? Well, enjoy yourself your own way. I'll be sorry when you leave\nus, for I owe you something for that rough-house, and beside there's\ndarned little company in the old moss-back captain.'\n\nThat evening Gresson and I swopped yarns after supper to the\naccompaniment of the 'Ma Goad!' and 'Is't possible?' of captain and\nmate. I went to bed after a glass or two of weak grog, and made up for\nthe last night's vigil by falling sound asleep. I had very little kit\nwith me, beyond what I stood up in and could carry in my waterproof\npockets, but on Amos's advice I had brought my little nickel-plated\nrevolver. This lived by day in my hip pocket, but at night I put it\nbehind my pillow. But when I woke next morning to find us casting\nanchor in the bay below rough low hills, which I knew to be the island\nof Colonsay, I could find no trace of the revolver. I searched every\ninch of the bunk and only shook out feathers from the mouldy ticking. I\nremembered perfectly putting the thing behind my head before I went to\nsleep, and now it had vanished utterly. Of course I could not advertise\nmy loss, and I didn't greatly mind it, for this was not a job where I\ncould do much shooting. But it made me think a good deal about Mr\nGresson. He simply could not suspect me; if he had bagged my gun, as I\nwas pretty certain he had, it must be because he wanted it for himself\nand not that he might disarm me. Every way I argued it I reached the\nsame conclusion. In Gresson's eyes I must seem as harmless as a child.\n\nWe spent the better part of a day at Colonsay, and Gresson, so far as\nhis duties allowed, stuck to me like a limpet. Before I went ashore I\nwrote out a telegram for Amos. I devoted a hectic hour to the\n_Pilgrim's Progress_, but I could not compose any kind of intelligible\nmessage with reference to its text. We had all the same edition--the\none in the _Golden Treasury_ series--so I could have made up a sort of\ncipher by referring to lines and pages, but that would have taken up a\ndozen telegraph forms and seemed to me too elaborate for the purpose.\nSo I sent this message:\n\n   _Ochterlony, Post Office, Kyle,\n   I hope to spend part of holiday near you and to see you if boat's\n   programme permits. Are any good cargoes waiting in your\n   neighbourhood? Reply Post Office, Oban._\n\nIt was highly important that Gresson should not see this, but it was\nthe deuce of a business to shake him off. I went for a walk in the\nafternoon along the shore and passed the telegraph office, but the\nconfounded fellow was with me all the time. My only chance was just\nbefore we sailed, when he had to go on board to check some cargo. As\nthe telegraph office stood full in view of the ship's deck I did not go\nnear it. But in the back end of the clachan I found the schoolmaster,\nand got him to promise to send the wire. I also bought off him a couple\nof well-worn sevenpenny novels.\n\nThe result was that I delayed our departure for ten minutes and when I\ncame on board faced a wrathful Gresson. 'Where the hell have you been?'\nhe asked. 'The weather's blowing up dirty and the old man's mad to get\noff. Didn't you get your legs stretched enough this afternoon?'\n\nI explained humbly that I had been to the schoolmaster to get something\nto read, and produced my dingy red volumes. At that his brow cleared. I\ncould see that his suspicions were set at rest.\n\nWe left Colonsay about six in the evening with the sky behind us\nbanking for a storm, and the hills of Jura to starboard an angry\npurple. Colonsay was too low an island to be any kind of breakwater\nagainst a western gale, so the weather was bad from the start. Our\ncourse was north by east, and when we had passed the butt-end of the\nisland we nosed about in the trough of big seas, shipping tons of water\nand rolling like a buffalo. I know as much about boats as about\nEgyptian hieroglyphics, but even my landsman's eyes could tell that we\nwere in for a rough night. I was determined not to get queasy again,\nbut when I went below the smell of tripe and onions promised to be my\nundoing; so I dined off a slab of chocolate and a cabin biscuit, put on\nmy waterproof, and resolved to stick it out on deck.\n\nI took up position near the bows, where I was out of reach of the oily\nsteamer smells. It was as fresh as the top of a mountain, but mighty\ncold and wet, for a gusty drizzle had set in, and I got the spindrift\nof the big waves. There I balanced myself, as we lurched into the\ntwilight, hanging on with one hand to a rope which descended from the\nstumpy mast. I noticed that there was only an indifferent rail between\nme and the edge, but that interested me and helped to keep off\nsickness. I swung to the movement of the vessel, and though I was\nmortally cold it was rather pleasant than otherwise. My notion was to\nget the nausea whipped out of me by the weather, and, when I was\nproperly tired, to go down and turn in.\n\nI stood there till the dark had fallen. By that time I was an\nautomaton, the way a man gets on sentry-go, and I could have easily\nhung on till morning. My thoughts ranged about the earth, beginning\nwith the business I had set out on, and presently--by way of\nrecollections of Blenkiron and Peter--reaching the German forest where,\nin the Christmas of 1915, I had been nearly done in by fever and old\nStumm. I remembered the bitter cold of that wild race, and the way the\nsnow seemed to burn like fire when I stumbled and got my face into it.\nI reflected that sea-sickness was kitten's play to a good bout of\nmalaria.\n\nThe weather was growing worse, and I was getting more than spindrift\nfrom the seas. I hooked my arm round the rope, for my fingers were\nnumbing. Then I fell to dreaming again, principally about Fosse Manor\nand Mary Lamington. This so ravished me that I was as good as asleep. I\nwas trying to reconstruct the picture as I had last seen her at\nBiggleswick station ...\n\nA heavy body collided with me and shook my arm from the rope. I\nslithered across the yard of deck, engulfed in a whirl of water. One\nfoot caught a stanchion of the rail, and it gave with me, so that for\nan instant I was more than half overboard. But my fingers clawed wildly\nand caught in the links of what must have been the anchor chain. They\nheld, though a ton's weight seemed to be tugging at my feet ... Then\nthe old tub rolled back, the waters slipped off, and I was sprawling on\na wet deck with no breath in me and a gallon of brine in my windpipe.\n\nI heard a voice cry out sharply, and a hand helped me to my feet. It\nwas Gresson, and he seemed excited.\n\n'God, Mr Brand, that was a close call! I was coming up to find you,\nwhen this damned ship took to lying on her side. I guess I must have\ncannoned into you, and I was calling myself bad names when I saw you\nrolling into the Atlantic. If I hadn't got a grip on the rope I would\nhave been down beside you. Say, you're not hurt? I reckon you'd better\ncome below and get a glass of rum under your belt. You're about as wet\nas mother's dish-clouts.'\n\nThere's one advantage about campaigning. You take your luck when it\ncomes and don't worry about what might have been. I didn't think any\nmore of the business, except that it had cured me of wanting to be\nsea-sick. I went down to the reeking cabin without one qualm in my\nstomach, and ate a good meal of welsh-rabbit and bottled Bass, with a\ntot of rum to follow up with. Then I shed my wet garments, and slept in\nmy bunk till we anchored off a village in Mull in a clear blue morning.\n\nIt took us four days to crawl up that coast and make Oban, for we\nseemed to be a floating general store for every hamlet in those parts.\nGresson made himself very pleasant, as if he wanted to atone for nearly\ndoing me in. We played some poker, and I read the little books I had\ngot in Colonsay, and then rigged up a fishing-line, and caught saithe\nand lythe and an occasional big haddock. But I found the time pass\nslowly, and I was glad that about noon one day we came into a bay\nblocked with islands and saw a clean little town sitting on the hills\nand the smoke of a railway engine.\n\nI went ashore and purchased a better brand of hat in a tweed store.\nThen I made a bee-line for the post office, and asked for telegrams.\nOne was given to me, and as I opened it I saw Gresson at my elbow.\n\nIt read thus:\n\n   _Brand, Post office, Oban. Page 117, paragraph 3. Ochterlony._\n\nI passed it to Gresson with a rueful face.\n\n'There's a piece of foolishness,' I said. 'I've got a cousin who's a\nPresbyterian minister up in Ross-shire, and before I knew about this\npassport humbug I wrote to him and offered to pay him a visit. I told\nhim to wire me here if it was convenient, and the old idiot has sent me\nthe wrong telegram. This was likely as not meant for some other brother\nparson, who's got my message instead.'\n\n'What's the guy's name?' Gresson asked curiously, peering at the\nsignature.\n\n'Ochterlony. David Ochterlony. He's a great swell at writing books, but\nhe's no earthly use at handling the telegraph. However, it don't\nsignify, seeing I'm not going near him.' I crumpled up the pink form\nand tossed it on the floor. Gresson and I walked to the _Tobermory_\ntogether.\n\nThat afternoon, when I got a chance, I had out my _Pilgrim's Progress_.\nPage 117, paragraph 3, read:\n\n   '_Then I saw in my dream, that a little off the road, over\n   against the Silver-mine, stood Demas (gentlemanlike) to call to\n   passengers to come and see: who said to Christian and his\n   fellow, Ho, turn aside hither and I will show you a thing._\n\nAt tea I led the talk to my own past life. I yarned about my\nexperiences as a mining engineer, and said I could never get out of the\ntrick of looking at country with the eye of the prospector. 'For\ninstance,' I said, 'if this had been Rhodesia, I would have said there\nwas a good chance of copper in these little kopjes above the town.\nThey're not unlike the hills round the Messina mine.' I told the\ncaptain that after the war I was thinking of turning my attention to\nthe West Highlands and looking out for minerals.\n\n'Ye'll make nothing of it,' said the captain. 'The costs are ower big,\neven if ye found the minerals, for ye'd have to import a' your labour.\nThe West Hielandman is no fond o' hard work. Ye ken the psalm o' the\ncrofter?\n\n   _O that the peats would cut themselves,\n   The fish chump on the shore,\n   And that I in my bed might lie\n   Henceforth for ever more!_'\n\n'Has it ever been tried?' I asked.\n\n'Often. There's marble and slate quarries, and there was word o' coal\nin Benbecula. And there's the iron mines at Ranna.'\n\n'Where's that?' I asked.\n\n'Up forenent Skye. We call in there, and generally bide a bit. There's\na heap of cargo for Ranna, and we usually get a good load back. But as\nI tell ye, there's few Hielanders working there. Mostly Irish and lads\nfrae Fife and Falkirk way.'\n\nI didn't pursue the subject, for I had found Demas's silver-mine. If\nthe _Tobermory_ lay at Ranna for a week, Gresson would have time to do\nhis own private business. Ranna would not be the spot, for the island\nwas bare to the world in the middle of a much-frequented channel. But\nSkye was just across the way, and when I looked in my map at its big,\nwandering peninsulas I concluded that my guess had been right, and that\nSkye was the place to make for.\n\nThat night I sat on deck with Gresson, and in a wonderful starry\nsilence we watched the lights die out of the houses in the town, and\ntalked of a thousand things. I noticed--what I had had a hint of\nbefore--that my companion was no common man. There were moments when he\nforgot himself and talked like an educated gentleman: then he would\nremember, and relapse into the lingo of Leadville, Colorado. In my\ncharacter of the ingenuous inquirer I set him posers about politics and\neconomics, the kind of thing I might have been supposed to pick up from\nunintelligent browsing among little books. Generally he answered with\nsome slangy catchword, but occasionally he was interested beyond his\ndiscretion, and treated me to a harangue like an equal. I discovered\nanother thing, that he had a craze for poetry, and a capacious memory\nfor it. I forgot how we drifted into the subject, but I remember he\nquoted some queer haunting stuff which he said was Swinburne, and\nverses by people I had heard of from Letchford at Biggleswick. Then he\nsaw by my silence that he had gone too far, and fell back into the\njargon of the West. He wanted to know about my plans, and we went down\ninto the cabin and had a look at the map. I explained my route, up\nMorvern and round the head of Lochiel, and back to Oban by the east\nside of Loch Linnhe.\n\n'Got you,' he said. 'You've a hell of a walk before you. That bug never\nbit me, and I guess I'm not envying you any. And after that, Mr Brand?'\n\n'Back to Glasgow to do some work for the cause,' I said lightly.\n\n'Just so,' he said with a grin. 'It's a great life if you don't weaken.'\n\nWe steamed out of the bay next morning at dawn, and about nine o'clock\nI got on shore at a little place called Lochaline. My kit was all on my\nperson, and my waterproof's pockets were stuffed with chocolates and\nbiscuits I had bought in Oban. The captain was discouraging. 'Ye'll get\nyour bellyful o' Hieland hills, Mr Brand, afore ye win round the loch\nhead. Ye'll be wishin' yerself back on the _Tobermory_.' But Gresson\nspeeded me joyfully on my way, and said he wished he were coming with\nme. He even accompanied me the first hundred yards, and waved his hat\nafter me till I was round the turn of the road.\n\nThe first stage in that journey was pure delight. I was thankful to be\nrid of the infernal boat, and the hot summer scents coming down the\nglen were comforting after the cold, salt smell of the sea. The road\nlay up the side of a small bay, at the top of which a big white house\nstood among gardens. Presently I had left the coast and was in a glen\nwhere a brown salmon-river swirled through acres of bog-myrtle. It had\nits source in a loch, from which the mountain rose steeply--a place so\nglassy in that August forenoon that every scar and wrinkle of the\nhillside were faithfully reflected. After that I crossed a low pass to\nthe head of another sea-lock, and, following the map, struck over the\nshoulder of a great hill and ate my luncheon far up on its side, with a\nwonderful vista of wood and water below me.\n\nAll that morning I was very happy, not thinking about Gresson or Ivery,\nbut getting my mind clear in those wide spaces, and my lungs filled\nwith the brisk hill air. But I noticed one curious thing. On my last\nvisit to Scotland, when I covered more moorland miles a day than any\nman since Claverhouse, I had been fascinated by the land, and had\npleased myself with plans for settling down in it. But now, after three\nyears of war and general rocketing, I felt less drawn to that kind of\nlandscape. I wanted something more green and peaceful and habitable,\nand it was to the Cotswolds that my memory turned with longing.\n\nI puzzled over this till I realized that in all my Cotswold pictures a\nfigure kept going and coming--a young girl with a cloud of gold hair\nand the strong, slim grace of a boy, who had sung 'Cherry Ripe' in a\nmoonlit garden. Up on that hillside I understood very clearly that I,\nwho had been as careless of women as any monk, had fallen wildly in\nlove with a child of half my age. I was loath to admit it, though for\nweeks the conclusion had been forcing itself on me. Not that I didn't\nrevel in my madness, but that it seemed too hopeless a business, and I\nhad no use for barren philandering. But, seated on a rock munching\nchocolate and biscuits, I faced up to the fact and resolved to trust my\nluck. After all we were comrades in a big job, and it was up to me to\nbe man enough to win her. The thought seemed to brace any courage that\nwas in me. No task seemed too hard with her approval to gain and her\ncompanionship somewhere at the back of it. I sat for a long time in a\nhappy dream, remembering all the glimpses I had had of her, and humming\nher song to an audience of one black-faced sheep.\n\nOn the highroad half a mile below me, I saw a figure on a bicycle\nmounting the hill, and then getting off to mop its face at the summit.\nI turned my Ziess glasses on to it, and observed that it was a country\npoliceman. It caught sight of me, stared for a bit, tucked its machine\ninto the side of the road, and then very slowly began to climb the\nhillside. Once it stopped, waved its hand and shouted something which I\ncould not hear. I sat finishing my luncheon, till the features were\nrevealed to me of a fat oldish man, blowing like a grampus, his cap\nwell on the back of a bald head, and his trousers tied about the shins\nwith string.\n\nThere was a spring beside me and I had out my flask to round off my\nmeal.\n\n'Have a drink,' I said.\n\nHis eye brightened, and a smile overran his moist face.\n\n'Thank you, sir. It will be very warrm coming up the brae.'\n\n'You oughtn't to,' I said. 'You really oughtn't, you know. Scorching up\nhills and then doubling up a mountain are not good for your time of\nlife.'\n\nHe raised the cap of my flask in solemn salutation. 'Your very good\nhealth.' Then he smacked his lips, and had several cupfuls of water\nfrom the spring.\n\n'You will haf come from Achranich way, maybe?' he said in his soft\nsing-song, having at last found his breath.\n\n'Just so. Fine weather for the birds, if there was anybody to shoot\nthem.'\n\n'Ah, no. There will be few shots fired today, for there are no\ngentlemen left in Morvern. But I wass asking you, if you come from\nAchranich, if you haf seen anybody on the road.'\n\nFrom his pocket he extricated a brown envelope and a bulky telegraph\nform. 'Will you read it, sir, for I haf forgot my spectacles?'\n\nIt contained a description of one Brand, a South African and a\nsuspected character, whom the police were warned to stop and return to\nOban. The description wasn't bad, but it lacked any one good\ndistinctive detail. Clearly the policeman took me for an innocent\npedestrian, probably the guest of some moorland shooting-box, with my\nbrown face and rough tweeds and hobnailed shoes.\n\nI frowned and puzzled a little. 'I did see a fellow about three miles\nback on the hillside. There's a public-house just where the burn comes\nin, and I think he was making for it. Maybe that was your man. This\nwire says \"South African\"; and now I remember the fellow had the look\nof a colonial.'\n\nThe policeman sighed. 'No doubt it will be the man. Perhaps he will haf\na pistol and will shoot.'\n\n'Not him,' I laughed. 'He looked a mangy sort of chap, and he'll be\nscared out of his senses at the sight of you. But take my advice and\nget somebody with you before you tackle him. You're always the better\nof a witness.'\n\n'That is so,' he said, brightening. 'Ach, these are the bad times! in\nold days there wass nothing to do but watch the doors at the\nflower-shows and keep the yachts from poaching the sea-trout. But now\nit is spies, spies, and \"Donald, get out of your bed, and go off twenty\nmile to find a German.\" I wass wishing the war wass by, and the Germans\nall dead.'\n\n'Hear, hear!' I cried, and on the strength of it gave him another dram.\n\nI accompanied him to the road, and saw him mount his bicycle and\nzig-zag like a snipe down the hill towards Achranich. Then I set off\nbriskly northward. It was clear that the faster I moved the better.\n\nAs I went I paid disgusted tribute to the efficiency of the Scottish\npolice. I wondered how on earth they had marked me down. Perhaps it was\nthe Glasgow meeting, or perhaps my association with Ivery at\nBiggleswick. Anyhow there was somebody somewhere mighty quick at\ncompiling a _dossier_. Unless I wanted to be bundled back to Oban I\nmust make good speed to the Arisaig coast.\n\nPresently the road fell to a gleaming sea-loch which lay like the blue\nblade of a sword among the purple of the hills. At the head there was a\ntiny clachan, nestled among birches and rowans, where a tawny burn\nwound to the sea. When I entered the place it was about four o'clock in\nthe afternoon, and peace lay on it like a garment. In the wide, sunny\nstreet there was no sign of life, and no sound except of hens clucking\nand of bees busy among the roses. There was a little grey box of a\nkirk, and close to the bridge a thatched cottage which bore the sign of\na post and telegraph office.\n\nFor the past hour I had been considering that I had better prepare for\nmishaps. If the police of these parts had been warned they might prove\ntoo much for me, and Gresson would be allowed to make his journey\nunmatched. The only thing to do was to send a wire to Amos and leave\nthe matter in his hands. Whether that was possible or not depended upon\nthis remote postal authority.\n\nI entered the little shop, and passed from bright sunshine to a\ntwilight smelling of paraffin and black-striped peppermint balls. An\nold woman with a mutch sat in an arm-chair behind the counter. She\nlooked up at me over her spectacles and smiled, and I took to her on\nthe instant. She had the kind of old wise face that God loves.\n\nBeside her I noticed a little pile of books, one of which was a Bible.\nOpen on her lap was a paper, the _United Free Church Monthly_. I\nnoticed these details greedily, for I had to make up my mind on the\npart to play.\n\n'It's a warm day, mistress,' I said, my voice falling into the broad\nLowland speech, for I had an instinct that she was not of the Highlands.\n\nShe laid aside her paper. 'It is that, sir. It is grand weather for the\nhairst, but here that's no till the hinner end o' September, and at the\nbest it's a bit scart o' aits.'\n\n'Ay. It's a different thing down Annandale way,' I said.\n\nHer face lit up. 'Are ye from Dumfries, sir?'\n\n'Not just from Dumfries, but I know the Borders fine.'\n\n'Ye'll no beat them,' she cried. 'Not that this is no a guid place and\nI've muckle to be thankfu' for since John Sanderson--that was ma\nman--brought me here forty-seeven year syne come Martinmas. But the\naulder I get the mair I think o' the bit whaur I was born. It was twae\nmiles from Wamphray on the Lockerbie road, but they tell me the place\nis noo just a rickle o' stanes.'\n\n'I was wondering, mistress, if I could get a cup of tea in the village.'\n\n'Ye'll hae a cup wi' me,' she said. 'It's no often we see onybody frae\nthe Borders hereaways. The kettle's just on the boil.'\n\nShe gave me tea and scones and butter, and black-currant jam, and\ntreacle biscuits that melted in the mouth. And as we ate we talked of\nmany things--chiefly of the war and of the wickedness of the world.\n\n'There's nae lads left here,' she said. 'They a' joined the Camerons,\nand the feck o' them fell at an awfu' place called Lowse. John and me\nnever had no boys, jist the one lassie that's married on Donald Frew,\nthe Strontian carrier. I used to vex mysel' about it, but now I thank\nthe Lord that in His mercy He spared me sorrow. But I wad hae liked to\nhave had one laddie fechtin' for his country. I whiles wish I was a\nCatholic and could pit up prayers for the sodgers that are deid. It\nmaun be a great consolation.'\n\nI whipped out the _Pilgrim's Progress_ from my pocket. 'That is the\ngrand book for a time like this.'\n\n'Fine I ken it,' she said. 'I got it for a prize in the Sabbath School\nwhen I was a lassie.'\n\nI turned the pages. I read out a passage or two, and then I seemed\nstruck with a sudden memory.\n\n'This is a telegraph office, mistress. Could I trouble you to send a\ntelegram? You see I've a cousin that's a minister in Ross-shire at the\nKyle, and him and me are great correspondents. He was writing about\nsomething in the _Pilgrim's Progress_ and I think I'll send him a\ntelegram in answer.'\n\n'A letter would be cheaper,' she said.\n\n'Ay, but I'm on holiday and I've no time for writing.'\n\nShe gave me a form, and I wrote:\n\n   _Ochterlony. Post Office, Kyle.--Demas will be at his mine\n   within the week. Strive with him, lest I faint by the way._\n\n'Ye're unco lavish wi' the words, sir,' was her only comment.\n\nWe parted with regret, and there was nearly a row when I tried to pay\nfor the tea. I was bidden remember her to one David Tudhole, farmer in\nNether Mirecleuch, the next time I passed by Wamphray.\n\nThe village was as quiet when I left it as when I had entered. I took\nmy way up the hill with an easier mind, for I had got off the telegram,\nand I hoped I had covered my tracks. My friend the postmistress would,\nif questioned, be unlikely to recognize any South African suspect in\nthe frank and homely traveller who had spoken with her of Annandale and\nthe _Pilgrim's Progress_.\n\nThe soft mulberry gloaming of the west coast was beginning to fall on\nthe hills. I hoped to put in a dozen miles before dark to the next\nvillage on the map, where I might find quarters. But ere I had gone far\nI heard the sound of a motor behind me, and a car slipped past bearing\nthree men. The driver favoured me with a sharp glance, and clapped on\nthe brakes. I noted that the two men in the tonneau were carrying\nsporting rifles.\n\n'Hi, you, sir,' he cried. 'Come here.' The two rifle-bearers--solemn\ngillies--brought their weapons to attention.\n\n'By God,' he said, 'it's the man. What's your name? Keep him covered,\nAngus.'\n\nThe gillies duly covered me, and I did not like the look of their\nwavering barrels. They were obviously as surprised as myself.\n\nI had about half a second to make my plans. I advanced with a very\nstiff air, and asked him what the devil he meant. No Lowland Scots for\nme now. My tone was that of an adjutant of a Guards' battalion.\n\nMy inquisitor was a tall man in an ulster, with a green felt hat on his\nsmall head. He had a lean, well-bred face, and very choleric blue eyes.\nI set him down as a soldier, retired, Highland regiment or cavalry, old\nstyle.\n\nHe produced a telegraph form, like the policeman.\n\n'Middle height--strongly built--grey tweeds--brown hat--speaks with a\ncolonial accent--much sunburnt. What's your name, sir?'\n\nI did not reply in a colonial accent, but with the hauteur of the\nBritish officer when stopped by a French sentry. I asked him again what\nthe devil he had to do with my business. This made him angry and he\nbegan to stammer.\n\n'I'll teach you what I have to do with it. I'm a deputy-lieutenant of\nthis county, and I have Admiralty instructions to watch the coast. Damn\nit, sir, I've a wire here from the Chief Constable describing you.\nYou're Brand, a very dangerous fellow, and we want to know what the\ndevil you're doing here.'\n\nAs I looked at his wrathful eye and lean head, which could not have\nheld much brains, I saw that I must change my tone. If I irritated him\nhe would get nasty and refuse to listen and hang me up for hours. So my\nvoice became respectful.\n\n'I beg your pardon, sir, but I've not been accustomed to be pulled up\nsuddenly, and asked for my credentials. My name is Blaikie, Captain\nRobert Blaikie, of the Scots Fusiliers. I'm home on three weeks' leave,\nto get a little peace after Hooge. We were only hauled out five days\nago.' I hoped my old friend in the shell-shock hospital at Isham would\npardon my borrowing his identity.\n\nThe man looked puzzled. 'How the devil am I to be satisfied about that?\nHave you any papers to prove it?'\n\n'Why, no. I don't carry passports about with me on a walking tour. But\nyou can wire to the depot, or to my London address.'\n\nHe pulled at his yellow moustache. 'I'm hanged if I know what to do. I\nwant to get home for dinner. I tell you what, sir, I'll take you on\nwith me and put you up for the night. My boy's at home, convalescing,\nand if he says you're pukka I'll ask your pardon and give you a dashed\ngood bottle of port. I'll trust him and I warn you he's a keen hand.'\n\nThere was nothing to do but consent, and I got in beside him with an\nuneasy conscience. Supposing the son knew the real Blaikie! I asked the\nname of the boy's battalion, and was told the 10th Seaforths. That\nwasn't pleasant hearing, for they had been brigaded with us on the\nSomme. But Colonel Broadbury--for he told me his name--volunteered\nanother piece of news which set my mind at rest. The boy was not yet\ntwenty, and had only been out seven months. At Arras he had got a bit\nof shrapnel in his thigh, which had played the deuce with the sciatic\nnerve, and he was still on crutches.\n\nWe spun over ridges of moorland, always keeping northward, and brought\nup at a pleasant white-washed house close to the sea. Colonel Broadbury\nushered me into a hall where a small fire of peats was burning, and on\na couch beside it lay a slim, pale-faced young man. He had dropped his\npoliceman's manner, and behaved like a gentleman. 'Ted,' he said, 'I've\nbrought a friend home for the night. I went out to look for a suspect\nand found a British officer. This is Captain Blaikie, of the Scots\nFusiliers.'\n\nThe boy looked at me pleasantly. 'I'm very glad to meet you, sir.\nYou'll excuse me not getting up, but I've got a game leg.' He was the\ncopy of his father in features, but dark and sallow where the other was\nblond. He had just the same narrow head, and stubborn mouth, and\nhonest, quick-tempered eyes. It is the type that makes dashing\nregimental officers, and earns V.C.s, and gets done in wholesale. I was\nnever that kind. I belonged to the school of the cunning cowards.\n\nIn the half-hour before dinner the last wisp of suspicion fled from my\nhost's mind. For Ted Broadbury and I were immediately deep in 'shop'. I\nhad met most of his senior officers, and I knew all about their doings\nat Arras, for his brigade had been across the river on my left. We\nfought the great fight over again, and yarned about technicalities and\nslanged the Staff in the way young officers have, the father throwing\nin questions that showed how mighty proud he was of his son. I had a\nbath before dinner, and as he led me to the bathroom he apologized very\nhandsomely for his bad manners. 'Your coming's been a godsend for Ted.\nHe was moping a bit in this place. And, though I say it that shouldn't,\nhe's a dashed good boy.'\n\nI had my promised bottle of port, and after dinner I took on the father\nat billiards. Then we settled in the smoking-room, and I laid myself\nout to entertain the pair. The result was that they would have me stay\na week, but I spoke of the shortness of my leave, and said I must get\non to the railway and then back to Fort William for my luggage.\n\nSo I spent that night between clean sheets, and ate a Christian\nbreakfast, and was given my host's car to set me a bit on the road. I\ndismissed it after half a dozen miles, and, following the map, struck\nover the hills to the west. About midday I topped a ridge, and beheld\nthe Sound of Sleat shining beneath me. There were other things in the\nlandscape. In the valley on the right a long goods train was crawling\non the Mallaig railway. And across the strip of sea, like some fortress\nof the old gods, rose the dark bastions and turrets of the hills of\nSkye.\n\n\n\nCHAPTER SIX\n\nThe Skirts of the Coolin\n\nObviously I must keep away from the railway. If the police were after\nme in Morvern, that line would be warned, for it was a barrier I must\ncross if I were to go farther north. I observed from the map that it\nturned up the coast, and concluded that the place for me to make for\nwas the shore south of that turn, where Heaven might send me some luck\nin the boat line. For I was pretty certain that every porter and\nstation-master on that tin-pot outfit was anxious to make better\nacquaintance with my humble self.\n\nI lunched off the sandwiches the Broadburys had given me, and in the\nbright afternoon made my way down the hill, crossed at the foot of a\nsmall fresh-water lochan, and pursued the issuing stream through\nmidge-infested woods of hazels to its junction with the sea. It was\nrough going, but very pleasant, and I fell into the same mood of idle\ncontentment that I had enjoyed the previous morning. I never met a\nsoul. Sometimes a roe deer broke out of the covert, or an old blackcock\nstartled me with his scolding. The place was bright with heather, still\nin its first bloom, and smelt better than the myrrh of Arabia. It was a\nblessed glen, and I was as happy as a king, till I began to feel the\ncoming of hunger, and reflected that the Lord alone knew when I might\nget a meal. I had still some chocolate and biscuits, but I wanted\nsomething substantial.\n\nThe distance was greater than I thought, and it was already twilight\nwhen I reached the coast. The shore was open and desolate--great banks\nof pebbles to which straggled alders and hazels from the hillside\nscrub. But as I marched northward and turned a little point of land I\nsaw before me in a crook of the bay a smoking cottage. And, plodding\nalong by the water's edge, was the bent figure of a man, laden with\nnets and lobster pots. Also, beached on the shingle was a boat.\n\nI quickened my pace and overtook the fisherman. He was an old man with\na ragged grey beard, and his rig was seaman's boots and a much-darned\nblue jersey. He was deaf, and did not hear me when I hailed him. When\nhe caught sight of me he never stopped, though he very solemnly\nreturned my good evening. I fell into step with him, and in his silent\ncompany reached the cottage.\n\nHe halted before the door and unslung his burdens. The place was a\ntwo-roomed building with a roof of thatch, and the walls all grown over\nwith a yellow-flowered creeper. When he had straightened his back, he\nlooked seaward and at the sky, as if to prospect the weather. Then he\nturned on me his gentle, absorbed eyes. 'It will haf been a fine day,\nsir. Wass you seeking the road to anywhere?'\n\n'I was seeking a night's lodging,' I said. 'I've had a long tramp on\nthe hills, and I'd be glad of a chance of not going farther.'\n\n'We will haf no accommodation for a gentleman,' he said gravely.\n\n'I can sleep on the floor, if you can give me a blanket and a bite of\nsupper.'\n\n'Indeed you will not,' and he smiled slowly. 'But I will ask the wife.\nMary, come here!'\n\nAn old woman appeared in answer to his call, a woman whose face was so\nold that she seemed like his mother. In highland places one sex ages\nquicker than the other.\n\n'This gentleman would like to bide the night. I wass telling him that\nwe had a poor small house, but he says he will not be minding it.'\n\nShe looked at me with the timid politeness that you find only in\noutland places.\n\n'We can do our best, indeed, sir. The gentleman can have Colin's bed in\nthe loft, but he will haf to be doing with plain food. Supper is ready\nif you will come in now.'\n\nI had a scrub with a piece of yellow soap at an adjacent pool in the\nburn and then entered a kitchen blue with peat-reek. We had a meal of\nboiled fish, oatcakes and skim-milk cheese, with cups of strong tea to\nwash it down. The old folk had the manners of princes. They pressed\nfood on me, and asked me no questions, till for very decency's sake I\nhad to put up a story and give some account of myself.\n\nI found they had a son in the Argylls and a young boy in the Navy. But\nthey seemed disinclined to talk of them or of the war. By a mere\naccident I hit on the old man's absorbing interest. He was passionate\nabout the land. He had taken part in long-forgotten agitations, and had\nsuffered eviction in some ancient landlords' quarrel farther north.\nPresently he was pouring out to me all the woes of the crofter--woes\nthat seemed so antediluvian and forgotten that I listened as one would\nlisten to an old song. 'You who come from a new country will not haf\nheard of these things,' he kept telling me, but by that peat fire I\nmade up for my defective education. He told me of evictions in the\nyear. One somewhere in Sutherland, and of harsh doings in the Outer\nIsles. It was far more than a political grievance. It was the lament of\nthe conservative for vanished days and manners. 'Over in Skye wass the\nfine land for black cattle, and every man had his bit herd on the\nhillside. But the lairds said it wass better for sheep, and then they\nsaid it wass not good for sheep, so they put it under deer, and now\nthere is no black cattle anywhere in Skye.' I tell you it was like sad\nmusic on the bagpipes hearing that old fellow. The war and all things\nmodern meant nothing to him; he lived among the tragedies of his youth\nand his prime.\n\nI'm a Tory myself and a bit of a land-reformer, so we agreed well\nenough. So well, that I got what I wanted without asking for it. I told\nhim I was going to Skye, and he offered to take me over in his boat in\nthe morning. 'It will be no trouble. Indeed no. I will be going that\nway myself to the fishing.'\n\nI told him that after the war, every acre of British soil would have to\nbe used for the men that had earned the right to it. But that did not\ncomfort him. He was not thinking about the land itself, but about the\nmen who had been driven from it fifty years before. His desire was not\nfor reform, but for restitution, and that was past the power of any\nGovernment. I went to bed in the loft in a sad, reflective mood,\nconsidering how in speeding our newfangled plough we must break down a\nmultitude of molehills and how desirable and unreplaceable was the life\nof the moles.\n\nIn brisk, shining weather, with a wind from the south-east, we put off\nnext morning. In front was a brown line of low hills, and behind them,\na little to the north, that black toothcomb of mountain range which I\nhad seen the day before from the Arisaig ridge.\n\n'That is the Coolin,' said the fisherman. 'It is a bad place where even\nthe deer cannot go. But all the rest of Skye wass the fine land for\nblack cattle.'\n\nAs we neared the coast, he pointed out many places. 'Look there, Sir,\nin that glen. I haf seen six cot houses smoking there, and now there is\nnot any left. There were three men of my own name had crofts on the\nmachars beyond the point, and if you go there you will only find the\nmarks of their bit gardens. You will know the place by the gean trees.'\n\nWhen he put me ashore in a sandy bay between green ridges of bracken,\nhe was still harping upon the past. I got him to take a pound--for the\nboat and not for the night's hospitality, for he would have beaten me\nwith an oar if I had suggested that. The last I saw of him, as I turned\nround at the top of the hill, he had still his sail down, and was\ngazing at the lands which had once been full of human dwellings and now\nwere desolate.\n\nI kept for a while along the ridge, with the Sound of Sleat on my\nright, and beyond it the high hills of Knoydart and Kintail. I was\nwatching for the _Tobermory_, but saw no sign of her. A steamer put out\nfrom Mallaig, and there were several drifters crawling up the channel\nand once I saw the white ensign and a destroyer bustled northward,\nleaving a cloud of black smoke in her wake. Then, after consulting the\nmap, I struck across country, still keeping the higher ground, but,\nexcept at odd minutes, being out of sight of the sea. I concluded that\nmy business was to get to the latitude of Ranna without wasting time.\n\nSo soon as I changed my course I had the Coolin for company. Mountains\nhave always been a craze of mine, and the blackness and mystery of\nthose grim peaks went to my head. I forgot all about Fosse Manor and\nthe Cotswolds. I forgot, too, what had been my chief feeling since I\nleft Glasgow, a sense of the absurdity of my mission. It had all seemed\ntoo far-fetched and whimsical. I was running apparently no great\npersonal risk, and I had always the unpleasing fear that Blenkiron\nmight have been too clever and that the whole thing might be a mare's\nnest. But that dark mountain mass changed my outlook. I began to have a\nqueer instinct that that was the place, that something might be\nconcealed there, something pretty damnable. I remember I sat on a top\nfor half an hour raking the hills with my glasses. I made out ugly\nprecipices, and glens which lost themselves in primeval blackness. When\nthe sun caught them--for it was a gleamy day--it brought out no\ncolours, only degrees of shade. No mountains I had ever seen--not the\nDrakensberg or the red kopjes of Damaraland or the cold, white peaks\naround Erzerum--ever looked so unearthly and uncanny.\n\nOddly enough, too, the sight of them set me thinking about Ivery. There\nseemed no link between a smooth, sedentary being, dwelling in villas\nand lecture-rooms, and that shaggy tangle of precipices. But I felt\nthere was, for I had begun to realize the bigness of my opponent.\nBlenkiron had said that he spun his web wide. That was intelligible\nenough among the half-baked youth of Biggleswick, and the pacifist\nsocieties, or even the toughs on the Clyde. I could fit him in all\nright to that picture. But that he should be playing his game among\nthose mysterious black crags seemed to make him bigger and more\ndesperate, altogether a different kind of proposition. I didn't exactly\ndislike the idea, for my objection to my past weeks had been that I was\nout of my proper job, and this was more my line of country. I always\nfelt that I was a better bandit than a detective. But a sort of awe\nmingled with my satisfaction. I began to feel about Ivery as I had felt\nabout the three devils of the Black Stone who had hunted me before the\nwar, and as I never felt about any other Hun. The men we fought at the\nFront and the men I had run across in the Greenmantle business, even\nold Stumm himself, had been human miscreants. They were formidable\nenough, but you could gauge and calculate their capacities. But this\nIvery was like a poison gas that hung in the air and got into\nunexpected crannies and that you couldn't fight in an upstanding way.\nTill then, in spite of Blenkiron's solemnity, I had regarded him simply\nas a problem. But now he seemed an intimate and omnipresent enemy,\nintangible, too, as the horror of a haunted house. Up on that sunny\nhillside, with the sea winds round me and the whaups calling, I got a\nchill in my spine when I thought of him.\n\nI am ashamed to confess it, but I was also horribly hungry. There was\nsomething about the war that made me ravenous, and the less chance of\nfood the worse I felt. If I had been in London with twenty restaurants\nopen to me, I should as likely as not have gone off my feed. That was\nthe cussedness of my stomach. I had still a little chocolate left, and\nI ate the fisherman's buttered scones for luncheon, but long before the\nevening my thoughts were dwelling on my empty interior.\n\nI put up that night in a shepherd's cottage miles from anywhere. The\nman was called Macmorran, and he had come from Galloway when sheep were\nbooming. He was a very good imitation of a savage, a little fellow with\nred hair and red eyes, who might have been a Pict. He lived with a\ndaughter who had once been in service in Glasgow, a fat young woman\nwith a face entirely covered with freckles and a pout of habitual\ndiscontent. No wonder, for that cottage was a pretty mean place. It was\nso thick with peat-reek that throat and eyes were always smarting. It\nwas badly built, and must have leaked like a sieve in a storm. The\nfather was a surly fellow, whose conversation was one long growl at the\nworld, the high prices, the difficulty of moving his sheep, the\nmeanness of his master, and the godforsaken character of Skye. 'Here's\nme no seen baker's bread for a month, and no company but a wheen\nignorant Hielanders that yatter Gawlic. I wish I was back in the\nGlenkens. And I'd gang the morn if I could get paid what I'm awed.'\n\nHowever, he gave me supper--a braxy ham and oatcake, and I bought the\nremnants off him for use next day. I did not trust his blankets, so I\nslept the night by the fire in the ruins of an arm-chair, and woke at\ndawn with a foul taste in my mouth. A dip in the burn refreshed me, and\nafter a bowl of porridge I took the road again. For I was anxious to\nget to some hill-top that looked over to Ranna.\n\nBefore midday I was close under the eastern side of the Coolin, on a\nroad which was more a rockery than a path. Presently I saw a big house\nahead of me that looked like an inn, so I gave it a miss and struck the\nhighway that led to it a little farther north. Then I bore off to the\neast, and was just beginning to climb a hill which I judged stood\nbetween me and the sea, when I heard wheels on the road and looked back.\n\nIt was a farmer's gig carrying one man. I was about half a mile off,\nand something in the cut of his jib seemed familiar. I got my glasses\non him and made out a short, stout figure clad in a mackintosh, with a\nwoollen comforter round its throat. As I watched, it made a movement as\nif to rub its nose on its sleeve. That was the pet trick of one man I\nknew. Inconspicuously I slipped through the long heather so as to reach\nthe road ahead of the gig. When I rose like a wraith from the wayside\nthe horse started, but not the driver.\n\n'So ye're there,' said Amos's voice. 'I've news for ye. The _Tobermory_\nwill be in Ranna by now. She passed Broadford two hours syne. When I\nsaw her I yoked this beast and came up on the chance of foregathering\nwith ye.'\n\n'How on earth did you know I would be here?' I asked in some surprise.\n\n'Oh, I saw the way your mind was workin' from your telegram. And says I\nto mysel'--that man Brand, says I, is not the chiel to be easy stoppit.\nBut I was feared ye might be a day late, so I came up the road to hold\nthe fort. Man, I'm glad to see ye. Ye're younger and soopler than me,\nand yon Gresson's a stirrin' lad.'\n\n'There's one thing you've got to do for me,' I said. 'I can't go into\ninns and shops, but I can't do without food. I see from the map there's\na town about six miles on. Go there and buy me anything that's\ntinned--biscuits and tongue and sardines, and a couple of bottles of\nwhisky if you can get them. This may be a long job, so buy plenty.'\n\n'Whaur'll I put them?' was his only question.\n\nWe fixed on a cache, a hundred yards from the highway in a place where\ntwo ridges of hill enclosed the view so that only a short bit of road\nwas visible.\n\n'I'll get back to the Kyle,' he told me, 'and a'body there kens Andra\nAmos, if ye should find a way of sendin' a message or comin' yourself.\nOh, and I've got a word to ye from a lady that we ken of. She says, the\nsooner ye're back in Vawnity Fair the better she'll be pleased, always\nprovided ye've got over the Hill Difficulty.'\n\nA smile screwed up his old face and he waved his whip in farewell. I\ninterpreted Mary's message as an incitement to speed, but I could not\nmake the pace. That was Gresson's business. I think I was a little\nnettled, till I cheered myself by another interpretation. She might be\nanxious for my safety, she might want to see me again, anyhow the mere\nsending of the message showed I was not forgotten. I was in a pleasant\nmuse as I breasted the hill, keeping discreetly in the cover of the\nmany gullies. At the top I looked down on Ranna and the sea.\n\nThere lay the _Tobermory_ busy unloading. It would be some time, no\ndoubt, before Gresson could leave. There was no row-boat in the channel\nyet, and I might have to wait hours. I settled myself snugly between\ntwo rocks, where I could not be seen, and where I had a clear view of\nthe sea and shore. But presently I found that I wanted some long\nheather to make a couch, and I emerged to get some. I had not raised my\nhead for a second when I flopped down again. For I had a neighbour on\nthe hill-top.\n\nHe was about two hundred yards off, just reaching the crest, and,\nunlike me, walking quite openly. His eyes were on Ranna, so he did not\nnotice me, but from my cover I scanned every line of him. He looked an\nordinary countryman, wearing badly cut, baggy knickerbockers of the\nkind that gillies affect. He had a face like a Portuguese Jew, but I\nhad seen that type before among people with Highland names; they might\nbe Jews or not, but they could speak Gaelic. Presently he disappeared.\nHe had followed my example and selected a hiding-place.\n\nIt was a clear, hot day, but very pleasant in that airy place. Good\nscents came up from the sea, the heather was warm and fragrant, bees\ndroned about, and stray seagulls swept the ridge with their wings. I\ntook a look now and then towards my neighbour, but he was deep in his\nhidey-hole. Most of the time I kept my glasses on Ranna, and watched\nthe doings of the _Tobermory_. She was tied up at the jetty, but seemed\nin no hurry to unload. I watched the captain disembark and walk up to a\nhouse on the hillside. Then some idlers sauntered down towards her and\nstood talking and smoking close to her side. The captain returned and\nleft again. A man with papers in his hand appeared, and a woman with\nwhat looked like a telegram. The mate went ashore in his best clothes.\nThen at last, after midday, Gresson appeared. He joined the captain at\nthe piermaster's office, and presently emerged on the other side of the\njetty where some small boats were beached. A man from the _Tobermory_\ncame in answer to his call, a boat was launched, and began to make its\nway into the channel. Gresson sat in the stern, placidly eating his\nluncheon.\n\nI watched every detail of that crossing with some satisfaction that my\nforecast was turning out right. About half-way across, Gresson took the\noars, but soon surrendered them to the _Tobermory_ man, and lit a pipe.\nHe got out a pair of binoculars and raked my hillside. I tried to see\nif my neighbour was making any signal, but all was quiet. Presently the\nboat was hid from me by the bulge of the hill, and I caught the sound\nof her scraping on the beach.\n\nGresson was not a hill-walker like my neighbour. It took him the best\npart of an hour to get to the top, and he reached it at a point not two\nyards from my hiding-place. I could hear by his labouring breath that\nhe was very blown. He walked straight over the crest till he was out of\nsight of Ranna, and flung himself on the ground. He was now about fifty\nyards from me, and I made shift to lessen the distance. There was a\ngrassy trench skirting the north side of the hill, deep and thickly\novergrown with heather. I wound my way along it till I was about twelve\nyards from him, where I stuck, owing to the trench dying away. When I\npeered out of the cover I saw that the other man had joined him and\nthat the idiots were engaged in embracing each other.\n\nI dared not move an inch nearer, and as they talked in a low voice I\ncould hear nothing of what they said. Nothing except one phrase, which\nthe strange man repeated twice, very emphatically. 'Tomorrow night,' he\nsaid, and I noticed that his voice had not the Highland inflection\nwhich I looked for. Gresson nodded and glanced at his watch, and then\nthe two began to move downhill towards the road I had travelled that\nmorning.\n\nI followed as best I could, using a shallow dry watercourse of which\nsheep had made a track, and which kept me well below the level of the\nmoor. It took me down the hill, but some distance from the line the\npair were taking, and I had to reconnoitre frequently to watch their\nmovements. They were still a quarter of a mile or so from the road,\nwhen they stopped and stared, and I stared with them. On that lonely\nhighway travellers were about as rare as roadmenders, and what caught\ntheir eye was a farmer's gig driven by a thick-set elderly man with a\nwoollen comforter round his neck.\n\nI had a bad moment, for I reckoned that if Gresson recognized Amos he\nmight take fright. Perhaps the driver of the gig thought the same, for\nhe appeared to be very drunk. He waved his whip, he jiggoted the reins,\nand he made an effort to sing. He looked towards the figures on the\nhillside, and cried out something. The gig narrowly missed the ditch,\nand then to my relief the horse bolted. Swaying like a ship in a gale,\nthe whole outfit lurched out of sight round the corner of hill where\nlay my cache. If Amos could stop the beast and deliver the goods there,\nhe had put up a masterly bit of buffoonery.\n\nThe two men laughed at the performance, and then they parted. Gresson\nretraced his steps up the hill. The other man--I called him in my mind\nthe Portuguese Jew--started off at a great pace due west, across the\nroad, and over a big patch of bog towards the northern butt of the\nCoolin. He had some errand, which Gresson knew about, and he was in a\nhurry to perform it. It was clearly my job to get after him.\n\nI had a rotten afternoon. The fellow covered the moorland miles like a\ndeer, and under the hot August sun I toiled on his trail. I had to keep\nwell behind, and as much as possible in cover, in case he looked back;\nand that meant that when he had passed over a ridge I had to double not\nto let him get too far ahead, and when we were in an open place I had\nto make wide circuits to keep hidden. We struck a road which crossed a\nlow pass and skirted the flank of the mountains, and this we followed\ntill we were on the western side and within sight of the sea. It was\ngorgeous weather, and out on the blue water I saw cool sails moving and\nlittle breezes ruffling the calm, while I was glowing like a furnace.\nHappily I was in fair training, and I needed it. The Portuguese Jew\nmust have done a steady six miles an hour over abominable country.\n\nAbout five o'clock we came to a point where I dared not follow. The\nroad ran flat by the edge of the sea, so that several miles of it were\nvisible. Moreover, the man had begun to look round every few minutes.\nHe was getting near something and wanted to be sure that no one was in\nhis neighbourhood. I left the road accordingly, and took to the\nhillside, which to my undoing was one long cascade of screes and\ntumbled rocks. I saw him drop over a rise which seemed to mark the rim\nof a little bay into which descended one of the big corries of the\nmountains. It must have been a good half-hour later before I, at my\ngreater altitude and with far worse going, reached the same rim. I\nlooked into the glen and my man had disappeared.\n\nHe could not have crossed it, for the place was wider than I had\nthought. A ring of black precipices came down to within half a mile of\nthe shore, and between them was a big stream--long, shallow pools at\nthe sea end and a chain of waterfalls above. He had gone to earth like\na badger somewhere, and I dared not move in case he might be watching\nme from behind a boulder.\n\nBut even as I hesitated he appeared again, fording the stream, his face\nset on the road we had come. Whatever his errand was he had finished\nit, and was posting back to his master. For a moment I thought I should\nfollow him, but another instinct prevailed. He had not come to this\nwild place for the scenery. Somewhere down in the glen there was\nsomething or somebody that held the key of the mystery. It was my\nbusiness to stay there till I had unlocked it. Besides, in two hours it\nwould be dark, and I had had enough walking for one day.\n\nI made my way to the stream side and had a long drink. The corrie\nbehind me was lit up with the westering sun, and the bald cliffs were\nflushed with pink and gold. On each side of the stream was turf like a\nlawn, perhaps a hundred yards wide, and then a tangle of long heather\nand boulders right up to the edge of the great rocks. I had never seen\na more delectable evening, but I could not enjoy its peace because of\nmy anxiety about the Portuguese Jew. He had not been there more than\nhalf an hour, just about long enough for a man to travel to the first\nridge across the burn and back. Yet he had found time to do his\nbusiness. He might have left a letter in some prearranged place--in\nwhich case I would stay there till the man it was meant for turned up.\nOr he might have met someone, though I didn't think that possible. As I\nscanned the acres of rough moor and then looked at the sea lapping\ndelicately on the grey sand I had the feeling that a knotty problem was\nbefore me. It was too dark to try to track his steps. That must be left\nfor the morning, and I prayed that there would be no rain in the night.\n\nI ate for supper most of the braxy ham and oatcake I had brought from\nMacmorran's cottage. It took some self-denial, for I was ferociously\nhungry, to save a little for breakfast next morning. Then I pulled\nheather and bracken and made myself a bed in the shelter of a rock\nwhich stood on a knoll above the stream. My bed-chamber was well\nhidden, but at the same time, if anything should appear in the early\ndawn, it gave me a prospect. With my waterproof I was perfectly warm,\nand, after smoking two pipes, I fell asleep.\n\nMy night's rest was broken. First it was a fox which came and barked at\nmy ear and woke me to a pitch-black night, with scarcely a star\nshowing. The next time it was nothing but a wandering hill-wind, but as\nI sat up and listened I thought I saw a spark of light near the edge of\nthe sea. It was only for a second, but it disquieted me. I got out and\nclimbed on the top of the rock, but all was still save for the gentle\nlap of the tide and the croak of some night bird among the crags. The\nthird time I was suddenly quite wide awake, and without any reason, for\nI had not been dreaming. Now I have slept hundreds of times alone\nbeside my horse on the veld, and I never knew any cause for such\nawakenings but the one, and that was the presence near me of some human\nbeing. A man who is accustomed to solitude gets this extra sense which\nannounces like an alarm-clock the approach of one of his kind.\n\nBut I could hear nothing. There was a scraping and rustling on the\nmoor, but that was only the wind and the little wild things of the\nhills. A fox, perhaps, or a blue hare. I convinced my reason, but not\nmy senses, and for long I lay awake with my ears at full cock and every\nnerve tense. Then I fell asleep, and woke to the first flush of dawn.\n\nThe sun was behind the Coolin and the hills were black as ink, but far\nout in the western seas was a broad band of gold. I got up and went\ndown to the shore. The mouth of the stream was shallow, but as I moved\nsouth I came to a place where two small capes enclosed an inlet. It\nmust have been a fault in the volcanic rock, for its depth was\nportentous. I stripped and dived far into its cold abysses, but I did\nnot reach the bottom. I came to the surface rather breathless, and\nstruck out to sea, where I floated on my back and looked at the great\nrampart of crag. I saw that the place where I had spent the night was\nonly a little oasis of green at the base of one of the grimmest corries\nthe imagination could picture. It was as desert as Damaraland. I\nnoticed, too, how sharply the cliffs rose from the level. There were\nchimneys and gullies by which a man might have made his way to the\nsummit, but no one of them could have been scaled except by a\nmountaineer.\n\nI was feeling better now, with all the frowsiness washed out of me, and\nI dried myself by racing up and down the heather. Then I noticed\nsomething. There were marks of human feet at the top of the deep-water\ninlet--not mine, for they were on the other side. The short sea-turf\nwas bruised and trampled in several places, and there were broken stems\nof bracken. I thought that some fisherman had probably landed there to\nstretch his legs.\n\nBut that set me thinking of the Portuguese Jew. After breakfasting on\nmy last morsels of food--a knuckle of braxy and a bit of oatcake--I set\nabout tracking him from the place where he had first entered the glen.\nTo get my bearings, I went back over the road I had come myself, and\nafter a good deal of trouble I found his spoor. It was pretty clear as\nfar as the stream, for he had been walking--or rather running--over\nground with many patches of gravel on it. After that it was difficult,\nand I lost it entirely in the rough heather below the crags. All that I\ncould make out for certain was that he had crossed the stream, and that\nhis business, whatever it was, had been with the few acres of tumbled\nwilderness below the precipices.\n\nI spent a busy morning there, but found nothing except the skeleton of\na sheep picked clean by the ravens. It was a thankless job, and I got\nvery cross over it. I had an ugly feeling that I was on a false scent\nand wasting my time. I wished to Heaven I had old Peter with me. He\ncould follow spoor like a Bushman, and would have riddled the\nPortuguese Jew's track out of any jungle on earth. That was a game I\nhad never learned, for in the old days I had always left it to my\nnatives. I chucked the attempt, and lay disconsolately on a warm patch\nof grass and smoked and thought about Peter. But my chief reflections\nwere that I had breakfasted at five, that it was now eleven, that I was\nintolerably hungry, that there was nothing here to feed a grasshopper,\nand that I should starve unless I got supplies.\n\nIt was a long road to my cache, but there were no two ways of it. My\nonly hope was to sit tight in the glen, and it might involve a wait of\ndays. To wait I must have food, and, though it meant relinquishing\nguard for a matter of six hours, the risk had to be taken. I set off at\na brisk pace with a very depressed mind.\n\nFrom the map it seemed that a short cut lay over a pass in the range. I\nresolved to take it, and that short cut, like most of its kind, was\nunblessed by Heaven. I will not dwell upon the discomforts of the\njourney. I found myself slithering among screes, climbing steep\nchimneys, and travelling precariously along razor-backs. The shoes were\nnearly rent from my feet by the infernal rocks, which were all pitted\nas if by some geological small-pox. When at last I crossed the divide,\nI had a horrible business getting down from one level to another in a\ngruesome corrie, where each step was composed of smooth boiler-plates.\nBut at last I was among the bogs on the east side, and came to the\nplace beside the road where I had fixed my cache.\n\nThe faithful Amos had not failed me. There were the provisions--a\ncouple of small loaves, a dozen tins, and a bottle of whisky. I made\nthe best pack I could of them in my waterproof, swung it on my stick,\nand started back, thinking that I must be very like the picture of\nChristian on the title-page of _Pilgrim's Progress_.\n\nI was liker Christian before I reached my destination--Christian after\nhe had got up the Hill Difficulty. The morning's walk had been bad, but\nthe afternoon's was worse, for I was in a fever to get back, and,\nhaving had enough of the hills, chose the longer route I had followed\nthe previous day. I was mortally afraid of being seen, for I cut a\nqueer figure, so I avoided every stretch of road where I had not a\nclear view ahead. Many weary detours I made among moss-hags and screes\nand the stony channels of burns. But I got there at last, and it was\nalmost with a sense of comfort that I flung my pack down beside the\nstream where I had passed the night.\n\nI ate a good meal, lit my pipe, and fell into the equable mood which\nfollows upon fatigue ended and hunger satisfied. The sun was westering,\nand its light fell upon the rock-wall above the place where I had\nabandoned my search for the spoor.\n\nAs I gazed at it idly I saw a curious thing.\n\nIt seemed to be split in two and a shaft of sunlight came through\nbetween. There could be no doubt about it. I saw the end of the shaft\non the moor beneath, while all the rest lay in shadow. I rubbed my\neyes, and got out my glasses. Then I guessed the explanation. There was\na rock tower close against the face of the main precipice and\nindistinguishable from it to anyone looking direct at the face. Only\nwhen the sun fell on it obliquely could it be discovered. And between\nthe tower and the cliff there must be a substantial hollow.\n\nThe discovery brought me to my feet, and set me running towards the end\nof the shaft of sunlight. I left the heather, scrambled up some yards\nof screes, and had a difficult time on some very smooth slabs, where\nonly the friction of tweed and rough rock gave me a hold. Slowly I\nworked my way towards the speck of sunlight, till I found a handhold,\nand swung myself into the crack. On one side was the main wall of the\nhill, on the other a tower some ninety feet high, and between them a\nlong crevice varying in width from three to six feet. Beyond it there\nshowed a small bright patch of sea.\n\nThere was more, for at the point where I entered it there was an\noverhang which made a fine cavern, low at the entrance but a dozen feet\nhigh inside, and as dry as tinder. Here, thought I, is the perfect\nhiding-place. Before going farther I resolved to return for food. It\nwas not very easy descending, and I slipped the last twenty feet,\nlanding on my head in a soft patch of screes. At the burnside I filled\nmy flask from the whisky bottle, and put half a loaf, a tin of\nsardines, a tin of tongue, and a packet of chocolate in my waterproof\npockets. Laden as I was, it took me some time to get up again, but I\nmanaged it, and stored my belongings in a corner of the cave. Then I\nset out to explore the rest of the crack.\n\nIt slanted down and then rose again to a small platform. After that it\ndropped in easy steps to the moor beyond the tower. If the Portuguese\nJew had come here, that was the way by which he had reached it, for he\nwould not have had the time to make my ascent. I went very cautiously,\nfor I felt I was on the eve of a big discovery. The platform was partly\nhidden from my end by a bend in the crack, and it was more or less\nscreened by an outlying bastion of the tower from the other side. Its\nsurface was covered with fine powdery dust, as were the steps beyond\nit. In some excitement I knelt down and examined it.\n\nBeyond doubt there was spoor here. I knew the Portuguese Jew's\nfootmarks by this time, and I made them out clearly, especially in one\ncorner. But there were other footsteps, quite different. The one showed\nthe rackets of rough country boots, the others were from un-nailed\nsoles. Again I longed for Peter to make certain, though I was pretty\nsure of my conclusions. The man I had followed had come here, and he\nhad not stayed long. Someone else had been here, probably later, for\nthe un-nailed shoes overlaid the rackets. The first man might have left\na message for the second. Perhaps the second was that human presence of\nwhich I had been dimly conscious in the night-time.\n\nI carefully removed all traces of my own footmarks, and went back to my\ncave. My head was humming with my discovery. I remembered Gresson's\nword to his friend: 'Tomorrow night.' As I read it, the Portuguese Jew\nhad taken a message from Gresson to someone, and that someone had come\nfrom somewhere and picked it up. The message contained an assignation\nfor this very night. I had found a point of observation, for no one was\nlikely to come near my cave, which was reached from the moor by such a\ntoilsome climb. There I should bivouac and see what the darkness\nbrought forth. I remember reflecting on the amazing luck which had so\nfar attended me. As I looked from my refuge at the blue haze of\ntwilight creeping over the waters, I felt my pulses quicken with a wild\nanticipation.\n\nThen I heard a sound below me, and craned my neck round the edge of the\ntower. A man was climbing up the rock by the way I had come.\n\n\n\nCHAPTER SEVEN\n\nI Hear of the Wild Birds\n\nI saw an old green felt hat, and below it lean tweed-clad shoulders.\nThen I saw a knapsack with a stick slung through it, as the owner\nwriggled his way on to a shelf. Presently he turned his face upward to\njudge the remaining distance. It was the face of a young man, a face\nsallow and angular, but now a little flushed with the day's sun and the\nwork of climbing. It was a face that I had first seen at Fosse Manor.\n\nI felt suddenly sick and heartsore. I don't know why, but I had never\nreally associated the intellectuals of Biggleswick with a business like\nthis. None of them but Ivery, and he was different. They had been silly\nand priggish, but no more--I would have taken my oath on it. Yet here\nwas one of them engaged in black treason against his native land.\nSomething began to beat in my temples when I remembered that Mary and\nthis man had been friends, that he had held her hand, and called her by\nher Christian name. My first impulse was to wait till he got up and\nthen pitch him down among the boulders and let his German accomplices\npuzzle over his broken neck.\n\nWith difficulty I kept down that tide of fury. I had my duty to do, and\nto keep on terms with this man was part of it. I had to convince him\nthat I was an accomplice, and that might not be easy. I leaned over the\nedge, and, as he got to his feet on the ledge above the boiler-plates,\nI whistled so that he turned his face to me.\n\n'Hullo, Wake,'I said.\n\nHe started, stared for a second, and recognized me. He did not seem\nover-pleased to see me.\n\n'Brand!' he cried. 'How did you get here?'\n\nHe swung himself up beside me, straightened his back and unbuckled his\nknapsack. 'I thought this was my own private sanctuary, and that nobody\nknew it but me. Have you spotted the cave? It's the best bedroom in\nSkye.' His tone was, as usual, rather acid.\n\nThat little hammer was beating in my head. I longed to get my hands on\nhis throat and choke the smug treason in him. But I kept my mind fixed\non one purpose--to persuade him that I shared his secret and was on his\nside. His off-hand self-possession seemed only the clever screen of the\nsurprised conspirator who was hunting for a plan.\n\nWe entered the cave, and he flung his pack into a corner. 'Last time I\nwas here,' he said, 'I covered the floor with heather. We must get some\nmore if we would sleep soft.' In the twilight he was a dim figure, but\nhe seemed a new man from the one I had last seen in the Moot Hall at\nBiggleswick. There was a wiry vigour in his body and a purpose in his\nface. What a fool I had been to set him down as no more than a\nconceited fidneur!\n\nHe went out to the shelf again and sniffed the fresh evening. There was\na wonderful red sky in the west, but in the crevice the shades had\nfallen, and only the bright patches at either end told of the sunset.\n\n'Wake,' I said, 'you and I have to understand each other. I'm a friend\nof Ivery and I know the meaning of this place. I discovered it by\naccident, but I want you to know that I'm heart and soul with you. You\nmay trust me in tonight's job as if I were Ivery himself.'\n\nHe swung round and looked at me sharply. His eyes were hot again, as I\nremembered them at our first meeting.\n\n'What do you mean? How much do you know?'\n\nThe hammer was going hard in my forehead, and I had to pull myself\ntogether to answer.\n\n'I know that at the end of this crack a message was left last night,\nand that someone came out of the sea and picked it up. That someone is\ncoming again when darkness falls, and there will be another message.'\n\nHe had turned his head away. 'You are talking nonsense. No submarine\ncould land on this coast.'\n\nI could see that he was trying me.\n\n'This morning,' I said, 'I swam in the deep-water inlet below us. It is\nthe most perfect submarine shelter in Britain.'\n\nHe still kept his face from me, looking the way he had come. For a\nmoment he was silent, and then he spoke in the bitter, drawling voice\nwhich had annoyed me at Fosse Manor.\n\n'How do you reconcile this business with your principles, Mr Brand? You\nwere always a patriot, I remember, though you didn't see eye to eye\nwith the Government.'\n\nIt was not quite what I expected and I was unready. I stammered in my\nreply. 'It's because I am a patriot that I want peace. I think that ...\nI mean ...'\n\n'Therefore you are willing to help the enemy to win?'\n\n'They have already won. I want that recognized and the end hurried on.'\nI was getting my mind clearer and continued fluently.\n\n'The longer the war lasts, the worse this country is ruined. We must\nmake the people realize the truth, and--'\n\nBut he swung round suddenly, his eyes blazing.\n\n'You blackguard!' he cried, 'you damnable blackguard!' And he flung\nhimself on me like a wild-cat.\n\nI had got my answer. He did not believe me, he knew me for a spy, and\nhe was determined to do me in. We were beyond finesse now, and back at\nthe old barbaric game. It was his life or mine. The hammer beat\nfuriously in my head as we closed, and a fierce satisfaction rose in my\nheart.\n\nHe never had a chance, for though he was in good trim and had the\nlight, wiry figure of the mountaineer, he hadn't a quarter of my\nmuscular strength. Besides, he was wrongly placed, for he had the\noutside station. Had he been on the inside he might have toppled me\nover the edge by his sudden assault. As it was, I grappled him and\nforced him to the ground, squeezing the breath out of his body in the\nprocess. I must have hurt him considerably, but he never gave a cry.\nWith a good deal of trouble I lashed his hands behind his back with the\nbelt of my waterproof, carried him inside the cave and laid him in the\ndark end of it. Then I tied his feet with the strap of his own\nknapsack. I would have to gag him, but that could wait.\n\nI had still to contrive a plan of action for the night, for I did not\nknow what part he had been meant to play in it. He might be the\nmessenger instead of the Portuguese Jew, in which case he would have\npapers about his person. If he knew of the cave, others might have the\nsame knowledge, and I had better shift him before they came. I looked\nat my wrist-watch, and the luminous dial showed that the hour was half\npast nine.\n\nThen I noticed that the bundle in the corner was sobbing. It was a\nhorrid sound and it worried me. I had a little pocket electric torch\nand I flashed it on Wake's face. If he was crying, it was with dry eyes.\n\n'What are you going to do with me?' he asked.\n\n'That depends,' I said grimly.\n\n'Well, I'm ready. I may be a poor creature, but I'm damned if I'm\nafraid of you, or anything like you.' That was a brave thing to say,\nfor it was a lie; his teeth were chattering.\n\n'I'm ready for a deal,' I said.\n\n'You won't get it,' was his answer. 'Cut my throat if you mean to, but\nfor God's sake don't insult me ... I choke when I think about you. You\ncome to us and we welcome you, and receive you in our houses, and tell\nyou our inmost thoughts, and all the time you're a bloody traitor. You\nwant to sell us to Germany. You may win now, but by God! your time will\ncome! That is my last word to you ... you swine!'\n\nThe hammer stopped beating in my head. I saw myself suddenly as a\nblind, preposterous fool. I strode over to Wake, and he shut his eyes\nas if he expected a blow. Instead I unbuckled the straps which held his\nlegs and arms.\n\n'Wake, old fellow,' I said, 'I'm the worst kind of idiot. I'll eat all\nthe dirt you want. I'll give you leave to knock me black and blue, and\nI won't lift a hand. But not now. Now we've another job on hand. Man,\nwe're on the same side and I never knew it. It's too bad a case for\napologies, but if it's any consolation to you I feel the lowest dog in\nEurope at this moment.'\n\nHe was sitting up rubbing his bruised shoulders. 'What do you mean?' he\nasked hoarsely.\n\n'I mean that you and I are allies. My name's not Brand. I'm a\nsoldier--a general, if you want to know. I went to Biggleswick under\norders, and I came chasing up here on the same job. Ivery's the biggest\nGerman agent in Britain and I'm after him. I've struck his\ncommunication lines, and this very night, please God, we'll get the\nlast clue to the riddle. Do you hear? We're in this business together,\nand you've got to lend a hand.'\n\nI told him briefly the story of Gresson, and how I had tracked his man\nhere. As I talked we ate our supper, and I wish I could have watched\nWake's face. He asked questions, for he wasn't convinced in a hurry. I\nthink it was my mention of Mary Lamington that did the trick. I don't\nknow why, but that seemed to satisfy him. But he wasn't going to give\nhimself away.\n\n'You may count on me,' he said, 'for this is black, blackguardly\ntreason. But you know my politics, and I don't change them for this.\nI'm more against your accursed war than ever, now that I know what war\ninvolves.'\n\n'Right-o,' I said, 'I'm a pacifist myself. You won't get any heroics\nabout war from me. I'm all for peace, but we've got to down those\ndevils first.'\n\nIt wasn't safe for either of us to stick in that cave, so we cleared\naway the marks of our occupation, and hid our packs in a deep crevice\non the rock. Wake announced his intention of climbing the tower, while\nthere was still a faint afterglow of light. 'It's broad on the top, and\nI can keep a watch out to sea if any light shows. I've been up it\nbefore. I found the way two years ago. No, I won't fall asleep and\ntumble off. I slept most of the afternoon on the top of Sgurr\nVhiconnich, and I'm as wakeful as a bat now.'\n\nI watched him shin up the face of the tower, and admired greatly the\nspeed and neatness with which he climbed. Then I followed the crevice\nsouthward to the hollow just below the platform where I had found the\nfootmarks. There was a big boulder there, which partly shut off the\nview of it from the direction of our cave. The place was perfect for my\npurpose, for between the boulder and the wall of the tower was a narrow\ngap, through which I could hear all that passed on the platform. I\nfound a stance where I could rest in comfort and keep an eye through\nthe crack on what happened beyond.\n\nThere was still a faint light on the platform, but soon that\ndisappeared and black darkness settled down on the hills. It was the\ndark of the moon, and, as had happened the night before, a thin wrack\nblew over the sky, hiding the stars. The place was very still, though\nnow and then would come the cry of a bird from the crags that beetled\nabove me, and from the shore the pipe of a tern or oyster-catcher. An\nowl hooted from somewhere up on the tower. That I reckoned was Wake, so\nI hooted back and was answered. I unbuckled my wrist-watch and pocketed\nit, lest its luminous dial should betray me; and I noticed that the\nhour was close on eleven. I had already removed my shoes, and my jacket\nwas buttoned at the collar so as to show no shirt. I did not think that\nthe coming visitor would trouble to explore the crevice beyond the\nplatform, but I wanted to be prepared for emergencies.\n\nThen followed an hour of waiting. I felt wonderfully cheered and\nexhilarated, for Wake had restored my confidence in human nature. In\nthat eerie place we were wrapped round with mystery like a fog. Some\nunknown figure was coming out of the sea, the emissary of that Power we\nhad been at grips with for three years. It was as if the war had just\nmade contact with our own shores, and never, not even when I was alone\nin the South German forest, had I felt so much the sport of a whimsical\nfate. I only wished Peter could have been with me. And so my thoughts\nfled to Peter in his prison camp, and I longed for another sight of my\nold friend as a girl longs for her lover.\n\nThen I heard the hoot of an owl, and presently the sound of careful\nsteps fell on my ear. I could see nothing, but I guessed it was the\nPortuguese Jew, for I could hear the grinding of heavily nailed boots\non the gritty rock.\n\nThe figure was very quiet. It appeared to be sitting down, and then it\nrose and fumbled with the wall of the tower just beyond the boulder\nbehind which I sheltered. It seemed to move a stone and to replace it.\nAfter that came silence, and then once more the hoot of an owl. There\nwere steps on the rock staircase, the steps of a man who did not know\nthe road well and stumbled a little. Also they were the steps of one\nwithout nails in his boots.\n\nThey reached the platform and someone spoke. It was the Portuguese Jew\nand he spoke in good German.\n\n'_Die voegelein schweigen im Walde,_' he said.\n\nThe answer came from a clear, authoritative voice.\n\n'_Warte nur, balde ruhest du auch._'\n\nClearly some kind of password, for sane men don't talk about little\nbirds in that kind of situation. It sounded to me like indifferent\npoetry.\n\nThen followed a conversation in low tones, of which I only caught odd\nphrases. I heard two names--Chelius and what sounded like a Dutch word,\nBommaerts. Then to my joy I caught _Elfenbein_, and when uttered it\nseemed to be followed by a laugh. I heard too a phrase several times\nrepeated, which seemed to me to be pure gibberish--_Die Stubenvogel\nverstehn_. It was spoken by the man from the sea. And then the word\n_Wildvoegel_. The pair seemed demented about birds.\n\nFor a second an electric torch was flashed in the shelter of the rock,\nand I could see a tanned, bearded face looking at some papers. The\nlight disappeared, and again the Portuguese Jew was fumbling with the\nstones at the base of the tower. To my joy he was close to my crack,\nand I could hear every word. 'You cannot come here very often,' he\nsaid, 'and it may be hard to arrange a meeting. See, therefore, the\nplace I have made to put the _Viageffutter_. When I get a chance I will\ncome here, and you will come also when you are able. Often there will\nbe nothing, but sometimes there will be much.'\n\nMy luck was clearly in, and my exultation made me careless. A stone, on\nwhich a foot rested, slipped and though I checked myself at once, the\nconfounded thing rolled down into the hollow, making a great clatter. I\nplastered myself in the embrasure of the rock and waited with a beating\nheart. The place was pitch dark, but they had an electric torch, and if\nthey once flashed it on me I was gone. I heard them leave the platform\nand climb down into the hollow. There they stood listening, while I\nheld my breath. Then I heard '_Nix, mein freund,_' and the two went\nback, the naval officer's boots slipping on the gravel.\n\nThey did not leave the platform together. The man from the sea bade a\nshort farewell to the Portuguese Jew, listening, I thought, impatiently\nto his final message as if eager to be gone. It was a good half-hour\nbefore the latter took himself off, and I heard the sound of his nailed\nboots die away as he reached the heather of the moor.\n\nI waited a little longer, and then crawled back to the cave. The owl\nhooted, and presently Wake descended lightly beside me; he must have\nknown every foothold and handhold by heart to do the job in that inky\nblackness. I remember that he asked no question of me, but he used\nlanguage rare on the lips of conscientious objectors about the men who\nhad lately been in the crevice. We, who four hours earlier had been at\ndeath grips, now curled up on the hard floor like two tired dogs, and\nfell sound asleep.\n\n            *       *       *       *       *\n\nI woke to find Wake in a thundering bad temper. The thing he remembered\nmost about the night before was our scrap and the gross way I had\ninsulted him. I didn't blame him, for if any man had taken me for a\nGerman spy I would have been out for his blood, and it was no good\nexplaining that he had given me grounds for suspicion. He was as touchy\nabout his blessed principles as an old maid about her age. I was\nfeeling rather extra buckish myself and that didn't improve matters.\nHis face was like a gargoyle as we went down to the beach to bathe, so\nI held my tongue. He was chewing the cud of his wounded pride.\n\nBut the salt water cleared out the dregs of his distemper. You couldn't\nbe peevish swimming in that jolly, shining sea. We raced each other\naway beyond the inlet to the outer water, which a brisk morning breeze\nwas curling. Then back to a promontory of heather, where the first\nbeams of the sun coming over the Coolin dried our skins. He sat hunched\nup staring at the mountains while I prospected the rocks at the edge.\nOut in the Minch two destroyers were hurrying southward, and I wondered\nwhere in that waste of blue was the craft which had come here in the\nnight watches.\n\nI found the spoor of the man from the sea quite fresh on a patch of\ngravel above the tide-mark.\n\n'There's our friend of the night,' I said.\n\n'I believe the whole thing was a whimsy,' said Wake, his eyes on the\nchimneys of Sgurr Dearg. 'They were only two natives--poachers,\nperhaps, or tinkers.'\n\n'They don't speak German in these parts.'\n\n'It was Gaelic probably.'\n\n'What do you make of this, then?' and I quoted the stuff about birds\nwith which they had greeted each other.\n\nWake looked interested. 'That's _Uber allen Gipfeln_. Have you ever\nread Goethe?'\n\n'Never a word. And what do you make of that?' I pointed to a flat rock\nbelow tide-mark covered with a tangle of seaweed. It was of a softer\nstone than the hard stuff in the hills and somebody had scraped off\nhalf the seaweed and a slice of the side. 'That wasn't done yesterday\nmorning, for I had my bath here.'\n\nWake got up and examined the place. He nosed about in the crannies of\nthe rocks lining the inlet, and got into the water again to explore\nbetter. When he joined me he was smiling. 'I apologize for my\nscepticism,' he said. 'There's been some petrol-driven craft here in\nthe night. I can smell it, for I've a nose like a retriever. I daresay\nyou're on the right track. Anyhow, though you seem to know a bit about\nGerman, you could scarcely invent immortal poetry.'\n\nWe took our belongings to a green crook of the burn, and made a very\ngood breakfast. Wake had nothing in his pack but plasmon biscuits and\nraisins, for that, he said, was his mountaineering provender, but he\nwas not averse to sampling my tinned stuff. He was a different-sized\nfellow out in the hills from the anaemic intellectual of Biggleswick.\nHe had forgotten his beastly self-consciousness, and spoke of his hobby\nwith a serious passion. It seemed he had scrambled about everywhere in\nEurope, from the Caucasus to the Pyrenees. I could see he must be good\nat the job, for he didn't brag of his exploits. It was the mountains\nthat he loved, not wriggling his body up hard places. The Coolin, he\nsaid, were his favourites, for on some of them you could get two\nthousand feet of good rock. We got our glasses on the face of Sgurr\nAlasdair, and he sketched out for me various ways of getting to its\ngrim summit. The Coolin and the Dolomites for him, for he had grown\ntired of the Chamonix aiguilles. I remember he described with\ntremendous gusto the joys of early dawn in Tyrol, when you ascended\nthrough acres of flowery meadows to a tooth of clean white limestone\nagainst a clean blue sky. He spoke, too, of the little wild hills in\nthe Bavarian Wettersteingebirge, and of a guide he had picked up there\nand trained to the job.\n\n'They called him Sebastian Buchwieser. He was the jolliest boy you ever\nsaw, and as clever on crags as a chamois. He is probably dead by now,\ndead in a filthy jaeger battalion. That's you and your accursed war.'\n\n'Well, we've got to get busy and end it in the right way,' I said. 'And\nyou've got to help, my lad.'\n\nHe was a good draughtsman, and with his assistance I drew a rough map\nof the crevice where we had roosted for the night, giving its bearings\ncarefully in relation to the burn and the sea. Then I wrote down all\nthe details about Gresson and the Portuguese Jew, and described the\nlatter in minute detail. I described, too, most precisely the cache\nwhere it had been arranged that the messages should be placed. That\nfinished my stock of paper, and I left the record of the oddments\noverheard of the conversation for a later time. I put the thing in an\nold leather cigarette-case I possessed, and handed it to Wake.\n\n'You've got to go straight off to the Kyle and not waste any time on\nthe way. Nobody suspects you, so you can travel any road you please.\nWhen you get there you ask for Mr Andrew Amos, who has some Government\njob in the neighbourhood. Give him that paper from me. He'll know what\nto do with it all right. Tell him I'll get somehow to the Kyle before\nmidday the day after tomorrow. I must cover my tracks a bit, so I can't\ncome with you, and I want that thing in his hands just as fast as your\nlegs will take you. If anyone tries to steal it from you, for God's\nsake eat it. You can see for yourself that it's devilish important.'\n\n'I shall be back in England in three days,' he said. 'Any message for\nyour other friends?'\n\n'Forget all about me. You never saw me here. I'm still Brand, the\namiable colonial studying social movements. If you meet Ivery, say you\nheard of me on the Clyde, deep in sedition. But if you see Miss\nLamington you can tell her I'm past the Hill Difficulty. I'm coming\nback as soon as God will let me, and I'm going to drop right into the\nBiggleswick push. Only this time I'll be a little more advanced in my\nviews ... You needn't get cross. I'm not saying anything against your\nprinciples. The main point is that we both hate dirty treason.'\n\nHe put the case in his waistcoat pocket. 'I'll go round Garsbheinn,' he\nsaid, 'and over by Camasunary. I'll be at the Kyle long before evening.\nI meant anyhow to sleep at Broadford tonight ... Goodbye, Brand, for\nI've forgotten your proper name. You're not a bad fellow, but you've\nlanded me in melodrama for the first time in my sober existence. I have\na grudge against you for mixing up the Coolin with a shilling shocker.\nYou've spoiled their sanctity.'\n\n'You've the wrong notion of romance,' I said. 'Why, man, last night for\nan hour you were in the front line--the place where the enemy forces\ntouch our own. You were over the top--you were in No-man's-land.'\n\nHe laughed. 'That is one way to look at it'; and then he stalked off\nand I watched his lean figure till it was round the turn of the hill.\n\nAll that morning I smoked peacefully by the burn, and let my thoughts\nwander over the whole business. I had got precisely what Blenkiron\nwanted, a post office for the enemy. It would need careful handling,\nbut I could see the juiciest lies passing that way to the _Grosses\nHaupiquartier_. Yet I had an ugly feeling at the back of my head that\nit had been all too easy, and that Ivery was not the man to be duped in\nthis way for long. That set me thinking about the queer talk on the\ncrevice. The poetry stuff I dismissed as the ordinary password,\nprobably changed every time. But who were Chelius and Bommaerts, and\nwhat in the name of goodness were the Wild Birds and the Cage Birds?\nTwice in the past three years I had had two such riddles to\nsolve--Scudder's scribble in his pocket-book, and Harry Bullivant's\nthree words. I remembered how it had only been by constant chewing at\nthem that I had got a sort of meaning, and I wondered if fate would\nsome day expound this puzzle also.\n\nMeantime I had to get back to London as inconspicuously as I had come.\nIt might take some doing, for the police who had been active in Morvern\nmight be still on the track, and it was essential that I should keep\nout of trouble and give no hint to Gresson and his friends that I had\nbeen so far north. However, that was for Amos to advise me on, and\nabout noon I picked up my waterproof with its bursting pockets and set\noff on a long detour up the coast. All that blessed day I scarcely met\na soul. I passed a distillery which seemed to have quit business, and\nin the evening came to a little town on the sea where I had a bed and\nsupper in a superior kind of public-house.\n\nNext day I struck southward along the coast, and had two experiences of\ninterest. I had a good look at Ranna, and observed that the _Tobermory_\nwas no longer there. Gresson had only waited to get his job finished;\nhe could probably twist the old captain any way he wanted. The second\nwas that at the door of a village smithy I saw the back of the\nPortuguese Jew. He was talking Gaelic this time--good Gaelic it\nsounded, and in that knot of idlers he would have passed for the\nordinariest kind of gillie.\n\nHe did not see me, and I had no desire to give him the chance, for I\nhad an odd feeling that the day might come when it would be good for us\nto meet as strangers.\n\nThat night I put up boldly in the inn at Broadford, where they fed me\nnobly on fresh sea-trout and I first tasted an excellent liqueur made\nof honey and whisky. Next morning I was early afoot, and well before\nmidday was in sight of the narrows of the Kyle, and the two little\nstone clachans which face each other across the strip of sea.\n\nAbout two miles from the place at a turn of the road I came upon a\nfarmer's gig, drawn up by the wayside, with the horse cropping the\nmoorland grass. A man sat on the bank smoking, with his left arm hooked\nin the reins. He was an oldish man, with a short, square figure, and a\nwoollen comforter enveloped his throat.\n\n\n\nCHAPTER EIGHT\n\nThe Adventures of a Bagman\n\n'Ye're punctual to time, Mr Brand,' said the voice of Amos. 'But losh!\nman, what have ye done to your breeks! And your buits? Ye're no just\nvery respectable in your appearance.'\n\nI wasn't. The confounded rocks of the Coolin had left their mark on my\nshoes, which moreover had not been cleaned for a week, and the same\nhills had rent my jacket at the shoulders, and torn my trousers above\nthe right knee, and stained every part of my apparel with peat and\nlichen.\n\nI cast myself on the bank beside Amos and lit my pipe. 'Did you get my\nmessage?' I asked.\n\n'Ay. It's gone on by a sure hand to the destination we ken of. Ye've\nmanaged well, Mr Brand, but I wish ye were back in London.' He sucked\nat his pipe, and the shaggy brows were pulled so low as to hide the\nwary eyes. Then he proceeded to think aloud.\n\n'Ye canna go back by Mallaig. I don't just understand why, but they're\nlookin' for you down that line. It's a vexatious business when your\nfriends, meanin' the polis, are doing their best to upset your plans\nand you no able to enlighten them. I could send word to the Chief\nConstable and get ye through to London without a stop like a load of\nfish from Aiberdeen, but that would be spoilin' the fine character\nye've been at such pains to construct. Na, na! Ye maun take the risk\nand travel by Muirtown without ony creedentials.'\n\n'It can't be a very big risk,' I interpolated.\n\n'I'm no so sure. Gresson's left the _Tobermory_. He went by here\nyesterday, on the Mallaig boat, and there was a wee blackavised man\nwith him that got out at the Kyle. He's there still, stoppin' at the\nhotel. They ca' him Linklater and he travels in whisky. I don't like\nthe looks of him.'\n\n'But Gresson does not suspect me?'\n\n'Maybe no. But ye wouldna like him to see ye hereaways. Yon gentry\ndon't leave muckle to chance. Be very certain that every man in\nGresson's lot kens all about ye, and has your description down to the\nmole on your chin.'\n\n'Then they've got it wrong,' I replied.\n\n'I was speakin' feeguratively,' said Amos. 'I was considerin' your case\nthe feck of yesterday, and I've brought the best I could do for ye in\nthe gig. I wish ye were more respectable clad, but a good topcoat will\nhide defeecencies.'\n\nFrom behind the gig's seat he pulled out an ancient Gladstone bag and\nrevealed its contents. There was a bowler of a vulgar and antiquated\nstyle; there was a ready-made overcoat of some dark cloth, of the kind\nthat a clerk wears on the road to the office; there was a pair of\ndetachable celluloid cuffs, and there was a linen collar and dickie.\nAlso there was a small handcase, such as bagmen carry on their rounds.\n\n'That's your luggage,' said Amos with pride. 'That wee bag's full of\nsamples. Ye'll mind I took the precaution of measurin' ye in Glasgow,\nso the things'll fit. Ye've got a new name, Mr Brand, and I've taken a\nroom for ye in the hotel on the strength of it. Ye're Archibald\nMcCaskie, and ye're travellin' for the firm o' Todd, Sons & Brothers,\nof Edinburgh. Ye ken the folk? They publish wee releegious books, that\nye've bin trying to sell for Sabbath-school prizes to the Free Kirk\nministers in Skye.'\n\nThe notion amused Amos, and he relapsed into the sombre chuckle which\nwith him did duty for a laugh.\n\nI put my hat and waterproof in the bag and donned the bowler and the\ntop-coat. They fitted fairly well. Likewise the cuffs and collar,\nthough here I struck a snag, for I had lost my scarf somewhere in the\nCoolin, and Amos, pelican-like, had to surrender the rusty black tie\nwhich adorned his own person. It was a queer rig, and I felt like\nnothing on earth in it, but Amos was satisfied.\n\n'Mr McCaskie, sir,' he said, 'ye're the very model of a publisher's\ntraveller. Ye'd better learn a few biographical details, which ye've\nmaybe forgotten. Ye're an Edinburgh man, but ye were some years in\nLondon, which explains the way ye speak. Ye bide at 6, Russell Street,\noff the Meadows, and ye're an elder in the Nethergate U.F. Kirk. Have\nye ony special taste ye could lead the crack on to, if ye're engaged in\nconversation?'\n\nI suggested the English classics.\n\n'And very suitable. Ye can try poalitics, too. Ye'd better be a\nFree-trader but convertit by Lloyd George. That's a common case, and\nye'll need to be by-ordinar common ... If I was you, I would daunder\nabout here for a bit, and no arrive at your hotel till after dark. Then\nye can have your supper and gang to bed. The Muirtown train leaves at\nhalf-seven in the morning ... Na, ye can't come with me. It wouldna do\nfor us to be seen thegither. If I meet ye in the street I'll never let\non I know ye.'\n\nAmos climbed into the gig and jolted off home. I went down to the shore\nand sat among the rocks, finishing about tea-time the remains of my\nprovisions. In the mellow gloaming I strolled into the clachan and got\na boat to put me over to the inn. It proved to be a comfortable place,\nwith a motherly old landlady who showed me to my room and promised ham\nand eggs and cold salmon for supper. After a good wash, which I needed,\nand an honest attempt to make my clothes presentable, I descended to\nthe meal in a coffee-room lit by a single dim parafin lamp.\n\nThe food was excellent, and, as I ate, my spirits rose. In two days I\nshould be back in London beside Blenkiron and somewhere within a day's\njourney of Mary. I could picture no scene now without thinking how Mary\nfitted into it. For her sake I held Biggleswick delectable, because I\nhad seen her there. I wasn't sure if this was love, but it was\nsomething I had never dreamed of before, something which I now hugged\nthe thought of. It made the whole earth rosy and golden for me, and\nlife so well worth living that I felt like a miser towards the days to\ncome.\n\nI had about finished supper, when I was joined by another guest. Seen\nin the light of that infamous lamp, he seemed a small, alert fellow,\nwith a bushy, black moustache, and black hair parted in the middle. He\nhad fed already and appeared to be hungering for human society.\n\nIn three minutes he had told me that he had come down from Portree and\nwas on his way to Leith. A minute later he had whipped out a card on\nwhich I read 'J. J. Linklater', and in the corner the name of\nHatherwick Bros. His accent betrayed that he hailed from the west.\n\n'I've been up among the distilleries,' he informed me. 'It's a poor\nbusiness distillin' in these times, wi' the teetotallers yowlin' about\nthe nation's shame and the way to lose the war. I'm a temperate man\nmysel', but I would think shame to spile decent folks' business. If the\nGovernment want to stop the drink, let them buy us out. They've\npermitted us to invest good money in the trade, and they must see that\nwe get it back. The other way will wreck public credit. That's what I\nsay. Supposin' some Labour Government takes the notion that soap's bad\nfor the nation? Are they goin' to shut up Port Sunlight? Or good\nclothes? Or lum hats? There's no end to their daftness if they once\nstart on that track. A lawfu' trade's a lawfu' trade, says I, and it's\ncontrary to public policy to pit it at the mercy of wheen cranks. D'ye\nno agree, sir? By the way, I havena got your name?'\n\nI told him and he rambled on.\n\n'We're blenders and do a very high-class business, mostly foreign. The\nwar's hit us wi' our export trade, of course, but we're no as bad as\nsome. What's your line, Mr McCaskie?'\n\nWhen he heard he was keenly interested.\n\n'D'ye say so? Ye're from Todd's! Man, I was in the book business\nmysel', till I changed it for something a wee bit more lucrative. I was\non the road for three years for Andrew Matheson. Ye ken the\nname--Paternoster Row--I've forgotten the number. I had a kind of\nambition to start a book-sellin' shop of my own and to make Linklater\no' Paisley a big name in the trade. But I got the offer from\nHatherwick's, and I was wantin' to get married, so filthy lucre won the\nday. And I'm no sorry I changed. If it hadna been for this war, I would\nhave been makin' four figures with my salary and commissions ... My\npipe's out. Have you one of those rare and valuable curiosities called\na spunk, Mr McCaskie?'\n\nHe was a merry little grig of a man, and he babbled on, till I\nannounced my intention of going to bed. If this was Amos's bagman, who\nhad been seen in company with Gresson, I understood how idle may be the\nsuspicions of a clever man. He had probably foregathered with Gresson\non the Skye boat, and wearied that saturnine soul with his cackle.\n\nI was up betimes, paid my bill, ate a breakfast of porridge and fresh\nhaddock, and walked the few hundred yards to the station. It was a\nwarm, thick morning, with no sun visible, and the Skye hills misty to\ntheir base. The three coaches on the little train were nearly filled\nwhen I had bought my ticket, and I selected a third-class smoking\ncarriage which held four soldiers returning from leave.\n\nThe train was already moving when a late passenger hurried along the\nplatform and clambered in beside me. A cheery 'Mornin', Mr McCaskie,'\nrevealed my fellow guest at the hotel.\n\nWe jolted away from the coast up a broad glen and then on to a wide\nexpanse of bog with big hills showing towards the north. It was a\ndrowsy day, and in that atmosphere of shag and crowded humanity I felt\nmy eyes closing. I had a short nap, and woke to find that Mr Linklater\nhad changed his seat and was now beside me.\n\n'We'll no get a Scotsman till Muirtown,' he said. 'Have ye nothing in\nyour samples ye could give me to read?'\n\nI had forgotten about the samples. I opened the case and found the\noddest collection of little books, all in gay bindings. Some were\nreligious, with names like _Dew of Hermon_ and _Cool Siloam_; some were\ninnocent narratives, _How Tommy saved his Pennies_, _A Missionary Child\nin China_, and _Little Susie and her Uncle_. There was a _Life of David\nLivingstone_, a child's book on sea-shells, and a richly gilt edition\nof the poems of one James Montgomery. I offered the selection to Mr\nLinklater, who grinned and chose the Missionary Child. 'It's not the\nreading I'm accustomed to,' he said. 'I like strong meat--Hall Caine\nand Jack London. By the way, how d'ye square this business of yours wi'\nthe booksellers? When I was in Matheson's there would have been trouble\nif we had dealt direct wi' the public like you.'\n\nThe confounded fellow started to talk about the details of the book\ntrade, of which I knew nothing. He wanted to know on what terms we sold\n'juveniles', and what discount we gave the big wholesalers, and what\nclass of book we put out 'on sale'. I didn't understand a word of his\njargon, and I must have given myself away badly, for he asked me\nquestions about firms of which I had never heard, and I had to make\nsome kind of answer. I told myself that the donkey was harmless, and\nthat his opinion of me mattered nothing, but as soon as I decently\ncould I pretended to be absorbed in the _Pilgrim's Progress_, a gaudy\ncopy of which was among the samples. It opened at the episode of\nChristian and Hopeful in the Enchanted Ground, and in that stuffy\ncarriage I presently followed the example of Heedless and Too-Bold and\nfell sound asleep. I was awakened by the train rumbling over the points\nof a little moorland junction. Sunk in a pleasing lethargy, I sat with\nmy eyes closed, and then covertly took a glance at my companion. He had\nabandoned the Missionary Child and was reading a little dun-coloured\nbook, and marking passages with a pencil. His face was absorbed, and it\nwas a new face, not the vacant, good-humoured look of the garrulous\nbagman, but something shrewd, purposeful, and formidable. I remained\nhunched up as if still sleeping, and tried to see what the book was.\nBut my eyes, good as they are, could make out nothing of the text or\ntitle, except that I had a very strong impression that that book was\nnot written in the English tongue.\n\nI woke abruptly, and leaned over to him. Quick as lightning he slid his\npencil up his sleeve and turned on me with a fatuous smile.\n\n'What d'ye make o' this, Mr McCaskie? It's a wee book I picked up at a\nroup along with fifty others. I paid five shillings for the lot. It\nlooks like Gairman, but in my young days they didna teach us foreign\nlanguages.'\n\nI took the thing and turned over the pages, trying to keep any sign of\nintelligence out of my face. It was German right enough, a little\nmanual of hydrography with no publisher's name on it. It had the look\nof the kind of textbook a Government department might issue to its\nofficials.\n\nI handed it back. 'It's either German or Dutch. I'm not much of a\nscholar, barring a little French and the Latin I got at Heriot's\nHospital ... This is an awful slow train, Mr Linklater.'\n\nThe soldiers were playing nap, and the bagman proposed a game of cards.\nI remembered in time that I was an elder in the Nethergate U.F. Church\nand refused with some asperity. After that I shut my eyes again, for I\nwanted to think out this new phenomenon.\n\nThe fellow knew German--that was clear. He had also been seen in\nGresson's company. I didn't believe he suspected me, though I suspected\nhim profoundly. It was my business to keep strictly to my part and give\nhim no cause to doubt me. He was clearly practising his own part on me,\nand I must appear to take him literally on his professions. So,\npresently, I woke up and engaged him in a disputatious conversation\nabout the morality of selling strong liquors. He responded readily, and\nput the case for alcohol with much point and vehemence. The discussion\ninterested the soldiers, and one of them, to show he was on Linklater's\nside, produced a flask and offered him a drink. I concluded by\nobserving morosely that the bagman had been a better man when he\npeddled books for Alexander Matheson, and that put the closure on the\nbusiness.\n\nThat train was a record. It stopped at every station, and in the\nafternoon it simply got tired and sat down in the middle of a moor and\nreflected for an hour. I stuck my head out of the window now and then,\nand smelt the rooty fragrance of bogs, and when we halted on a bridge I\nwatched the trout in the pools of the brown river. Then I slept and\nsmoked alternately, and began to get furiously hungry.\n\nOnce I woke to hear the soldiers discussing the war. There was an\nargument between a lance-corporal in the Camerons and a sapper private\nabout some trivial incident on the Somme.\n\n'I tell ye I was there,' said the Cameron. 'We were relievin' the Black\nWatch, and Fritz was shelling the road, and we didna get up to the line\ntill one o'clock in the mornin'. Frae Frickout Circus to the south end\no' the High Wood is every bit o' five mile.'\n\n'Not abune three,' said the sapper dogmatically.\n\n'Man, I've trampit it.'\n\n'Same here. I took up wire every nicht for a week.'\n\nThe Cameron looked moodily round the company. 'I wish there was anither\nman here that kent the place. He wad bear me out. These boys are no\ngood, for they didna join till later. I tell ye it's five mile.'\n\n'Three,' said the sapper.\n\nTempers were rising, for each of the disputants felt his veracity\nassailed. It was too hot for a quarrel and I was so drowsy that I was\nheedless.\n\n'Shut up, you fools,' I said. 'The distance is six kilometres, so\nyou're both wrong.'\n\nMy tone was so familiar to the men that it stopped the wrangle, but it\nwas not the tone of a publisher's traveller. Mr Linklater cocked his\nears.\n\n'What's a kilometre, Mr McCaskie?' he asked blandly.\n\n'Multiply by five and divide by eight and you get the miles.'\n\nI was on my guard now, and told a long story of a nephew who had been\nkilled on the Somme, and how I had corresponded with the War Office\nabout his case. 'Besides,' I said, 'I'm a great student o' the\nnewspapers, and I've read all the books about the war. It's a difficult\ntime this for us all, and if you can take a serious interest in the\ncampaign it helps a lot. I mean working out the places on the map and\nreading Haig's dispatches.'\n\n'Just so,' he said dryly, and I thought he watched me with an odd look\nin his eyes.\n\nA fresh idea possessed me. This man had been in Gresson's company, he\nknew German, he was obviously something very different from what he\nprofessed to be. What if he were in the employ of our own Secret\nService? I had appeared out of the void at the Kyle, and I had made but\na poor appearance as a bagman, showing no knowledge of my own trade. I\nwas in an area interdicted to the ordinary public; and he had good\nreason to keep an eye on my movements. He was going south, and so was\nI; clearly we must somehow part company.\n\n'We change at Muirtown, don't we?' I asked. 'When does the train for\nthe south leave?'\n\nHe consulted a pocket timetable. 'Ten-thirty-three. There's generally\nfour hours to wait, for we're due in at six-fifteen. But this auld\nhearse will be lucky if it's in by nine.'\n\nHis forecast was correct. We rumbled out of the hills into haughlands\nand caught a glimpse of the North Sea. Then we were hung up while a\nlong goods train passed down the line. It was almost dark when at last\nwe crawled into Muirtown station and disgorged our load of hot and\nweary soldiery.\n\nI bade an ostentatious farewell to Linklater. 'Very pleased to have met\nyou. I'll see you later on the Edinburgh train. I'm for a walk to\nstretch my legs, and a bite o' supper.' I was very determined that the\nten-thirty for the south should leave without me.\n\nMy notion was to get a bed and a meal in some secluded inn, and walk\nout next morning and pick up a slow train down the line. Linklater had\ndisappeared towards the guard's van to find his luggage, and the\nsoldiers were sitting on their packs with that air of being utterly and\nfinally lost and neglected which characterizes the British fighting-man\non a journey. I gave up my ticket and, since I had come off a northern\ntrain, walked unhindered into the town.\n\nIt was market night, and the streets were crowded. Blue-jackets from\nthe Fleet, country-folk in to shop, and every kind of military detail\nthronged the pavements. Fish-hawkers were crying their wares, and there\nwas a tatterdemalion piper making the night hideous at a corner. I took\na tortuous route and finally fixed on a modest-looking public-house in\na back street. When I inquired for a room I could find no one in\nauthority, but a slatternly girl informed me that there was one vacant\nbed, and that I could have ham and eggs in the bar. So, after hitting\nmy head violently against a cross-beam, I stumbled down some steps and\nentered a frowsty little place smelling of spilt beer and stale tobacco.\n\nThe promised ham and eggs proved impossible--there were no eggs to be\nhad in Muirtown that night--but I was given cold mutton and a pint of\nindifferent ale. There was nobody in the place but two farmers drinking\nhot whisky and water and discussing with sombre interest the rise in\nthe price of feeding-stuffs. I ate my supper, and was just preparing to\nfind the whereabouts of my bedroom when through the street door there\nentered a dozen soldiers.\n\nIn a second the quiet place became a babel. The men were strictly\nsober; but they were in that temper of friendliness which demands a\nlibation of some kind. One was prepared to stand treat; he was the\nleader of the lot, and it was to celebrate the end of his leave that he\nwas entertaining his pals. From where I sat I could not see him, but\nhis voice was dominant. 'What's your fancy, jock? Beer for you, Andra?\nA pint and a dram for me. This is better than vongblong and vongrooge,\nDavie. Man, when I'm sittin' in those estamints, as they ca' them, I\noften long for a guid Scots public.'\n\nThe voice was familiar. I shifted my seat to get a view of the speaker,\nand then I hastily drew back. It was the Scots Fusilier I had clipped\non the jaw in defending Gresson after the Glasgow meeting.\n\nBut by a strange fatality he had caught sight of me.\n\n'Whae's that i' the corner?' he cried, leaving the bar to stare at me.\nNow it is a queer thing, but if you have once fought with a man, though\nonly for a few seconds, you remember his face, and the scrap in Glasgow\nhad been under a lamp. The jock recognized me well enough.\n\n'By God!' he cried, 'if this is no a bit o' luck! Boys, here's the man\nI feucht wi' in Glesca. Ye mind I telled ye about it. He laid me oot,\nand it's my turn to do the same wi' him. I had a notion I was gaun to\nmak' a nicht o't. There's naebody can hit Geordie Hamilton without\nGeordie gettin' his ain back some day. Get up, man, for I'm gaun to\nknock the heid off ye.'\n\nI duly got up, and with the best composure I could muster looked him in\nthe face.\n\n'You're mistaken, my friend. I never clapped eyes on you before, and I\nnever was in Glasgow in my life.'\n\n'That's a damned lee,' said the Fusilier. 'Ye're the man, and if ye're\nno, ye're like enough him to need a hidin'!'\n\n'Confound your nonsense!' I said. 'I've no quarrel with you, and I've\nbetter things to do than be scrapping with a stranger in a\npublic-house.'\n\n'Have ye sae? Well, I'll learn ye better. I'm gaun to hit ye, and then\nye'll hae to fecht whether ye want it or no. Tam, haud my jacket, and\nsee that my drink's no skailed.'\n\nThis was an infernal nuisance, for a row here would bring in the\npolice, and my dubious position would be laid bare. I thought of\nputting up a fight, for I was certain I could lay out the jock a second\ntime, but the worst of that was that I did not know where the thing\nwould end. I might have to fight the lot of them, and that meant a\nnoble public shindy. I did my best to speak my opponent fair. I said we\nwere all good friends and offered to stand drinks for the party. But\nthe Fusilier's blood was up and he was spoiling for a row, ably abetted\nby his comrades. He had his tunic off now and was stamping in front of\nme with doubled fists.\n\nI did the best thing I could think of in the circumstances. My seat was\nclose to the steps which led to the other part of the inn. I grabbed my\nhat, darted up them, and before they realized what I was doing had\nbolted the door behind me. I could hear pandemonium break loose in the\nbar.\n\nI slipped down a dark passage to another which ran at right angles to\nit, and which seemed to connect the street door of the inn itself with\nthe back premises. I could hear voices in the little hall, and that\nstopped me short.\n\nOne of them was Linklater's, but he was not talking as Linklater had\ntalked. He was speaking educated English. I heard another with a Scots\naccent, which I took to be the landlord's, and a third which sounded\nlike some superior sort of constable's, very prompt and official. I\nheard one phrase, too, from Linklater--'He calls himself McCaskie.'\nThen they stopped, for the turmoil from the bar had reached the front\ndoor. The Fusilier and his friends were looking for me by the other\nentrance.\n\nThe attention of the men in the hall was distracted, and that gave me a\nchance. There was nothing for it but the back door. I slipped through\nit into a courtyard and almost tumbled over a tub of water. I planted\nthe thing so that anyone coming that way would fall over it. A door led\nme into an empty stable, and from that into a lane. It was all absurdly\neasy, but as I started down the lane I heard a mighty row and the sound\nof angry voices. Someone had gone into the tub and I hoped it was\nLinklater. I had taken a liking to the Fusilier jock.\n\nThere was the beginning of a moon somewhere, but that lane was very\ndark. I ran to the left, for on the right it looked like a cul-de-sac.\nThis brought me into a quiet road of two-storied cottages which showed\nat one end the lights of a street. So I took the other way, for I\nwasn't going to have the whole population of Muirtown on the\nhue-and-cry after me. I came into a country lane, and I also came into\nthe van of the pursuit, which must have taken a short cut. They shouted\nwhen they saw me, but I had a small start, and legged it down that road\nin the belief that I was making for open country.\n\nThat was where I was wrong. The road took me round to the other side of\nthe town, and just when I was beginning to think I had a fair chance I\nsaw before me the lights of a signal-box and a little to the left of it\nthe lights of the station. In half an hour's time the Edinburgh train\nwould be leaving, but I had made that impossible. Behind me I could\nhear the pursuers, giving tongue like hound puppies, for they had\nattracted some pretty drunken gentlemen to their party. I was badly\npuzzled where to turn, when I noticed outside the station a long line\nof blurred lights, which could only mean a train with the carriage\nblinds down. It had an engine attached and seemed to be waiting for the\naddition of a couple of trucks to start. It was a wild chance, but the\nonly one I saw. I scrambled across a piece of waste ground, climbed an\nembankment and found myself on the metals. I ducked under the couplings\nand got on the far side of the train, away from the enemy.\n\nThen simultaneously two things happened. I heard the yells of my\npursuers a dozen yards off, and the train jolted into motion. I jumped\non the footboard, and looked into an open window. The compartment was\npacked with troops, six a side and two men sitting on the floor, and\nthe door was locked. I dived headforemost through the window and landed\non the neck of a weary warrior who had just dropped off to sleep.\n\nWhile I was falling I made up my mind on my conduct. I must be\nintoxicated, for I knew the infinite sympathy of the British soldier\ntowards those thus overtaken. They pulled me to my feet, and the man I\nhad descended on rubbed his skull and blasphemously demanded\nexplanations.\n\n'Gen'lmen,' I hiccoughed, 'I 'pologize. I was late for this bl-blighted\ntrain and I mus' be in E'inburgh 'morrow or I'll get the sack. I\n'pologize. If I've hurt my friend's head, I'll kiss it and make it\nwell.'\n\nAt this there was a great laugh. 'Ye'd better accept, Pete,' said one.\n'It's the first time anybody ever offered to kiss your ugly heid.'\n\nA man asked me who I was, and I appeared to be searching for a\ncard-case.\n\n'Losht,' I groaned. 'Losht, and so's my wee bag and I've bashed my po'\nhat. I'm an awful sight, gen'lmen--an awful warning to be in time for\ntrains. I'm John Johnstone, managing clerk to Messrs Watters, Brown &\nElph'stone, 923 Charl'tte Street, E'inburgh. I've been up north seein'\nmy mamma.'\n\n'Ye should be in France,' said one man.\n\n'Wish't I was, but they wouldn't let me. \"Mr Johnstone,\" they said,\n\"ye're no dam good. Ye've varicose veins and a bad heart,\" they said.\nSo I says, \"Good mornin', gen'lmen. Don't blame me if the country's\nru'ned\". That's what I said.'\n\nI had by this time occupied the only remaining space left on the floor.\nWith the philosophy of their race the men had accepted my presence, and\nwere turning again to their own talk. The train had got up speed, and\nas I judged it to be a special of some kind I looked for few stoppings.\nMoreover it was not a corridor carriage, but one of the old-fashioned\nkind, so I was safe for a time from the unwelcome attention of\nconductors. I stretched my legs below the seat, rested my head against\nthe knees of a brawny gunner, and settled down to make the best of it.\n\nMy reflections were not pleasant. I had got down too far below the\nsurface, and had the naked feeling you get in a dream when you think\nyou have gone to the theatre in your nightgown. I had had three names\nin two days, and as many characters. I felt as if I had no home or\nposition anywhere, and was only a stray dog with everybody's hand and\nfoot against me. It was an ugly sensation, and it was not redeemed by\nany acute fear or any knowledge of being mixed up in some desperate\ndrama. I knew I could easily go on to Edinburgh, and when the police\nmade trouble, as they would, a wire to Scotland Yard would settle\nmatters in a couple of hours. There wasn't a suspicion of bodily danger\nto restore my dignity. The worst that could happen would be that Ivery\nwould hear of my being befriended by the authorities, and the part I\nhad settled to play would be impossible. He would certainly hear. I had\nthe greatest respect for his intelligence service.\n\nYet that was bad enough. So far I had done well. I had put Gresson off\nthe scent. I had found out what Bullivant wanted to know, and I had\nonly to return unostentatiously to London to have won out on the game.\nI told myself all that, but it didn't cheer my spirits. I was feeling\nmean and hunted and very cold about the feet.\n\nBut I have a tough knuckle of obstinacy in me which makes me unwilling\nto give up a thing till I am fairly choked off it. The chances were\nbadly against me. The Scottish police were actively interested in my\nmovements and would be ready to welcome me at my journey's end. I had\nruined my hat, and my clothes, as Amos had observed, were not\nrespectable. I had got rid of a four-days' beard the night before, but\nhad cut myself in the process, and what with my weather-beaten face and\ntangled hair looked liker a tinker than a decent bagman. I thought with\nlonging of my portmanteau in the Pentland Hotel, Edinburgh, and the\nneat blue serge suit and the clean linen that reposed in it. It was no\ncase for a subtle game, for I held no cards. Still I was determined not\nto chuck in my hand till I was forced to. If the train stopped anywhere\nI would get out, and trust to my own wits and the standing luck of the\nBritish Army for the rest.\n\nThe chance came just after dawn, when we halted at a little junction. I\ngot up yawning and tried to open the door, till I remembered it was\nlocked. Thereupon I stuck my legs out of the window on the side away\nfrom the platform, and was immediately seized upon by a sleepy Seaforth\nwho thought I contemplated suicide.\n\n'Let me go,' I said. 'I'll be back in a jiffy.'\n\n'Let him gang, jock,' said another voice. 'Ye ken what a man's like\nwhen he's been on the bash. The cauld air'll sober him.'\n\nI was released, and after some gymnastics dropped on the metals and\nmade my way round the rear of the train. As I clambered on the platform\nit began to move, and a face looked out of one of the back carriages.\nIt was Linklater and he recognized me. He tried to get out, but the\ndoor was promptly slammed by an indignant porter. I heard him protest,\nand he kept his head out till the train went round the curve. That\ncooked my goose all right. He would wire to the police from the next\nstation.\n\nMeantime in that clean, bare, chilly place there was only one\ntraveller. He was a slim young man, with a kit-bag and a gun-case. His\nclothes were beautiful, a green Homburg hat, a smart green tweed\novercoat, and boots as brightly polished as a horse chestnut. I caught\nhis profile as he gave up his ticket and to my amazement I recognized\nit.\n\nThe station-master looked askance at me as I presented myself,\ndilapidated and dishevelled, to the official gaze. I tried to speak in\na tone of authority.\n\n'Who is the man who has just gone out?'\n\n'Whaur's your ticket?'\n\n'I had no time to get one at Muirtown, and as you see I have left my\nluggage behind me. Take it out of that pound and I'll come back for the\nchange. I want to know if that was Sir Archibald Roylance.'\n\nHe looked suspiciously at the note. 'I think that's the name. He's a\ncaptain up at the Fleein' School. What was ye wantin' with him?'\n\nI charged through the booking-office and found my man about to enter a\nbig grey motor-car.\n\n'Archie,' I cried and beat him on the shoulders.\n\nHe turned round sharply. 'What the devil--! Who are you?' And then\nrecognition crept into his face and he gave a joyous shout. 'My holy\naunt! The General disguised as Charlie Chaplin! Can I drive you\nanywhere, sir?'\n\n\n\nCHAPTER NINE\n\nI Take the Wings of a Dove\n\n'Drive me somewhere to breakfast, Archie,' I said, 'for I'm perishing\nhungry.'\n\nHe and I got into the tonneau, and the driver swung us out of the\nstation road up a long incline of hill. Sir Archie had been one of my\nsubalterns in the old Lennox Highlanders, and had left us before the\nSomme to join the Flying Corps. I had heard that he had got his wings\nand had done well before Arras, and was now training pilots at home. He\nhad been a light-hearted youth, who had endured a good deal of\nrough-tonguing from me for his sins of omission. But it was the casual\nclass of lad I was looking for now.\n\nI saw him steal amused glances at my appearance.\n\n'Been seein' a bit of life, sir?' he inquired respectfully.\n\n'I'm being hunted by the police,' I said.\n\n'Dirty dogs! But don't worry, sir; we'll get you off all right. I've\nbeen in the same fix myself. You can lie snug in my little log hut, for\nthat old image Gibbons won't blab. Or, tell you what, I've got an aunt\nwho lives near here and she's a bit of a sportsman. You can hide in her\nmoated grange till the bobbies get tired.'\n\nI think it was Archie's calm acceptance of my position as natural and\nbecoming that restored my good temper. He was far too well bred to ask\nwhat crime I had committed, and I didn't propose to enlighten him much.\nBut as we swung up the moorland road I let him know that I was serving\nthe Government, but that it was necessary that I should appear to be\nunauthenticated and that therefore I must dodge the police. He whistled\nhis appreciation.\n\n'Gad, that's a deep game. Sort of camouflage? Speaking from my\nexperience it is easy to overdo that kind of stunt. When I was at\nMisieux the French started out to camouflage the caravans where they\nkeep their pigeons, and they did it so damned well that the poor little\nbirds couldn't hit 'em off, and spent the night out.'\n\nWe entered the white gates of a big aerodrome, skirted a forest of\ntents and huts, and drew up at a shanty on the far confines of the\nplace. The hour was half past four, and the world was still asleep.\nArchie nodded towards one of the hangars, from the mouth of which\nprojected the propeller end of an aeroplane.\n\n'I'm by way of flyin' that bus down to Farnton tomorrow,' he remarked.\n'It's the new Shark-Gladas. Got a mouth like a tree.'\n\nAn idea flashed into my mind.\n\n'You're going this morning,' I said.\n\n'How did you know?' he exclaimed. 'I'm due to go today, but the grouse\nup in Caithness wanted shootin' so badly that I decided to wangle\nanother day's leave. They can't expect a man to start for the south of\nEngland when he's just off a frowsy journey.'\n\n'All the same you're going to be a stout fellow and start in two hours'\ntime. And you're going to take me with you.'\n\nHe stared blankly, and then burst into a roar of laughter. 'You're the\nman to go tiger-shootin' with. But what price my commandant? He's not a\nbad chap, but a trifle shaggy about the fetlocks. He won't appreciate\nthe joke.'\n\n'He needn't know. He mustn't know. This is an affair between you and me\ntill it's finished. I promise you I'll make it all square with the\nFlying Corps. Get me down to Farnton before evening, and you'll have\ndone a good piece of work for the country.'\n\n'Right-o! Let's have a tub and a bit of breakfast, and then I'm your\nman. I'll tell them to get the bus ready.'\n\nIn Archie's bedroom I washed and shaved and borrowed a green tweed cap\nand a brand-new Aquascutum. The latter covered the deficiencies of my\nraiment, and when I commandeered a pair of gloves I felt almost\nrespectable. Gibbons, who seemed to be a jack-of-all-trades, cooked us\nsome bacon and an omelette, and as he ate Archie yarned. In the\nbattalion his conversation had been mostly of race-meetings and the\nforsaken delights of town, but now he had forgotten all that, and, like\nevery good airman I have ever known, wallowed enthusiastically in\n'shop'. I have a deep respect for the Flying Corps, but it is apt to\nchange its jargon every month, and its conversation is hard for the\nlayman to follow. He was desperately keen about the war, which he saw\nwholly from the viewpoint of the air. Arras to him was over before the\ninfantry crossed the top, and the tough bit of the Somme was October,\nnot September. He calculated that the big air-fighting had not come\nalong yet, and all he hoped for was to be allowed out to France to have\nhis share in it. Like all good airmen, too, he was very modest about\nhimself. 'I've done a bit of steeple-chasin' and huntin' and I've good\nhands for a horse, so I can handle a bus fairly well. It's all a matter\nof hands, you know. There ain't half the risk of the infantry down\nbelow you, and a million times the fun. Jolly glad I changed, sir.'\n\nWe talked of Peter, and he put him about top. Voss, he thought, was the\nonly Boche that could compare with him, for he hadn't made up his mind\nabout Lensch. The Frenchman Guynemer he ranked high, but in a different\nway. I remember he had no respect for Richthofen and his celebrated\ncircus.\n\nAt six sharp we were ready to go. A couple of mechanics had got out the\nmachine, and Archie put on his coat and gloves and climbed into the\npilot's seat, while I squeezed in behind in the observer's place. The\naerodrome was waking up, but I saw no officers about. We were scarcely\nseated when Gibbons called our attention to a motor-car on the road,\nand presently we heard a shout and saw men waving in our direction.\n\n'Better get off, my lad,' I said. 'These look like my friends.'\n\nThe engine started and the mechanics stood clear. As we taxied over the\nturf I looked back and saw several figures running in our direction.\nThe next second we had left the bumpy earth for the smooth highroad of\nthe air.\n\nI had flown several dozen times before, generally over the enemy lines\nwhen I wanted to see for myself how the land lay. Then we had flown\nlow, and been nicely dusted by the Hun Archies, not to speak of an\noccasional machine-gun. But never till that hour had I realized the joy\nof a straight flight in a swift plane in perfect weather. Archie didn't\nlose time. Soon the hangars behind looked like a child's toys, and the\nworld ran away from us till it seemed like a great golden bowl spilling\nover with the quintessence of light. The air was cold and my hands\nnumbed, but I never felt them. As we throbbed and tore southward,\nsometimes bumping in eddies, sometimes swimming evenly in a stream of\nmotionless ether, my head and heart grew as light as a boy's. I forgot\nall about the vexations of my job and saw only its joyful comedy. I\ndidn't think that anything on earth could worry me again. Far to the\nleft was a wedge of silver and beside it a cluster of toy houses. That\nmust be Edinburgh, where reposed my portmanteau, and where a most\nefficient police force was now inquiring for me. At the thought I\nlaughed so loud that Archie must have heard me. He turned round, saw my\ngrinning face, and grinned back. Then he signalled to me to strap\nmyself in. I obeyed, and he proceeded to practise 'stunts'--the loop,\nthe spinning nose-dive, and others I didn't know the names of. It was\nglorious fun, and he handled his machine as a good rider coaxes a\nnervous horse over a stiff hurdle. He had that extra something in his\nblood that makes the great pilot.\n\nPresently the chessboard of green and brown had changed to a deep\npurple with faint silvery lines like veins in a rock. We were crossing\nthe Border hills, the place where I had legged it for weary days when I\nwas mixed up in the Black Stone business. What a marvellous element was\nthis air, which took one far above the fatigues of humanity! Archie had\ndone well to change. Peter had been the wise man. I felt a tremendous\npity for my old friend hobbling about a German prison-yard, when he had\nonce flown a hawk. I reflected that I had wasted my life hitherto. And\nthen I remembered that all this glory had only one use in war and that\nwas to help the muddy British infantryman to down his Hun opponent. He\nwas the fellow, after all, that decided battles, and the thought\ncomforted me.\n\nA great exhilaration is often the precursor of disaster, and mine was\nto have a sudden downfall. It was getting on for noon and we were well\ninto England--I guessed from the rivers we had passed that we were\nsomewhere in the north of Yorkshire--when the machine began to make odd\nsounds, and we bumped in perfectly calm patches of air. We dived and\nthen climbed, but the confounded thing kept sputtering. Archie passed\nback a slip of paper on which he had scribbled: 'Engine conked. Must\nland at Micklegill. Very sorry.' So we dropped to a lower elevation\nwhere we could see clearly the houses and roads and the long swelling\nridges of a moorland country. I could never have found my way about,\nbut Archie's practised eye knew every landmark. We were trundling along\nvery slowly now, and even I was soon able to pick up the hangars of a\nbig aerodrome.\n\nWe made Micklegill, but only by the skin of our teeth. We were so low\nthat the smoky chimneys of the city of Bradfield seven miles to the\neast were half hidden by a ridge of down. Archie achieved a clever\ndescent in the lee of a belt of firs, and got out full of imprecations\nagainst the Gladas engine. 'I'll go up to the camp and report,' he\nsaid, 'and send mechanics down to tinker this darned gramophone. You'd\nbetter go for a walk, sir. I don't want to answer questions about you\ntill we're ready to start. I reckon it'll be an hour's job.'\n\nThe cheerfulness I had acquired in the upper air still filled me. I sat\ndown in a ditch, as merry as a sand-boy, and lit a pipe. I was\npossessed by a boyish spirit of casual adventure, and waited on the\nnext turn of fortune's wheel with only a pleasant amusement.\n\nThat turn was not long in coming. Archie appeared very breathless.\n\n'Look here, sir, there's the deuce of a row up there. They've been\nwirin' about you all over the country, and they know you're with me.\nThey've got the police, and they'll have you in five minutes if you\ndon't leg it. I lied like billy-o and said I had never heard of you,\nbut they're comin' to see for themselves. For God's sake get off ...\nYou'd better keep in cover down that hollow and round the back of these\ntrees. I'll stay here and try to brazen it out. I'll get strafed to\nblazes anyhow ... I hope you'll get me out of the scrape, sir.'\n\n'Don't you worry, my lad,' I said. 'I'll make it all square when I get\nback to town. I'll make for Bradfield, for this place is a bit\nconspicuous. Goodbye, Archie. You're a good chap and I'll see you don't\nsuffer.'\n\nI started off down the hollow of the moor, trying to make speed atone\nfor lack of strategy, for it was hard to know how much my pursuers\ncommanded from that higher ground. They must have seen me, for I heard\nwhistles blown and men's cries. I struck a road, crossed it, and passed\na ridge from which I had a view of Bradfield six miles off. And as I\nran I began to reflect that this kind of chase could not last long.\nThey were bound to round me up in the next half-hour unless I could\npuzzle them. But in that bare green place there was no cover, and it\nlooked as if my chances were pretty much those of a hare coursed by a\ngood greyhound on a naked moor.\n\nSuddenly from just in front of me came a familiar sound. It was the\nroar of guns--the slam of field-batteries and the boom of small\nhowitzers. I wondered if I had gone off my head. As I plodded on the\nrattle of machine-guns was added, and over the ridge before me I saw\nthe dust and fumes of bursting shells. I concluded that I was not mad,\nand that therefore the Germans must have landed. I crawled up the last\nslope, quite forgetting the pursuit behind me.\n\nAnd then I'm blessed if I did not look down on a veritable battle.\n\nThere were two sets of trenches with barbed wire and all the fixings,\none set filled with troops and the other empty. On these latter shells\nwere bursting, but there was no sign of life in them. In the other\nlines there seemed the better part of two brigades, and the first\ntrench was stiff with bayonets. My first thought was that Home Forces\nhad gone dotty, for this kind of show could have no sort of training\nvalue. And then I saw other things--cameras and camera-men on platforms\non the flanks, and men with megaphones behind them on wooden\nscaffoldings. One of the megaphones was going full blast all the time.\n\nI saw the meaning of the performance at last. Some movie-merchant had\ngot a graft with the Government, and troops had been turned out to make\na war film. It occurred to me that if I were mixed up in that push I\nmight get the cover I was looking for. I scurried down the hill to the\nnearest camera-man.\n\nAs I ran, the first wave of troops went over the top. They did it\nuncommon well, for they entered into the spirit of the thing, and went\nover with grim faces and that slow, purposeful lope that I had seen in\nmy own fellows at Arras. Smoke grenades burst among them, and now and\nthen some resourceful mountebank would roll over. Altogether it was\nabout the best show I have ever seen. The cameras clicked, the guns\nbanged, a background of boy scouts applauded, and the dust rose in\nbillows to the sky.\n\nBut all the same something was wrong. I could imagine that this kind of\nbusiness took a good deal of planning from the point of view of the\nmovie-merchant, for his purpose was not the same as that of the officer\nin command. You know how a photographer finicks about and is\ndissatisfied with a pose that seems all right to his sitter. I should\nhave thought the spectacle enough to get any cinema audience off their\nfeet, but the man on the scaffolding near me judged differently. He\nmade his megaphone boom like the swan-song of a dying buffalo. He\nwanted to change something and didn't know how to do it. He hopped on\none leg; he took the megaphone from his mouth to curse; he waved it\nlike a banner and yelled at some opposite number on the other flank.\nAnd then his patience forsook him and he skipped down the ladder,\ndropping his megaphone, past the camera-men, on to the battlefield.\n\nThat was his undoing. He got in the way of the second wave and was\nswallowed up like a leaf in a torrent. For a moment I saw a red face\nand a loud-checked suit, and the rest was silence. He was carried on\nover the hill, or rolled into an enemy trench, but anyhow he was lost\nto my ken.\n\nI bagged his megaphone and hopped up the steps to the platform. At last\nI saw a chance of first-class cover, for with Archie's coat and cap I\nmade a very good appearance as a movie-merchant. Two waves had gone\nover the top, and the cinema-men, working like beavers, had filmed the\nlot. But there was still a fair amount of troops to play with, and I\ndetermined to tangle up that outfit so that the fellows who were after\nme would have better things to think about.\n\nMy advantage was that I knew how to command men. I could see that my\nopposite number with the megaphone was helpless, for the mistake which\nhad swept my man into a shell-hole had reduced him to impotence. The\ntroops seemed to be mainly in charge of N.C.O.s (I could imagine that\nthe officers would try to shirk this business), and an N.C.O. is the\nmost literal creature on earth. So with my megaphone I proceeded to\nchange the battle order.\n\nI brought up the third wave to the front trenches. In about three\nminutes the men had recognized the professional touch and were moving\nsmartly to my orders. They thought it was part of the show, and the\nobedient cameras clicked at everything that came into their orbit. My\naim was to deploy the troops on too narrow a front so that they were\nbound to fan outward, and I had to be quick about it, for I didn't know\nwhen the hapless movie-merchant might be retrieved from the\nbattle-field and dispute my authority.\n\nIt takes a long time to straighten a thing out, but it does not take\nlong to tangle it, especially when the thing is so delicate a machine\nas disciplined troops. In about eight minutes I had produced chaos. The\nflanks spread out, in spite of all the shepherding of the N.C.O.s, and\nthe fringe engulfed the photographers. The cameras on their little\nplatforms went down like ninepins. It was solemn to see the startled\nface of a photographer, taken unawares, supplicating the purposeful\ninfantry, before he was swept off his feet into speechlessness.\n\nIt was no place for me to linger in, so I chucked away the megaphone\nand got mixed up with the tail of the third wave. I was swept on and\ncame to anchor in the enemy trenches, where I found, as I expected, my\nprofane and breathless predecessor, the movie-merchant. I had nothing\nto say to him, so I stuck to the trench till it ended against the slope\nof the hill.\n\nOn that flank, delirious with excitement, stood a knot of boy scouts.\nMy business was to get to Bradfield as quick as my legs would take me,\nand as inconspicuously as the gods would permit. Unhappily I was far\ntoo great an object of interest to that nursery of heroes. Every boy\nscout is an amateur detective and hungry for knowledge. I was followed\nby several, who plied me with questions, and were told that I was off\nto Bradfield to hurry up part of the cinema outfit. It sounded lame\nenough, for that cinema outfit was already past praying for.\n\nWe reached the road and against a stone wall stood several bicycles. I\nselected one and prepared to mount.\n\n'That's Mr Emmott's machine,' said one boy sharply. 'He told me to keep\nan eye on it.'\n\n'I must borrow it, sonny,' I said. 'Mr Emmott's my very good friend and\nwon't object.'\n\nFrom the place where we stood I overlooked the back of the battle-field\nand could see an anxious congress of officers. I could see others, too,\nwhose appearance I did not like. They had not been there when I\noperated on the megaphone. They must have come downhill from the\naerodrome and in all likelihood were the pursuers I had avoided. The\nexhilaration which I had won in the air and which had carried me into\nthe tomfoolery of the past half-hour was ebbing. I had the hunted\nfeeling once more, and grew middle-aged and cautious. I had a baddish\nrecord for the day, what with getting Archie into a scrape and busting\nup an official cinema show--neither consistent with the duties of a\nbrigadier-general. Besides, I had still to get to London.\n\nI had not gone two hundred yards down the road when a boy scout,\npedalling furiously, came up abreast me.\n\n'Colonel Edgeworth wants to see you,' he panted. 'You're to come back\nat once.'\n\n'Tell him I can't wait now,' I said. 'I'll pay my respects to him in an\nhour.'\n\n'He said you were to come at once,' said the faithful messenger. 'He's\nin an awful temper with you, and he's got bobbies with him.'\n\nI put on pace and left the boy behind. I reckoned I had the better part\nof two miles' start and could beat anything except petrol. But my\nenemies were bound to have cars, so I had better get off the road as\nsoon as possible. I coasted down a long hill to a bridge which spanned\na small discoloured stream that flowed in a wooded glen. There was\nnobody for the moment on the hill behind me, so I slipped into the\ncovert, shoved the bicycle under the bridge, and hid Archie's\naquascutum in a bramble thicket. I was now in my own disreputable\ntweeds and I hoped that the shedding of my most conspicuous garment\nwould puzzle my pursuers if they should catch up with me.\n\nBut this I was determined they should not do. I made good going down\nthat stream and out into a lane which led from the downs to the\nmarket-gardens round the city. I thanked Heaven I had got rid of the\naquascutum, for the August afternoon was warm and my pace was not\nleisurely. When I was in secluded ground I ran, and when anyone was in\nsight I walked smartly.\n\nAs I went I reflected that Bradfield would see the end of my\nadventures. The police knew that I was there and would watch the\nstations and hunt me down if I lingered in the place. I knew no one\nthere and had no chance of getting an effective disguise. Indeed I very\nsoon began to wonder if I should get even as far as the streets. For at\nthe moment when I had got a lift on the back of a fishmonger's cart and\nwas screened by its flapping canvas, two figures passed on\nmotor-bicycles, and one of them was the inquisitive boy scout. The main\nroad from the aerodrome was probably now being patrolled by motor-cars.\nIt looked as if there would be a degrading arrest in one of the suburbs.\n\nThe fish-cart, helped by half a crown to the driver, took me past the\noutlying small-villadom, between long lines of workmen's houses, to\nnarrow cobbled lanes and the purlieus of great factories. As soon as I\nsaw the streets well crowded I got out and walked. In my old clothes I\nmust have appeared like some second-class bookie or seedy horse-coper.\nThe only respectable thing I had about me was my gold watch. I looked\nat the time and found it half past five.\n\nI wanted food and was casting about for an eating-house when I heard\nthe purr of a motor-cycle and across the road saw the intelligent boy\nscout. He saw me, too, and put on the brake with a sharpness which\ncaused him to skid and all but come to grief under the wheels of a\nwool-wagon. That gave me time to efface myself by darting up a side\nstreet. I had an unpleasant sense that I was about to be trapped, for\nin a place I knew nothing of I had not a chance to use my wits.\n\nI remember trying feverishly to think, and I suppose that my\npreoccupation made me careless. I was now in a veritable slum, and when\nI put my hand to my vest pocket I found that my watch had gone. That\nput the top stone on my depression. The reaction from the wild burnout\nof the forenoon had left me very cold about the feet. I was getting\ninto the under-world again and there was no chance of a second Archie\nRoylance turning up to rescue me. I remember yet the sour smell of the\nfactories and the mist of smoke in the evening air. It is a smell I\nhave never met since without a sort of dulling of spirit.\n\nPresently I came out into a market-place. Whistles were blowing, and\nthere was a great hurrying of people back from the mills. The crowd\ngave me a momentary sense of security, and I was just about to inquire\nmy way to the railway station when someone jostled my arm.\n\nA rough-looking fellow in mechanic's clothes was beside me.\n\n'Mate,' he whispered. 'I've got summat o' yours here.' And to my\namazement he slipped my watch into my hand.\n\n'It was took by mistake. We're friends o' yours. You're right enough if\nyou do what I tell you. There's a peeler over there got his eye on you.\nFollow me and I'll get you off.'\n\nI didn't much like the man's looks, but I had no choice, and anyhow he\nhad given me back my watch. He sidled into an alley between tall houses\nand I sidled after him. Then he took to his heels, and led me a\ntwisting course through smelly courts into a tanyard and then by a\nnarrow lane to the back-quarters of a factory. Twice we doubled back,\nand once we climbed a wall and followed the bank of a blue-black stream\nwith a filthy scum on it. Then we got into a very mean quarter of the\ntown, and emerged in a dingy garden, strewn with tin cans and broken\nflowerpots. By a back door we entered one of the cottages and my guide\nvery carefully locked it behind him.\n\nHe lit the gas and drew the blinds in a small parlour and looked at me\nlong and quizzically. He spoke now in an educated voice.\n\n'I ask no questions,' he said, 'but it's my business to put my services\nat your disposal. You carry the passport.'\n\nI stared at him, and he pulled out his watch and showed a\nwhite-and-purple cross inside the lid.\n\n'I don't defend all the people we employ,' he said, grinning. 'Men's\nmorals are not always as good as their patriotism. One of them pinched\nyour watch, and when he saw what was inside it he reported to me. We\nsoon picked up your trail, and observed you were in a bit of trouble.\nAs I say, I ask no questions. What can we do for you?'\n\n'I want to get to London without any questions asked. They're looking\nfor me in my present rig, so I've got to change it.'\n\n'That's easy enough,' he said. 'Make yourself comfortable for a little\nand I'll fix you up. The night train goes at eleven-thirty.... You'll\nfind cigars in the cupboard and there's this week's _Critic_ on that\ntable. It's got a good article on Conrad, if you care for such things.'\n\nI helped myself to a cigar and spent a profitable half-hour reading\nabout the vices of the British Government. Then my host returned and\nbade me ascend to his bedroom. 'You're Private Henry Tomkins of the\n12th Gloucesters, and you'll find your clothes ready for you. I'll send\non your present togs if you give me an address.'\n\nI did as I was bid, and presently emerged in the uniform of a British\nprivate, complete down to the shapeless boots and the dropsical\nputtees. Then my friend took me in hand and finished the\ntransformation. He started on my hair with scissors and arranged a lock\nwhich, when well oiled, curled over my forehead. My hands were hard and\nrough and only needed some grubbiness and hacking about the nails to\npass muster. With my cap on the side of my head, a pack on my back, a\nservice rifle in my hands, and my pockets bursting with penny picture\npapers, I was the very model of the British soldier returning from\nleave. I had also a packet of Woodbine cigarettes and a hunch of\nbread-and-cheese for the journey. And I had a railway warrant made out\nin my name for London.\n\nThen my friend gave me supper--bread and cold meat and a bottle of\nBass, which I wolfed savagely, for I had had nothing since breakfast.\nHe was a curious fellow, as discreet as a tombstone, very ready to\nspeak about general subjects, but never once coming near the intimate\nbusiness which had linked him and me and Heaven knew how many others by\nmeans of a little purple-and-white cross in a watch-case. I remember we\ntalked about the topics that used to be popular at Biggleswick--the big\npolitical things that begin with capital letters. He took Amos's view\nof the soundness of the British working-man, but he said something\nwhich made me think. He was convinced that there was a tremendous lot\nof German spy work about, and that most of the practitioners were\ninnocent. 'The ordinary Briton doesn't run to treason, but he's not\nvery bright. A clever man in that kind of game can make better use of a\nfool than a rogue.'\n\nAs he saw me off he gave me a piece of advice. 'Get out of these\nclothes as soon as you reach London. Private Tomkins will frank you out\nof Bradfield, but it mightn't be a healthy alias in the metropolis.'\n\nAt eleven-thirty I was safe in the train, talking the jargon of the\nreturning soldier with half a dozen of my own type in a smoky\nthird-class carriage. I had been lucky in my escape, for at the station\nentrance and on the platform I had noticed several men with the\nunmistakable look of plainclothes police. Also--though this may have\nbeen my fancy--I thought I caught in the crowd a glimpse of the bagman\nwho had called himself Linklater.\n\n\n\nCHAPTER TEN\n\nThe Advantages of an Air Raid\n\nThe train was abominably late. It was due at eight-twenty-seven, but it\nwas nearly ten when we reached St Pancras. I had resolved to go\nstraight to my rooms in Westminster, buying on the way a cap and\nwaterproof to conceal my uniform should anyone be near my door on my\narrival. Then I would ring up Blenkiron and tell him all my adventures.\nI breakfasted at a coffee-stall, left my pack and rifle in the\ncloak-room, and walked out into the clear sunny morning.\n\nI was feeling very pleased with myself. Looking back on my madcap\njourney, I seemed to have had an amazing run of luck and to be entitled\nto a little credit too. I told myself that persistence always pays and\nthat nobody is beaten till he is dead. All Blenkiron's instructions had\nbeen faithfully carried out. I had found Ivery's post office. I had\nlaid the lines of our own special communications with the enemy, and so\nfar as I could see I had left no clue behind me. Ivery and Gresson took\nme for a well-meaning nincompoop. It was true that I had aroused\nprofound suspicion in the breasts of the Scottish police. But that\nmattered nothing, for Cornelius Brand, the suspect, would presently\ndisappear, and there was nothing against that rising soldier,\nBrigadier-General Richard Hannay, who would soon be on his way to\nFrance. After all this piece of service had not been so very\nunpleasant. I laughed when I remembered my grim forebodings in\nGloucestershire. Bullivant had said it would be damnably risky in the\nlong run, but here was the end and I had never been in danger of\nanything worse than making a fool of myself.\n\nI remember that, as I made my way through Bloomsbury, I was not\nthinking so much of my triumphant report to Blenkiron as of my speedy\nreturn to the Front. Soon I would be with my beloved brigade again. I\nhad missed Messines and the first part of Third Ypres, but the battle\nwas still going on, and I had yet a chance. I might get a division, for\nthere had been talk of that before I left. I knew the Army Commander\nthought a lot of me. But on the whole I hoped I would be left with the\nbrigade. After all I was an amateur soldier, and I wasn't certain of my\npowers with a bigger command.\n\nIn Charing Cross Road I thought of Mary, and the brigade seemed\nsuddenly less attractive. I hoped the war wouldn't last much longer,\nthough with Russia heading straight for the devil I didn't know how it\nwas going to stop very soon. I was determined to see Mary before I\nleft, and I had a good excuse, for I had taken my orders from her. The\nprospect entranced me, and I was mooning along in a happy dream, when I\ncollided violently with in agitated citizen.\n\nThen I realized that something very odd was happening.\n\nThere was a dull sound like the popping of the corks of flat soda-water\nbottles. There was a humming, too, from very far up in the skies.\nPeople in the street were either staring at the heavens or running\nwildly for shelter. A motor-bus in front of me emptied its contents in\na twinkling; a taxi pulled up with a jar and the driver and fare dived\ninto a second-hand bookshop. It took me a moment or two to realize the\nmeaning of it all, and I had scarcely done this when I got a very\npractical proof. A hundred yards away a bomb fell on a street island,\nshivering every window-pane in a wide radius, and sending splinters of\nstone flying about my head. I did what I had done a hundred times\nbefore at the Front, and dropped flat on my face.\n\nThe man who says he doesn't mind being bombed or shelled is either a\nliar or a maniac. This London air raid seemed to me a singularly\nunpleasant business. I think it was the sight of the decent civilized\nlife around one and the orderly streets, for what was perfectly natural\nin a rubble-heap like Ypres or Arras seemed an outrage here. I remember\nonce being in billets in a Flanders village where I had the Maire's\nhouse and sat in a room upholstered in cut velvet, with wax flowers on\nthe mantelpiece and oil paintings of three generations on the walls.\nThe Boche took it into his head to shell the place with a long-range\nnaval gun, and I simply loathed it. It was horrible to have dust and\nsplinters blown into that snug, homely room, whereas if I had been in a\nruined barn I wouldn't have given the thing two thoughts. In the same\nway bombs dropping in central London seemed a grotesque indecency. I\nhated to see plump citizens with wild eyes, and nursemaids with scared\nchildren, and miserable women scuttling like rabbits in a warren.\n\nThe drone grew louder, and, looking up, I could see the enemy planes\nflying in a beautiful formation, very leisurely as it seemed, with all\nLondon at their mercy. Another bomb fell to the right, and presently\nbits of our own shrapnel were clattering viciously around me. I thought\nit about time to take cover, and ran shamelessly for the best place I\ncould see, which was a Tube station. Five minutes before the street had\nbeen crowded; now I left behind me a desert dotted with one bus and\nthree empty taxicabs.\n\nI found the Tube entrance filled with excited humanity. One stout lady\nhad fainted, and a nurse had become hysterical, but on the whole people\nwere behaving well. Oddly enough they did not seem inclined to go down\nthe stairs to the complete security of underground; but preferred\nrather to collect where they could still get a glimpse of the upper\nworld, as if they were torn between fear of their lives and interest in\nthe spectacle. That crowd gave me a good deal of respect for my\ncountrymen. But several were badly rattled, and one man a little way\noff, whose back was turned, kept twitching his shoulders as if he had\nthe colic.\n\nI watched him curiously, and a movement of the crowd brought his face\ninto profile. Then I gasped with amazement, for I saw that it was Ivery.\n\nAnd yet it was not Ivery. There were the familiar nondescript features,\nthe blandness, the plumpness, but all, so to speak, in ruins. The man\nwas in a blind funk. His features seemed to be dislimning before my\neyes. He was growing sharper, finer, in a way younger, a man without\ngrip on himself, a shapeless creature in process of transformation. He\nwas being reduced to his rudiments. Under the spell of panic he was\nbecoming a new man.\n\nAnd the crazy thing was that I knew the new man better than the old.\n\nMy hands were jammed close to my sides by the crowd; I could scarcely\nturn my head, and it was not the occasion for one's neighbours to\nobserve one's expression. If it had been, mine must have been a study.\nMy mind was far away from air raids, back in the hot summer weather of\n1914. I saw a row of villas perched on a headland above the sea. In the\ngarden of one of them two men were playing tennis, while I was\ncrouching behind an adjacent bush. One of these was a plump young man\nwho wore a coloured scarf round his waist and babbled of golf handicaps\n... I saw him again in the villa dining-room, wearing a dinner-jacket,\nand lisping a little.... I sat opposite him at bridge, I beheld him\ncollared by two of Macgillivray's men, when his comrade had rushed for\nthe thirty-nine steps that led to the sea ... I saw, too, the\nsitting-room of my old flat in Portland Place and heard little\nScudder's quick, anxious voice talking about the three men he feared\nmost on earth, one of whom lisped in his speech. I had thought that all\nthree had long ago been laid under the turf ...\n\nHe was not looking my way, and I could devour his face in safety. There\nwas no shadow of doubt. I had always put him down as the most amazing\nactor on earth, for had he not played the part of the First Sea Lord\nand deluded that officer's daily colleagues? But he could do far more\nthan any human actor, for he could take on a new personality and with\nit a new appearance, and live steadily in the character as if he had\nbeen born in it ... My mind was a blank, and I could only make blind\ngropings at conclusions ... How had he escaped the death of a spy and a\nmurderer, for I had last seen him in the hands of justice? ... Of\ncourse he had known me from the first day in Biggleswick ... I had\nthought to play with him, and he had played most cunningly and damnably\nwith me. In that sweating sardine-tin of refugees I shivered in the\nbitterness of my chagrin.\n\nAnd then I found his face turned to mine, and I knew that he recognized\nme. More, I knew that he knew that I had recognized him--not as Ivery,\nbut as that other man. There came into his eyes a curious look of\ncomprehension, which for a moment overcame his funk.\n\nI had sense enough to see that that put the final lid on it. There was\nstill something doing if he believed that I was blind, but if he once\nthought that I knew the truth he would be through our meshes and\ndisappear like a fog.\n\nMy first thought was to get at him and collar him and summon everybody\nto help me by denouncing him for what he was. Then I saw that that was\nimpossible. I was a private soldier in a borrowed uniform, and he could\neasily turn the story against me. I must use surer weapons. I must get\nto Bullivant and Macgillivray and set their big machine to work. Above\nall I must get to Blenkiron.\n\nI started to squeeze out of that push, for air raids now seemed far too\ntrivial to give a thought to. Moreover the guns had stopped, but so\nsheeplike is human nature that the crowd still hung together, and it\ntook me a good fifteen minutes to edge my way to the open air. I found\nthat the trouble was over, and the street had resumed its usual\nappearance. Buses and taxis were running, and voluble knots of people\nwere recounting their experiences. I started off for Blenkiron's\nbookshop, as the nearest harbour of refuge.\n\nBut in Piccadilly Circus I was stopped by a military policeman. He\nasked my name and battalion, and I gave him them, while his suspicious\neye ran over my figure. I had no pack or rifle, and the crush in the\nTube station had not improved my appearance. I explained that I was\ngoing back to France that evening, and he asked for my warrant. I fancy\nmy preoccupation made me nervous and I lied badly. I said I had left it\nwith my kit in the house of my married sister, but I fumbled in giving\nthe address. I could see that the fellow did not believe a word of it.\n\nJust then up came an A.P.M. He was a pompous dug-out, very splendid in\nhis red tabs and probably bucked up at having just been under fire.\nAnyhow he was out to walk in the strict path of duty.\n\n'Tomkins!' he said. 'Tomkins! We've got some fellow of that name on our\nrecords. Bring him along, Wilson.'\n\n'But, sir,' I said, 'I must--I simply must meet my friend. It's urgent\nbusiness, and I assure you I'm all right. If you don't believe me, I'll\ntake a taxi and we'll go down to Scotland Yard and I'll stand by what\nthey say.'\n\nHis brow grew dark with wrath. 'What infernal nonsense is this?\nScotland Yard! What the devil has Scotland Yard to do with it? You're\nan imposter. I can see it in your face. I'll have your depot rung up,\nand you'll be in jail in a couple of hours. I know a deserter when I\nsee him. Bring him along, Wilson. You know what to do if he tries to\nbolt.'\n\nI had a momentary thought of breaking away, but decided that the odds\nwere too much against me. Fuming with impatience, I followed the A.P.M.\nto his office on the first floor in a side street. The precious minutes\nwere slipping past; Ivery, now thoroughly warned, was making good his\nescape; and I, the sole repository of a deadly secret, was tramping in\nthis absurd procession.\n\nThe A.P.M. issued his orders. He gave instructions that my depot should\nbe rung up, and he bade Wilson remove me to what he called the\nguard-room. He sat down at his desk, and busied himself with a mass of\nbuff dockets.\n\nIn desperation I renewed my appeal. 'I implore you to telephone to Mr\nMacgillivray at Scotland Yard. It's a matter of life and death, Sir.\nYou're taking a very big responsibility if you don't.'\n\nI had hopelessly offended his brittle dignity. 'Any more of your\ninsolence and I'll have you put in irons. I'll attend to you soon\nenough for your comfort. Get out of this till I send for you.'\n\nAs I looked at his foolish, irritable face I realized that I was fairly\nUP against it. Short of assault and battery on everybody I was bound to\nsubmit. I saluted respectfully and was marched away.\n\nThe hours I spent in that bare anteroom are like a nightmare in my\nrecollection. A sergeant was busy at a desk with more buff dockets and\nan orderly waited on a stool by a telephone. I looked at my watch and\nobserved that it was one o'clock. Soon the slamming of a door announced\nthat the A.P.M. had gone to lunch. I tried conversation with the fat\nsergeant, but he very soon shut me up. So I sat hunched up on the\nwooden form and chewed the cud of my vexation.\n\nI thought with bitterness of the satisfaction which had filled me in\nthe morning. I had fancied myself the devil of a fine fellow, and I had\nbeen no more than a mountebank. The adventures of the past days seemed\nmerely childish. I had been telling lies and cutting capers over half\nBritain, thinking I was playing a deep game, and I had only been\nbehaving like a schoolboy. On such occasions a man is rarely just to\nhimself, and the intensity of my self-abasement would have satisfied my\nworst enemy. It didn't console me that the futility of it all was not\nmy blame. I was looking for excuses. It was the facts that cried out\nagainst me, and on the facts I had been an idiotic failure.\n\nFor of course Ivery had played with me, played with me since the first\nday at Biggleswick. He had applauded my speeches and flattered me, and\nadvised me to go to the Clyde, laughing at me all the time. Gresson,\ntoo, had known. Now I saw it all. He had tried to drown me between\nColonsay and Mull. It was Gresson who had set the police on me in\nMorvern. The bagman Linklater had been one of Gresson's creatures. The\nonly meagre consolation was that the gang had thought me dangerous\nenough to attempt to murder me, and that they knew nothing about my\ndoings in Skye. Of that I was positive. They had marked me down, but\nfor several days I had slipped clean out of their ken.\n\nAs I went over all the incidents, I asked if everything was yet lost. I\nhad failed to hoodwink Ivery, but I had found out his post office, and\nif he only believed I hadn't recognized him for the miscreant of the\nBlack Stone he would go on in his old ways and play into Blenkiron's\nhands. Yes, but I had seen him in undress, so to speak, and he knew\nthat I had so seen him. The only thing now was to collar him before he\nleft the country, for there was ample evidence to hang him on. The law\nmust stretch out its long arm and collect him and Gresson and the\nPortuguese Jew, try them by court martial, and put them decently\nunderground.\n\nBut he had now had more than an hour's warning, and I was entangled\nwith red-tape in this damned A.P.M.'s office. The thought drove me\nfrantic, and I got up and paced the floor. I saw the orderly with\nrather a scared face making ready to press the bell, and I noticed that\nthe fat sergeant had gone to lunch.\n\n'Say, mate,' I said, 'don't you feel inclined to do a poor fellow a\ngood turn? I know I'm for it all right, and I'll take my medicine like\na lamb. But I want badly to put a telephone call through.'\n\n'It ain't allowed,' was the answer. 'I'd get 'ell from the old man.'\n\n'But he's gone out,' I urged. 'I don't want you to do anything wrong,\nmate, I leave you to do the talkin' if you'll only send my message. I'm\nflush of money, and I don't mind handin' you a quid for the job.'\n\nHe was a pinched little man with a weak chin, and he obviously wavered.\n\n''Oo d'ye want to talk to?' he asked.\n\n'Scotland Yard,' I said, 'the home of the police. Lord bless you, there\ncan't be no harm in that. Ye've only got to ring up Scotland Yard--I'll\ngive you the number--and give the message to Mr Macgillivray. He's the\nhead bummer of all the bobbies.'\n\n'That sounds a bit of all right,' he said. 'The old man 'e won't be\nback for 'alf an hour, nor the sergeant neither. Let's see your quid\nthough.'\n\nI laid a pound note on the form beside me. 'It's yours, mate, if you\nget through to Scotland Yard and speak the piece I'm goin' to give you.'\n\nHe went over to the instrument. 'What d'you want to say to the bloke\nwith the long name?'\n\n'Say that Richard Hannay is detained at the A.P.M.'s office in Claxton\nStreet. Say he's got important news--say urgent and secret news--and\nask Mr Macgillivray to do something about it at once.'\n\n'But 'Annay ain't the name you gave.'\n\n'Lord bless you, no. Did you never hear of a man borrowin' another\nname? Anyhow that's the one I want you to give.'\n\n'But if this Mac man comes round 'ere, they'll know 'e's bin rung up,\nand I'll 'ave the old man down on me.'\n\nIt took ten minutes and a second pound note to get him past this\nhurdle. By and by he screwed up courage and rang up the number. I\nlistened with some nervousness while he gave my message--he had to\nrepeat it twice--and waited eagerly on the next words.\n\n'No, sir,' I heard him say, ''e don't want you to come round 'ere. 'E\nthinks as 'ow--I mean to say, 'e wants--'\n\nI took a long stride and twitched the receiver from him.\n\n'Macgillivray,' I said, 'is that you? Richard Hannay! For the love of\nGod come round here this instant and deliver me from the clutches of a\ntomfool A.P.M. I've got the most deadly news. There's not a second to\nwaste. For God's sake come quick!' Then I added: 'Just tell your\nfellows to gather Ivery in at once. You know his lairs.'\n\nI hung up the receiver and faced a pale and indignant orderly. 'It's\nall right,' I said. 'I promise you that you won't get into any trouble\non my account. And there's your two quid.'\n\nThe door in the next room opened and shut. The A.P.M. had returned from\nlunch ...\n\nTen minutes later the door opened again. I heard Macgillivray's voice,\nand it was not pitched in dulcet tones. He had run up against minor\nofficialdom and was making hay with it.\n\nI was my own master once more, so I forsook the company of the orderly.\nI found a most rattled officer trying to save a few rags of his dignity\nand the formidable figure of Macgillivray instructing him in manners.\n\n'Glad to see you, Dick,' he said. 'This is General Hannay, sir. It may\ncomfort you to know that your folly may have made just the difference\nbetween your country's victory and defeat. I shall have a word to say\nto your superiors.'\n\nIt was hardly fair. I had to put in a word for the old fellow, whose\nred tabs seemed suddenly to have grown dingy.\n\n'It was my blame wearing this kit. We'll call it a misunderstanding and\nforget it. But I would suggest that civility is not wasted even on a\npoor devil of a defaulting private soldier.'\n\nOnce in Macgillivray's car, I poured out my tale. 'Tell me it's a\nnightmare,' I cried. 'Tell me that the three men we collected on the\nRuff were shot long ago.'\n\n'Two,' he replied, 'but one escaped. Heaven knows how he managed it,\nbut he disappeared clean out of the world.'\n\n'The plump one who lisped in his speech?'\n\nMacgillivray nodded.\n\n'Well, we're in for it this time. Have you issued instructions?'\n\n'Yes. With luck we shall have our hands on him within an hour. We've\nour net round all his haunts.'\n\n'But two hours' start! It's a big handicap, for you're dealing with a\ngenius.'\n\n'Yet I think we can manage it. Where are you bound for?'\n\nI told him my rooms in Westminster and then to my old flat in Park\nLane. 'The day of disguises is past. In half an hour I'll be Richard\nHannay. It'll be a comfort to get into uniform again. Then I'll look up\nBlenkiron.'\n\nHe grinned. 'I gather you've had a riotous time. We've had a good many\nanxious messages from the north about a certain Mr Brand. I couldn't\ndiscourage our men, for I fancied it might have spoiled your game. I\nheard that last night they had lost touch with you in Bradfield, so I\nrather expected to see you here today. Efficient body of men the\nScottish police.'\n\n'Especially when they have various enthusiastic amateur helpers.'\n\n'So?' he said. 'Yes, of course. They would have. But I hope presently\nto congratulate you on the success of your mission.'\n\n'I'll bet you a pony you don't,' I said.\n\n'I never bet on a professional subject. Why this pessimism?'\n\n'Only that I know our gentleman better than you. I've been twice up\nagainst him. He's the kind of wicked that don't cease from troubling\ntill they're stone-dead. And even then I'd want to see the body\ncremated and take the ashes into mid-ocean and scatter them. I've got a\nfeeling that he's the biggest thing you or I will ever tackle.'\n\n\n\nCHAPTER ELEVEN\n\nThe Valley of Humiliation\n\nI collected some baggage and a pile of newly arrived letters from my\nrooms in Westminster and took a taxi to my Park Lane flat. Usually I\nhad gone back to that old place with a great feeling of comfort, like a\nboy from school who ranges about his room at home and examines his\ntreasures. I used to like to see my hunting trophies on the wall and to\nsink into my own armchairs But now I had no pleasure in the thing. I\nhad a bath, and changed into uniform, and that made me feel in better\nfighting trim. But I suffered from a heavy conviction of abject\nfailure, and had no share in Macgillivray's optimism. The awe with\nwhich the Black Stone gang had filled me three years before had revived\na thousandfold. Personal humiliation was the least part of my trouble.\nWhat worried me was the sense of being up against something inhumanly\nformidable and wise and strong. I believed I was willing to own defeat\nand chuck up the game.\n\nAmong the unopened letters was one from Peter, a very bulky one which I\nsat down to read at leisure. It was a curious epistle, far the longest\nhe had ever written me, and its size made me understand his loneliness.\nHe was still at his German prison-camp, but expecting every day to go\nto Switzerland. He said he could get back to England or South Africa,\nif he wanted, for they were clear that he could never be a combatant\nagain; but he thought he had better stay in Switzerland, for he would\nbe unhappy in England with all his friends fighting. As usual he made\nno complaints, and seemed to be very grateful for his small mercies.\nThere was a doctor who was kind to him, and some good fellows among the\nprisoners.\n\nBut Peter's letter was made up chiefly of reflection. He had always\nbeen a bit of a philosopher, and now, in his isolation, he had taken to\nthinking hard, and poured out the results to me on pages of thin paper\nin his clumsy handwriting. I could read between the lines that he was\nhaving a stiff fight with himself. He was trying to keep his courage\ngoing in face of the bitterest trial he could be called on to face--a\ncrippled old age. He had always known a good deal about the Bible, and\nthat and the _Pilgrim's Progress_ were his chief aids in reflection.\nBoth he took quite literally, as if they were newspaper reports of\nactual recent events.\n\nHe mentioned that after much consideration he had reached the\nconclusion that the three greatest men he had ever heard of or met were\nMr Valiant-for-Truth, the Apostle Paul, and a certain Billy Strang who\nhad been with him in Mashonaland in '92. Billy I knew all about; he had\nbeen Peter's hero and leader till a lion got him in the Blaauwberg.\nPeter preferred Valiant-for-Truth to Mr Greatheart, I think, because of\nhis superior truculence, for, being very gentle himself, he loved a\nbold speaker. After that he dropped into a vein of self-examination. He\nregretted that he fell far short of any of the three. He thought that\nhe might with luck resemble Mr Standfast, for like him he had not much\ntrouble in keeping wakeful, and was also as 'poor as a howler', and\ndidn't care for women. He only hoped that he could imitate him in\nmaking a good end.\n\nThen followed some remarks of Peter's on courage, which came to me in\nthat London room as if spoken by his living voice. I have never known\nanyone so brave, so brave by instinct, or anyone who hated so much to\nbe told so. It was almost the only thing that could make him angry. All\nhis life he had been facing death, and to take risks seemed to him as\nnatural as to get up in the morning and eat his breakfast. But he had\nstarted out to consider the very thing which before he had taken for\ngranted, and here is an extract from his conclusions. I paraphrase him,\nfor he was not grammatical.\n\n\n_It's easy enough to be brave if you're feeling well and have food\ninside you. And it's not so difficult even if you're short of a meal\nand seedy, for that makes you inclined to gamble. I mean by being brave\nplaying the game by the right rules without letting it worry you that\nyou may very likely get knocked on the head. It's the wisest way to\nsave your skin. It doesn't do to think about death if you're facing a\ncharging lion or trying to bluff a lot of savages. If you think about\nit you'll get it; if you don't, the odds are you won't. That kind of\ncourage is only good nerves and experience ... Most courage is\nexperience. Most people are a little scared at new things ..._\n\n_You want a bigger heart to face danger which you go out to look for,\nand which doesn't come to you in the ordinary way of business. Still,\nthat's pretty much the same thing--good nerves and good health, and a\nnatural liking for rows. You see, Dick, in all that game there's a lot\nof fun. There's excitement and the fun of using your wits and skill,\nand you know that the bad bits can't last long. When Arcoll sent me to\nMakapan's kraal I didn't altogether fancy the job, but at the worst it\nwas three parts sport, and I got so excited that I never thought of the\nrisk till it was over ..._\n\n_But the big courage is the cold-blooded kind, the kind that never lets\ngo even when you're feeling empty inside, and your blood's thin, and\nthere's no kind of fun or profit to be had, and the trouble's not over\nin an hour or two but lasts for months and years. One of the men here\nwas speaking about that kind, and he called it 'Fortitude'. I reckon\nfortitude's the biggest thing a man can have--just to go on enduring\nwhen there's no guts or heart left in you. Billy had it when he trekked\nsolitary from Garungoze to the Limpopo with fever and a broken arm just\nto show the Portugooses that he wouldn't be downed by them. But the\nhead man at the job was the Apostle Paul ..._\n\n\n\nPeter was writing for his own comfort, for fortitude was all that was\nleft to him now. But his words came pretty straight to me, and I read\nthem again and again, for I needed the lesson. Here was I losing heart\njust because I had failed in the first round and my pride had taken a\nknock. I felt honestly ashamed of myself, and that made me a far\nhappier man. There could be no question of dropping the business,\nwhatever its difficulties. I had a queer religious feeling that Ivery\nand I had our fortunes intertwined, and that no will of mine could keep\nus apart. I had faced him before the war and won; I had faced him again\nand lost; the third time or the twentieth time we would reach a final\ndecision. The whole business had hitherto appeared to me a trifle\nunreal, at any rate my own connection with it. I had been docilely\nobeying orders, but my real self had been standing aside and watching\nmy doings with a certain aloofness. But that hour in the Tube station\nhad brought me into the serum, and I saw the affair not as Bullivant's\nor even Blenkiron's, but as my own. Before I had been itching to get\nback to the Front; now I wanted to get on to Ivery's trail, though it\nshould take me through the nether pit. Peter was right; fortitude was\nthe thing a man must possess if he would save his soul.\n\nThe hours passed, and, as I expected, there came no word from\nMacgillivray. I had some dinner sent up to me at seven o'clock, and\nabout eight I was thinking of looking up Blenkiron. Just then came a\ntelephone call asking me to go round to Sir Walter Bullivant's house in\nQueen Anne's Gate.\n\nTen minutes later I was ringing the bell, and the door was opened to me\nby the same impassive butler who had admitted me on that famous night\nthree years before. Nothing had changed in the pleasant green-panelled\nhall; the alcove was the same as when I had watched from it the\ndeparture of the man who now called himself Ivery; the telephone book\nlay in the very place from which I had snatched it in order to ring up\nthe First Sea Lord. And in the back room, where that night five anxious\nofficials had conferred, I found Sir Walter and Blenkiron.\n\nBoth looked worried, the American feverishly so. He walked up and down\nthe hearthrug, sucking an unlit black cigar.\n\n'Say, Dick,' he said, 'this is a bad business. It wasn't no fault of\nyours. You did fine. It was us--me and Sir Walter and Mr Macgillivray\nthat were the quitters.'\n\n'Any news?' I asked.\n\n'So far the cover's drawn blank,' Sir Walter replied. 'It was the\ndevil's own work that our friend looked your way today. You're pretty\ncertain he saw that you recognized him?'\n\n'Absolutely. As sure as that he knew I recognized him in your hall\nthree years ago when he was swaggering as Lord Alloa.'\n\n'No,' said Blenkiron dolefully, 'that little flicker of recognition is\njust the one thing you can't be wrong about. Land alive! I wish Mr\nMacgillivray would come.'\n\nThe bell rang, and the door opened, but it was not Macgillivray. It was\na young girl in a white ball-gown, with a cluster of blue cornflowers\nat her breast. The sight of her fetched Sir Walter out of his chair so\nsuddenly that he upset his coffee cup.\n\n'Mary, my dear, how did you manage it? I didn't expect you till the\nlate train.'\n\n'I was in London, you see, and they telephoned on your telegram. I'm\nstaying with Aunt Doria, and I cut her theatre party. She thinks I'm at\nthe Shandwick's dance, so I needn't go home till morning ... Good\nevening, General Hannay. You got over the Hill Difficulty.'\n\n'The next stage is the Valley of Humiliation,' I answered.\n\n'So it would appear,' she said gravely, and sat very quietly on the\nedge of Sir Walter's chair with her small, cool hand upon his.\n\nI had been picturing her in my recollection as very young and\nglimmering, a dancing, exquisite child. But now I revised that picture.\nThe crystal freshness of morning was still there, but I saw how deep\nthe waters were. It was the clean fineness and strength of her that\nentranced me. I didn't even think of her as pretty, any more than a man\nthinks of the good looks of the friend he worships.\n\nWe waited, hardly speaking a word, till Macgillivray came. The first\nsight of his face told his story.\n\n'Gone?' asked Blenkiron sharply. The man's lethargic calm seemed to\nhave wholly deserted him.\n\n'Gone,' repeated the newcomer. 'We have just tracked him down. Oh, he\nmanaged it cleverly. Never a sign of disturbance in any of his lairs.\nHis dinner ordered at Biggleswick and several people invited to stay\nwith him for the weekend--one a member of the Government. Two meetings\nat which he was to speak arranged for next week. Early this afternoon\nhe flew over to France as a passenger in one of the new planes. He had\nbeen mixed up with the Air Board people for months--of course as\nanother man with another face. Miss Lamington discovered that just too\nlate. The bus went out of its course and came down in Normandy. By this\ntime our man's in Paris or beyond it.'\n\nSir Walter took off his big tortoiseshell spectacles and laid them\ncarefully on the table.\n\n'Roll up the map of Europe,' he said. 'This is our Austerlitz. Mary, my\ndear, I am feeling very old.'\n\nMacgillivray had the sharpened face of a bitterly disappointed man.\nBlenkiron had got very red, and I could see that he was blaspheming\nviolently under his breath. Mary's eyes were quiet and solemn. She kept\non patting Sir Walter's hand. The sense of some great impending\ndisaster hung heavily on me, and to break the spell I asked for details.\n\n'Tell me just the extent of the damage,' I asked. 'Our neat plan for\ndeceiving the Boche has failed. That is bad. A dangerous spy has got\nbeyond our power. That's worse. Tell me, is there still a worst? What's\nthe limit of mischief he can do?'\n\nSir Walter had risen and joined Blenkiron on the hearthrug. His brows\nwere furrowed and his mouth hard as if he were suffering pain.\n\n'There is no limit,' he said. 'None that I can see, except the\nlong-suffering of God. You know the man as Ivery, and you knew him as\nthat other whom you believed to have been shot one summer morning and\ndecently buried. You feared the second--at least if you didn't, I\ndid--most mortally. You realized that we feared Ivery, and you knew\nenough about him to see his fiendish cleverness. Well, you have the two\nmen combined in one man. Ivery was the best brain Macgillivray and I\never encountered, the most cunning and patient and long-sighted.\nCombine him with the other, the chameleon who can blend himself with\nhis environment, and has as many personalities as there are types and\ntraits on the earth. What kind of enemy is that to have to fight?'\n\n'I admit it's a steep proposition. But after all how much ill can he\ndo? There are pretty strict limits to the activity of even the\ncleverest spy.'\n\n'I agree. But this man is not a spy who buys a few wretched\nsubordinates and steals a dozen private letters. He's a genius who has\nbeen living as part of our English life. There's nothing he hasn't\nseen. He's been on terms of intimacy with all kinds of politicians. We\nknow that. He did it as Ivery. They rather liked him, for he was clever\nand flattered them, and they told him things. But God knows what he saw\nand heard in his other personalities. For all I know he may have\nbreakfasted at Downing Street with letters of introduction from\nPresident Wilson, or visited the Grand Fleet as a distinguished\nneutral. Then think of the women; how they talk. We're the leakiest\nsociety on earth, and we safeguard ourselves by keeping dangerous\npeople out of it. We trust to our outer barrage. But anyone who has\nreally slipped inside has a million chances. And this, remember, is one\nman in ten millions, a man whose brain never sleeps for a moment, who\nis quick to seize the slightest hint, who can piece a plan together out\nof a dozen bits of gossip. It's like--it's as if the Chief of the\nIntelligence Department were suddenly to desert to the enemy ... The\nordinary spy knows only bits of unconnected facts. This man knows our\nlife and our way of thinking and everything about us.'\n\n'Well, but a treatise on English life in time of war won't do much good\nto the Boche.'\n\nSir Walter shook his head. 'Don't you realize the explosive stuff that\nis lying about? Ivery knows enough to make the next German peace\noffensive really deadly--not the blundering thing which it has been up\nto now, but something which gets our weak spots on the raw. He knows\nenough to wreck our campaign in the field. And the awful thing is that\nwe don't know just what he knows or what he is aiming for. This war's a\npacket of surprises. Both sides are struggling for the margin, the\nlittle fraction of advantage, and between evenly matched enemies it's\njust the extra atom of foreknowledge that tells.'\n\n'Then we've got to push off and get after him,' I said cheerfully.\n\n'But what are you going to do?' asked Macgillivray. 'If it were merely\na question of destroying an organization it might be managed, for an\norganization presents a big front. But it's a question of destroying\nthis one man, and his front is a razor edge. How are you going to find\nhim? It's like looking for a needle in a haystack, and such a needle! A\nneedle which can become a piece of straw or a tin-tack when it chooses!'\n\n'All the same we've got to do it,' I said, remembering old Peter's\nlesson on fortitude, though I can't say I was feeling very\nstout-hearted.\n\nSir Walter flung himself wearily into an arm-chair. 'I wish I could be\nan optimist,' he said, 'but it looks as if we must own defeat. I've\nbeen at this work for twenty years, and, though I've been often beaten,\nI've always held certain cards in the game. Now I'm hanged if I've any.\nIt looks like a knock-out, Hannay. It's no good deluding ourselves.\nWe're men enough to look facts in the face and tell ourselves the\ntruth. I don't see any ray of light in the business. We've missed our\nshot by a hairsbreadth and that's the same as missing by miles.'\n\nI remember he looked at Mary as if for confirmation, but she did not\nsmile or nod. Her face was very grave and her eyes looked steadily at\nhim. Then they moved and met mine, and they seemed to give me my\nmarching orders.\n\n'Sir Walter,' I said, 'three years ago you and I sat in this very room.\nWe thought we were done to the world, as we think now. We had just that\none miserable little clue to hang on to--a dozen words scribbled in a\nnotebook by a dead man. You thought I was mad when I asked for\nScudder's book, but we put our backs into the job and in twenty-four\nhours we had won out. Remember that then we were fighting against time.\nNow we have a reasonable amount of leisure. Then we had nothing but a\nsentence of gibberish. Now we have a great body of knowledge, for\nBlenkiron has been brooding over Ivery like an old hen, and he knows\nhis ways of working and his breed of confederate. You've got something\nto work on now. Do you mean to tell me that, when the stakes are so\nbig, you're going to chuck in your hand?'\n\nMacgillivray raised his head. 'We know a good deal about Ivery, but\nIvery's dead. We know nothing of the man who was gloriously resurrected\nthis evening in Normandy.'\n\n'Oh, yes we do. There are many faces to the man, but only one mind, and\nyou know plenty about that mind.'\n\n'I wonder,' said Sir Walter. 'How can you know a mind which has no\ncharacteristics except that it is wholly and supremely competent? Mere\nmental powers won't give us a clue. We want to know the character which\nis behind all the personalities. Above all we want to know its foibles.\nIf we had only a hint of some weakness we might make a plan.'\n\n'Well, let's set down all we know,' I cried, for the more I argued the\nkeener I grew. I told them in some detail the story of the night in the\nCoolin and what I had heard there.\n\n'There's the two names Chelius and Bommaerts. The man spoke them in the\nsame breath as Elfenbein, so they must be associated with Ivery's gang.\nYou've got to get the whole Secret Service of the Allies busy to fit a\nmeaning to these two words. Surely to goodness you'll find something!\nRemember those names don't belong to the Ivery part, but to the big\ngame behind all the different disguises ... Then there's the talk about\nthe Wild Birds and the Cage Birds. I haven't a guess at what it means.\nBut it refers to some infernal gang, and among your piles of records\nthere must be some clue. You set the intelligence of two hemispheres\nbusy on the job. You've got all the machinery, and it's my experience\nthat if even one solitary man keeps chewing on at a problem he\ndiscovers something.'\n\nMy enthusiasm was beginning to strike sparks from Macgillivray. He was\nlooking thoughtful now, instead of despondent.\n\n'There might be something in that,' he said, 'but it's a far-out\nchance.'\n\n'Of course it's a far-out chance, and that's all we're ever going to\nget from Ivery. But we've taken a bad chance before and won ... Then\nyou've all that you know about Ivery here. Go through his _dossier_\nwith a small-tooth comb and I'll bet you find something to work on.\nBlenkiron, you're a man with a cool head. You admit we've a sporting\nchance.'\n\n'Sure, Dick. He's fixed things so that the lines are across the track,\nbut we'll clear somehow. So far as John S. Blenkiron is concerned he's\ngot just one thing to do in this world, and that's to follow the yellow\ndog and have him neatly and cleanly tidied up. I've got a stack of\npersonal affronts to settle. I was easy fruit and he hasn't been very\nrespectful. You can count me in, Dick.'\n\n'Then we're agreed,' I cried. 'Well, gentlemen, it's up to you to\narrange the first stage. You've some pretty solid staff work to put in\nbefore you get on the trail.'\n\n'And you?' Sir Walter asked.\n\n'I'm going back to my brigade. I want a rest and a change. Besides, the\nfirst stage is office work, and I'm no use for that. But I'll be\nwaiting to be summoned, and I'll come like a shot as soon as you hoick\nme out. I've got a presentiment about this thing. I know there'll be a\nfinish and that I'll be in at it, and I think it will be a desperate,\nbloody business too.'\n\nI found Mary's eyes fixed upon me, and in them I read the same thought.\nShe had not spoken a word, but had sat on the edge of a chair, swinging\na foot idly, one hand playing with an ivory fan. She had given me my\nold orders and I looked to her for confirmation of the new.\n\n'Miss Lamington, you are the wisest of the lot of us. What do you say?'\n\nShe smiled--that shy, companionable smile which I had been picturing to\nmyself through all the wanderings of the past month.\n\n'I think you are right. We've a long way to go yet, for the Valley of\nHumiliation comes only half-way in the _Pilgrim's Progress_. The next\nstage was Vanity Fair. I might be of some use there, don't you think?'\n\nI remember the way she laughed and flung back her head like a gallant\nboy.\n\n'The mistake we've all been making,' she said, 'is that our methods are\ntoo terre-a-terre. We've a poet to deal with, a great poet, and we must\nfling our imaginations forward to catch up with him. His strength is\nhis unexpectedness, you know, and we won't beat him by plodding only. I\nbelieve the wildest course is the wisest, for it's the most likely to\nintersect his ... Who's the poet among us?'\n\n'Peter,' I said. 'But he's pinned down with a game leg in Germany. All\nthe same we must rope him in.'\n\nBy this time we had all cheered up, for it is wonderful what a tonic\nthere is in a prospect of action. The butler brought in tea, which it\nwas Bullivant's habit to drink after dinner. To me it seemed fantastic\nto watch a slip of a girl pouring it out for two grizzled and\ndistinguished servants of the State and one battered soldier--as\ndecorous a family party as you would ask to see--and to reflect that\nall four were engaged in an enterprise where men's lives must be\nreckoned at less than thistledown.\n\nAfter that we went upstairs to a noble Georgian drawing-room and Mary\nplayed to us. I don't care two straws for music from an\ninstrument--unless it be the pipes or a regimental band--but I dearly\nlove the human voice. But she would not sing, for singing to her, I\nfancy, was something that did not come at will, but flowed only like a\nbird's note when the mood favoured. I did not want it either. I was\ncontent to let 'Cherry Ripe' be the one song linked with her in my\nmemory.\n\nIt was Macgillivray who brought us back to business.\n\n'I wish to Heaven there was one habit of mind we could definitely\nattach to him and to no one else.' (At this moment 'He' had only one\nmeaning for us.)\n\n'You can't do nothing with his mind,' Blenkiron drawled. 'You can't\nloose the bands of Orion, as the Bible says, or hold Leviathan with a\nhook. I reckoned I could and made a mighty close study of his de-vices.\nBut the darned cuss wouldn't stay put. I thought I had tied him down to\nthe double bluff, and he went and played the triple bluff on me.\nThere's nothing doing that line.'\n\nA memory of Peter recurred to me.\n\n'What about the \"blind spot\"?' I asked, and I told them old Peter's pet\ntheory. 'Every man that God made has his weak spot somewhere, some flaw\nin his character which leaves a dull patch in his brain. We've got to\nfind that out, and I think I've made a beginning.'\n\nMacgillivray in a sharp voice asked my meaning.\n\n'He's in a funk ... of something. Oh, I don't mean he's a coward. A man\nin his trade wants the nerve of a buffalo. He could give us all points\nin courage. What I mean is that he's not clean white all through. There\nare yellow streaks somewhere in him ... I've given a good deal of\nthought to this courage business, for I haven't got a great deal of it\nmyself. Not like Peter, I mean. I've got heaps of soft places in me.\nI'm afraid of being drowned for one thing, or of getting my eyes shot\nout. Ivery's afraid of bombs--at any rate he's afraid of bombs in a big\ncity. I once read a book which talked about a thing called agoraphobia.\nPerhaps it's that ... Now if we know that weak spot it helps us in our\nwork. There are some places he won't go to, and there are some things\nhe can't do--not well, anyway. I reckon that's useful.'\n\n'Ye-es,' said Macgillivray. 'Perhaps it's not what you'd call a burning\nand a shining light.'\n\n'There's another chink in his armour,' I went on. 'There's one person\nin the world he can never practise his transformations on, and that's\nme. I shall always know him again, though he appeared as Sir Douglas\nHaig. I can't explain why, but I've got a feel in my bones about it. I\ndidn't recognize him before, for I thought he was dead, and the nerve\nin my brain which should have been looking for him wasn't working. But\nI'm on my guard now, and that nerve's functioning at full power.\nWhenever and wherever and howsoever we meet again on the face of the\nearth, it will be \"Dr Livingstone, I presume\" between him and me.'\n\n'That is better,' said Macgillivray. 'If we have any luck, Hannay, it\nwon't be long till we pull you out of His Majesty's Forces.'\n\nMary got up from the piano and resumed her old perch on the arm of Sir\nWalter's chair.\n\n'There's another blind spot which you haven't mentioned.' It was a cool\nevening, but I noticed that her cheeks had suddenly flushed.\n\n'Last week Mr Ivery asked me to marry him,' she said.\n\n\n\n\n\nPART II\n\n\n\nCHAPTER TWELVE\n\nI Become a Combatant Once More\n\nI returned to France on 13 September, and took over my old brigade on\nthe 19th of the same month. We were shoved in at the Polygon Wood on\nthe 26th, and after four days got so badly mauled that we were brought\nout to refit. On 7 October, very much to my surprise, I was given\ncommand of a division and was on the fringes of the Ypres fighting\nduring the first days of November. From that front we were hurried down\nto Cambrai in support, but came in only for the last backwash of that\nsingular battle. We held a bit of the St Quentin sector till just\nbefore Christmas, when we had a spell of rest in billets, which\nendured, so far as I was concerned, till the beginning of January, when\nI was sent off on the errand which I shall presently relate.\n\nThat is a brief summary of my military record in the latter part of\n1917. I am not going to enlarge on the fighting. Except for the days of\nthe Polygon Wood it was neither very severe nor very distinguished, and\nyou will find it in the history books. What I have to tell of here is\nmy own personal quest, for all the time I was living with my mind\nturned two ways. In the morasses of the Haanebeek flats, in the slimy\nsupport lines at Zonnebeke, in the tortured uplands about Flesquieres,\nand in many other odd places I kept worrying at my private conundrum.\nAt night I would lie awake thinking of it, and many a toss I took into\nshell-holes and many a time I stepped off the duckboards, because my\neyes were on a different landscape. Nobody ever chewed a few wretched\nclues into such a pulp as I did during those bleak months in Flanders\nand Picardy.\n\nFor I had an instinct that the thing was desperately grave, graver even\nthan the battle before me. Russia had gone headlong to the devil, Italy\nhad taken it between the eyes and was still dizzy, and our own\nprospects were none too bright. The Boche was getting uppish and with\nsome cause, and I foresaw a rocky time ahead till America could line up\nwith us in the field. It was the chance for the Wild Birds, and I used\nto wake in a sweat to think what devilry Ivery might be engineering. I\nbelieve I did my proper job reasonably well, but I put in my most\nsavage thinking over the other. I remember how I used to go over every\nhour of every day from that June night in the Cotswolds till my last\nmeeting with Bullivant in London, trying to find a new bearing. I\nshould probably have got brain-fever, if I hadn't had to spend most of\nmy days and nights fighting a stiffish battle with a very watchful Hun.\nThat kept my mind balanced, and I dare say it gave an edge to it; for\nduring those months I was lucky enough to hit on a better scent than\nBullivant and Macgillivray and Blenkiron, pulling a thousand wires in\ntheir London offices.\n\nI will set down in order of time the various incidents in this private\nquest of mine. The first was my meeting with Geordie Hamilton. It\nhappened just after I rejoined the brigade, when I went down to have a\nlook at our Scots Fusilier battalion. The old brigade had been roughly\nhandled on 31st July, and had had to get heavy drafts to come anywhere\nnear strength. The Fusiliers especially were almost a new lot, formed\nby joining our remnants to the remains of a battalion in another\ndivision and bringing about a dozen officers from the training unit at\nhome.\n\nI inspected the men and my eyes caught sight of a familiar face. I\nasked his name and the colonel got it from the sergeant-major. It was\nLance-Corporal George Hamilton.\n\nNow I wanted a new batman, and I resolved then and there to have my old\nantagonist. That afternoon he reported to me at brigade headquarters.\nAs I looked at that solid bandy-legged figure, standing as stiff to\nattention as a tobacconist's sign, his ugly face hewn out of brown oak,\nhis honest, sullen mouth, and his blue eyes staring into vacancy, I\nknew I had got the man I wanted.\n\n'Hamilton,' I said, 'you and I have met before.'\n\n'Sirr?' came the mystified answer.\n\n'Look at me, man, and tell me if you don't recognize me.'\n\nHe moved his eyes a fraction, in a respectful glance.\n\n'Sirr, I don't mind of you.'\n\n'Well, I'll refresh your memory. Do you remember the hall in Newmilns\nStreet and the meeting there? You had a fight with a man outside, and\ngot knocked down.'\n\nHe made no answer, but his colour deepened.\n\n'And a fortnight later in a public-house in Muirtown you saw the same\nman, and gave him the chase of his life.'\n\nI could see his mouth set, for visions of the penalties laid down by\nthe King's Regulations for striking an officer must have crossed his\nmind. But he never budged.\n\n'Look me in the face, man,' I said. 'Do you remember me now?'\n\nHe did as he was bid.\n\n'Sirr, I mind of you.'\n\n'Have you nothing more to say?'\n\nHe cleared his throat. 'Sirr, I did not ken I was hittin' an officer.'\n\n'Of course you didn't. You did perfectly right, and if the war was over\nand we were both free men, I would give you a chance of knocking me\ndown here and now. That's got to wait. When you saw me last I was\nserving my country, though you didn't know it. We're serving together\nnow, and you must get your revenge out of the Boche. I'm going to make\nyou my servant, for you and I have a pretty close bond between us. What\ndo you say to that?'\n\nThis time he looked me full in the face. His troubled eye appraised me\nand was satisfied. 'I'm proud to be servant to ye, sirr,' he said. Then\nout of his chest came a strangled chuckle, and he forgot his\ndiscipline. 'Losh, but ye're the great lad!' He recovered himself\npromptly, saluted, and marched off.\n\n            *       *       *       *       *\n\nThe second episode befell during our brief rest after the Polygon Wood,\nwhen I had ridden down the line one afternoon to see a friend in the\nHeavy Artillery. I was returning in the drizzle of evening, clanking\nalong the greasy path between the sad poplars, when I struck a Labour\ncompany repairing the ravages of a Boche strafe that morning. I wasn't\nvery certain of my road and asked one of the workers. He straightened\nhimself and saluted, and I saw beneath a disreputable cap the features\nof the man who had been with me in the Coolin crevice.\n\nI spoke a word to his sergeant, who fell him out, and he walked a bit\nof the way with me.\n\n'Great Scot, Wake, what brought you here?' I asked.\n\n'Same thing as brought you. This rotten war.'\n\nI had dismounted and was walking beside him, and I noticed that his\nlean face had lost its pallor and that his eyes were less hot than they\nused to be.\n\n'You seem to thrive on it,' I said, for I did not know what to say. A\nsudden shyness possessed me. Wake must have gone through some violent\ncyclones of feeling before it came to this. He saw what I was thinking\nand laughed in his sharp, ironical way.\n\n'Don't flatter yourself you've made a convert. I think as I always\nthought. But I came to the conclusion that since the fates had made me\na Government servant I might as well do my work somewhere less\ncushioned than a chair in the Home Office ... Oh, no, it wasn't a\nmatter of principle. One kind of work's as good as another, and I'm a\nbetter clerk than a navvy. With me it was self-indulgence: I wanted\nfresh air and exercise.'\n\nI looked at him--mud to the waist, and his hands all blistered and cut\nwith unaccustomed labour. I could realize what his associates must mean\nto him, and how he would relish the rough tonguing of non-coms.\n\n'You're a confounded humbug,' I said. 'Why on earth didn't you go into\nan O.T.C. and come out with a commission? They're easy enough to get.'\n\n'You mistake my case,' he said bitterly. 'I experienced no sudden\nconviction about the justice of the war. I stand where I always stood.\nI'm a non-combatant, and I wanted a change of civilian work ... No, it\nwasn't any idiotic tribunal sent me here. I came of my own free will,\nand I'm really rather enjoying myself.'\n\n'It's a rough job for a man like you,' I said.\n\n'Not so rough as the fellows get in the trenches. I watched a battalion\nmarching back today and they looked like ghosts who had been years in\nmuddy graves. White faces and dazed eyes and leaden feet. Mine's a\ncushy job. I like it best when the weather's foul. It cheats me into\nthinking I'm doing my duty.'\n\nI nodded towards a recent shell-hole. 'Much of that sort of thing?'\n\n'Now and then. We had a good dusting this morning. I can't say I liked\nit at the time, but I like to look back on it. A sort of moral anodyne.'\n\n'I wonder what on earth the rest of your lot make of you?'\n\n'They don't make anything. I'm not remarkable for my _bonhomie_. They\nthink I'm a prig--which I am. It doesn't amuse me to talk about beer\nand women or listen to a gramophone or grouse about my last meal. But\nI'm quite content, thank you. Sometimes I get a seat in a corner of a\nY.M.C.A. hut, and I've a book or two. My chief affliction is the padre.\nHe was up at Keble in my time, and, as one of my colleagues puts it,\nwants to be \"too bloody helpful\".... What are you doing, Hannay? I see\nyou're some kind of general. They're pretty thick on the ground here.'\n\n'I'm a sort of general. Soldiering in the Salient isn't the softest of\njobs, but I don't believe it's as tough as yours is for you. D'you\nknow, Wake, I wish I had you in my brigade. Trained or untrained,\nyou're a dashed stout-hearted fellow.'\n\nHe laughed with a trifle less acidity than usual. 'Almost thou\npersuadest me to be combatant. No, thank you. I haven't the courage,\nand besides there's my jolly old principles. All the same I'd like to\nbe near you. You're a good chap, and I've had the honour to assist in\nyour education ... I must be getting back, or the sergeant will think\nI've bolted.'\n\nWe shook hands, and the last I saw of him was a figure saluting stiffly\nin the wet twilight.\n\n            *       *       *       *       *\n\nThe third incident was trivial enough, though momentous in its results.\nJust before I got the division I had a bout of malaria. We were in\nsupport in the Salient, in very uncomfortable trenches behind Wieltje,\nand I spent three days on my back in a dug-out. Outside was a blizzard\nof rain, and the water now and then came down the stairs through the\ngas curtain and stood in pools at my bed foot. It wasn't the merriest\nplace to convalesce in, but I was as hard as nails at the time and by\nthe third day I was beginning to sit up and be bored.\n\nI read all my English papers twice and a big stack of German ones which\nI used to have sent up by a friend in the G.H.Q. Intelligence, who knew\nI liked to follow what the Boche was saying. As I dozed and ruminated\nin the way a man does after fever, I was struck by the tremendous\ndisplay of one advertisement in the English press. It was a thing\ncalled 'Gussiter's Deep-breathing System,' which, according to its\npromoter, was a cure for every ill, mental, moral, or physical, that\nman can suffer. Politicians, generals, admirals, and music-hall artists\nall testified to the new life it had opened up for them. I remember\nwondering what these sportsmen got for their testimonies, and thinking\nI would write a spoof letter myself to old Gussiter.\n\nThen I picked up the German papers, and suddenly my eye caught an\nadvertisement of the same kind in the _Frankfurter Zeitung_. It was not\nGussiter this time, but one Weissmann, but his game was\nidentical--'deep breathing'. The Hun style was different from the\nEnglish--all about the Goddess of Health, and the Nymphs of the\nMountains, and two quotations from Schiller. But the principle was the\nsame.\n\nThat made me ponder a little, and I went carefully through the whole\nbatch. I found the advertisement in the _Frankfurter_ and in one or two\nrather obscure _Volkstimmes_ and _Volkszeitungs_. I found it too in\n_Der Grosse Krieg_, the official German propagandist picture-paper.\nThey were the same all but one, and that one had a bold variation, for\nit contained four of the sentences used in the ordinary English\nadvertisement.\n\nThis struck me as fishy, and I started to write a letter to\nMacgillivray pointing out what seemed to be a case of trading with the\nenemy, and advising him to get on to Mr Gussiter's financial backing. I\nthought he might find a Hun syndicate behind him. And then I had\nanother notion, which made me rewrite my letter.\n\nI went through the papers again. The English ones which contained the\nadvertisement were all good, solid, bellicose organs; the kind of thing\nno censorship would object to leaving the country. I had before me a\nsmall sheaf of pacifist prints, and they had not the advertisement.\nThat might be for reasons of circulation, or it might not. The German\npapers were either Radical or Socialist publications, just the opposite\nof the English lot, except the _Grosse Krieg_. Now we have a free\npress, and Germany has, strictly speaking, none. All her journalistic\nindiscretions are calculated. Therefore the Boche has no objection to\nhis rags getting to enemy countries. He wants it. He likes to see them\nquoted in columns headed 'Through German Glasses', and made the text of\narticles showing what a good democrat he is becoming.\n\nAs I puzzled over the subject, certain conclusions began to form in my\nmind. The four identical sentences seemed to hint that 'Deep Breathing'\nhad Boche affiliations. Here was a chance of communicating with the\nenemy which would defy the argus-eyed gentlemen who examine the mails.\nWhat was to hinder Mr A at one end writing an advertisement with a good\ncipher in it, and the paper containing it getting into Germany by\nHolland in three days? Herr B at the other end replied in the\n_Frankfurter_, and a few days later shrewd editors and acute\nIntelligence officers--and Mr A--were reading it in London, though only\nMr A knew what it really meant.\n\nIt struck me as a bright idea, the sort of simple thing that doesn't\noccur to clever people, and very rarely to the Boche. I wished I was\nnot in the middle of a battle, for I would have had a try at\ninvestigating the cipher myself. I wrote a long letter to Macgillivray\nputting my case, and then went to sleep. When I awoke I reflected that\nit was a pretty thin argument, and would have stopped the letter, if it\nhadn't gone off early by a ration party.\n\n            *       *       *       *       *\n\nAfter that things began very slowly to happen. The first was when\nHamilton, having gone to Boulogne to fetch some mess-stores, returned\nwith the startling news that he had seen Gresson. He had not heard his\nname, but described him dramatically to me as the wee red-headed devil\nthat kicked Ecky Brockie's knee yon time in Glesca, sirr,' I recognized\nthe description.\n\nGresson, it appeared, was joy-riding. He was with a party of Labour\ndelegates who had been met by two officers and carried off in\nchars-a-bancs. Hamilton reported from inquiries among his friends that\nthis kind of visitor came weekly. I thought it a very sensible notion\non the Government's part, but I wondered how Gresson had been selected.\nI had hoped that Macgillivray had weeks ago made a long arm and quodded\nhim. Perhaps they had too little evidence to hang him, but he was the\nblackest sort of suspect and should have been interned.\n\nA week later I had occasion to be at G.H.Q. on business connected with\nmy new division. My friends in the Intelligence allowed me to use the\ndirect line to London, and I called up Macgillivray. For ten minutes I\nhad an exciting talk, for I had had no news from that quarter since I\nleft England. I heard that the Portuguese Jew had escaped--had vanished\nfrom his native heather when they went to get him. They had identified\nhim as a German professor of Celtic languages, who had held a chair in\na Welsh college--a dangerous fellow, for he was an upright,\nhigh-minded, raging fanatic. Against Gresson they had no evidence at\nall, but he was kept under strict observation. When I asked about his\ncrossing to France, Macgillivray replied that that was part of their\nscheme. I inquired if the visit had given them any clues, but I never\ngot an answer, for the line had to be cleared at that moment for the\nWar Office. I hunted up the man who had charge of these Labour visits,\nand made friends with him. Gresson, he said, had been a quiet,\nwell-mannered, and most appreciative guest. He had wept tears on Vimy\nRidge, and--strictly against orders--had made a speech to some troops\nhe met on the Arras road about how British Labour was remembering the\nArmy in its prayers and sweating blood to make guns. On the last day he\nhad had a misadventure, for he got very sick on the road--some kidney\ntrouble that couldn't stand the jolting of the car--and had to be left\nat a village and picked up by the party on its way back. They found him\nbetter, but still shaky. I cross-examined the particular officer in\ncharge about that halt, and learned that Gresson had been left alone in\na peasant's cottage, for he said he only needed to lie down. The place\nwas the hamlet of Eaucourt Sainte-Anne.\n\nFor several weeks that name stuck in my head. It had a pleasant, quaint\nsound, and I wondered how Gresson had spent his hours there. I hunted\nit up on the map, and promised myself to have a look at it the next\ntime we came out to rest. And then I forgot about it till I heard the\nname mentioned again.\n\nOn 23rd October I had the bad luck, during a tour of my first-line\ntrenches, to stop a small shell-fragment with my head. It was a close,\nmisty day and I had taken off my tin hat to wipe my brow when the thing\nhappened. I got a long, shallow scalp wound which meant nothing but\nbled a lot, and, as we were not in for any big move, the M.O. sent me\nback to a clearing station to have it seen to. I was three days in the\nplace and, being perfectly well, had leisure to look about me and\nreflect, so that I recall that time as a queer, restful interlude in\nthe infernal racket of war. I remember yet how on my last night there a\ngale made the lamps swing and flicker, and turned the grey-green canvas\nwalls into a mass of mottled shadows. The floor canvas was muddy from\nthe tramping of many feet bringing in the constant dribble of\ncasualties from the line. In my tent there was no one very bad at the\ntime, except a boy with his shoulder half-blown off by a whizz-bang,\nwho lay in a drugged sleep at the far end. The majority were influenza,\nbronchitis, and trench-fever--waiting to be moved to the base, or\nconvalescent and about to return to their units.\n\nA small group of us dined off tinned chicken, stewed fruit, and radon\ncheese round the smoky stove, where two screens manufactured from\npacking cases gave some protection against the draughts which swept\nlike young tornadoes down the tent. One man had been reading a book\ncalled the _Ghost Stories of an Antiquary_, and the talk turned on the\nunexplainable things that happen to everybody once or twice in a\nlifetime. I contributed a yarn about the men who went to look for\nKruger's treasure in the bushveld and got scared by a green\nwildebeeste. It is a good yarn and I'll write it down some day. A tall\nHighlander, who kept his slippered feet on the top of the stove, and\nwhose costume consisted of a kilt, a British warm, a grey hospital\ndressing-gown, and four pairs of socks, told the story of the Camerons\nat First Ypres, and of the Lowland subaltern who knew no Gaelic and\nsuddenly found himself encouraging his men with some ancient Highland\nrigmarole. The poor chap had a racking bronchial cough, which suggested\nthat his country might well use him on some warmer battle-ground than\nFlanders. He seemed a bit of a scholar and explained the Cameron\nbusiness in a lot of long words.\n\nI remember how the talk meandered on as talk does when men are idle and\nthinking about the next day. I didn't pay much attention, for I was\nreflecting on a change I meant to make in one of my battalion commands,\nwhen a fresh voice broke in. It belonged to a Canadian captain from\nWinnipeg, a very silent fellow who smoked shag tobacco.\n\n'There's a lot of ghosts in this darned country,' he said.\n\nThen he started to tell about what happened to him when his division\nwas last back in rest billets. He had a staff job and put up with the\ndivisional command at an old French chateau. They had only a little bit\nof the house; the rest was shut up, but the passages were so tortuous\nthat it was difficult to keep from wandering into the unoccupied part.\nOne night, he said, he woke with a mighty thirst, and, since he wasn't\ngoing to get cholera by drinking the local water in his bedroom, he\nstarted out for the room they messed in to try to pick up a\nwhisky-and-soda. He couldn't find it, though he knew the road like his\nown name. He admitted he might have taken a wrong turning, but he\ndidn't think so. Anyway he landed in a passage which he had never seen\nbefore, and, since he had no candle, he tried to retrace his steps.\nAgain he went wrong, and groped on till he saw a faint light which he\nthought must be the room of the G.S.O., a good fellow and a friend of\nhis. So he barged in, and found a big, dim salon with two figures in it\nand a lamp burning between them, and a queer, unpleasant smell about.\nHe took a step forward, and then he saw that the figures had no faces.\nThat fairly loosened his joints with fear, and he gave a cry. One of\nthe two ran towards him, the lamp went out, and the sickly scent caught\nsuddenly at his throat. After that he knew nothing till he awoke in his\nown bed next morning with a splitting headache. He said he got the\nGeneral's permission and went over all the unoccupied part of the\nhouse, but he couldn't find the room. Dust lay thick on everything, and\nthere was no sign of recent human presence.\n\nI give the story as he told it in his drawling voice. 'I reckon that\nwas the genuine article in ghosts. You don't believe me and conclude I\nwas drunk? I wasn't. There isn't any drink concocted yet that could lay\nme out like that. I just struck a crack in the old universe and pushed\nmy head outside. It may happen to you boys any day.'\n\nThe Highlander began to argue with him, and I lost interest in the\ntalk. But one phrase brought me to attention. 'I'll give you the name\nof the darned place, and next time you're around you can do a bit of\nprospecting for yourself. It's called the Chateau of Eaucourt\nSainte-Anne, about seven kilometres from Douvecourt. If I was\npurchasing real estate in this country I guess I'd give that location a\nmiss.'\n\nAfter that I had a grim month, what with the finish of Third Ypres and\nthe hustles to Cambrai. By the middle of December we had shaken down a\nbit, but the line my division held was not of our choosing, and we had\nto keep a wary eye on the Boche doings. It was a weary job, and I had\nno time to think of anything but the military kind of\nintelligence--fixing the units against us from prisoners' stories,\norganizing small raids, and keeping the Royal Flying Corps busy. I was\nkeen about the last, and I made several trips myself over the lines\nwith Archie Roylance, who had got his heart's desire and by good luck\nbelonged to the squadron just behind me. I said as little as possible\nabout this, for G.H.Q. did not encourage divisional generals to\npractise such methods, though there was one famous army commander who\nmade a hobby of them. It was on one of these trips that an incident\noccurred which brought my spell of waiting on the bigger game to an end.\n\nOne dull December day, just after luncheon, Archie and I set out to\nreconnoitre. You know the way that fogs in Picardy seem suddenly to\nreek out of the ground and envelop the slopes like a shawl. That was\nour luck this time. We had crossed the lines, flying very high, and\nreceived the usual salute of Hun Archies. After a mile or two the\nground seemed to climb up to us, though we hadn't descended, and\npresently we were in the heart of a cold, clinging mist. We dived for\nseveral thousand feet, but the confounded thing grew thicker and no\nsort of landmark could be found anywhere. I thought if we went on at\nthis rate we should hit a tree or a church steeple and be easy fruit\nfor the enemy.\n\nThe same thought must have been in Archie's mind, for he climbed again.\nWe got into a mortally cold zone, but the air was no clearer. Thereupon\nhe decided to head for home, and passed me word to work out a compass\ncourse on the map. That was easier said than done, but I had a rough\nnotion of the rate we had travelled since we had crossed the lines and\nI knew our original direction, so I did the best I could. On we went\nfor a bit, and then I began to get doubtful. So did Archie. We dropped\nlow down, but we could hear none of the row that's always going on for\na mile on each side of the lines. The world was very eerie and deadly\nstill, so still that Archie and I could talk through the speaking-tube.\n\n'We've mislaid this blamed battle,'he shouted.\n\n'I think your rotten old compass has soured on us,' I replied.\n\nWe decided that it wouldn't do to change direction, so we held on the\nsame course. I was getting as nervous as a kitten, chiefly owing to the\nsilence. It's not what you expect in the middle of a battle-field ... I\nlooked at the compass carefully and saw that it was really crocked.\nArchie must have damaged it on a former flight and forgotten to have it\nchanged.\n\nHe had a very scared face when I pointed this out.\n\n'Great God!' he croaked--for he had a fearsome cold--'we're either\nabout Calais or near Paris or miles the wrong side of the Boche line.\nWhat the devil are we to do?'\n\nAnd then to put the lid on it his engine went wrong. It was the same\nperformance as on the Yorkshire moors, and seemed to be a speciality of\nthe Shark-Gladas type. But this time the end came quick. We dived\nsteeply, and I could see by Archie's grip on the stick that he was\ngoing to have his work cut out to save our necks. Save them he did, but\nnot by much for we jolted down on the edge of a ploughed field with a\nseries of bumps that shook the teeth in my head. It was the same dense,\ndripping fog, and we crawled out of the old bus and bolted for cover\nlike two ferreted rabbits.\n\nOur refuge was the lee of a small copse.\n\n'It's my opinion,' said Archie solemnly, 'that we're somewhere about La\nCateau. Tim Wilbraham got left there in the Retreat, and it took him\nnine months to make the Dutch frontier. It's a giddy prospect, sir.'\n\nI sallied out to reconnoitre. At the other side of the wood was a\nhighway, and the fog so blanketed sound that I could not hear a man on\nit till I saw his face. The first one I saw made me lie flat in the\ncovert ... For he was a German soldier, field-grey, forage cap, red\nband and all, and he had a pick on his shoulder.\n\nA second's reflection showed me that this was not final proof. He might\nbe one of our prisoners. But it was no place to take chances. I went\nback to Archie, and the pair of us crossed the ploughed field and\nstruck the road farther on. There we saw a farmer's cart with a woman\nand child in it. They looked French, but melancholy, just what you\nwould expect from the inhabitants of a countryside in enemy occupation.\n\nThen we came to the park wall of a great house, and saw dimly the\noutlines of a cottage. Here sooner or later we would get proof of our\nwhereabouts, so we lay and shivered among the poplars of the roadside.\nNo one seemed abroad that afternoon. For a quarter of an hour it was as\nquiet as the grave. Then came a sound of whistling, and muffled steps.\n\n'That's an Englishman,' said Archie joyfully. 'No Boche could make such\na beastly noise.'\n\nHe was right. The form of an Army Service Corps private emerged from\nthe mist, his cap on the back of his head, his hands in his pockets,\nand his walk the walk of a free man. I never saw a welcomer sight than\nthat jam-merchant.\n\nWe stood up and greeted him. 'What's this place?' I shouted.\n\nHe raised a grubby hand to his forelock. ''Ockott Saint Anny, sir,' he\nsaid. 'Beg pardon, sir, but you ain't whurt, sir?'\n\nTen minutes later I was having tea in the mess of an M.T. workshop\nwhile Archie had gone to the nearest Signals to telephone for a car and\ngive instructions about his precious bus. It was almost dark, but I\ngulped my tea and hastened out into the thick dusk. For I wanted to\nhave a look at the Chateau.\n\nI found a big entrance with high stone pillars, but the iron gates were\nlocked and looked as if they had not been opened in the memory of man.\nKnowing the way of such places, I hunted for the side entrance and\nfound a muddy road which led to the back of the house. The front was\nevidently towards a kind of park; at the back was a nest of\noutbuildings and a section of moat which looked very deep and black in\nthe winter twilight. This was crossed by a stone bridge with a door at\nthe end of it.\n\nClearly the Chateau was not being used for billets. There was no sign\nof the British soldier; there was no sign of anything human. I crept\nthrough the fog as noiselessly as if I trod on velvet, and I hadn't\neven the company of my own footsteps. I remembered the Canadian's ghost\nstory, and concluded I would be imagining the same sort of thing if I\nlived in such a place.\n\nThe door was bolted and padlocked. I turned along the side of the moat,\nhoping to reach the house front, which was probably modern and boasted\na civilized entrance. There must be somebody in the place, for one\nchimney was smoking. Presently the moat petered out, and gave place to\na cobbled causeway, but a wall, running at right angles with the house,\nblocked my way. I had half a mind to go back and hammer at the door,\nbut I reflected that major-generals don't pay visits to deserted\nchateaux at night without a reasonable errand. I should look a fool in\nthe eyes of some old concierge. The daylight was almost gone, and I\ndidn't wish to go groping about the house with a candle.\n\nBut I wanted to see what was beyond the wall--one of those whims that\nbeset the soberest men. I rolled a dissolute water-butt to the foot of\nit, and gingerly balanced myself on its rotten staves. This gave me a\ngrip on the flat brick top, and I pulled myself up.\n\nI looked down on a little courtyard with another wall beyond it, which\nshut off any view of the park. On the right was the Chateau, on the\nleft more outbuildings; the whole place was not more than twenty yards\neach way. I was just about to retire by the road I had come, for in\nspite of my fur coat it was uncommon chilly on that perch, when I heard\na key turn in the door in the Chateau wall beneath me.\n\nA lantern made a blur of light in the misty darkness. I saw that the\nbearer was a woman, an oldish woman, round-shouldered like most French\npeasants. In one hand she carried a leather bag, and she moved so\nsilently that she must have worn rubber boots. The light was held level\nwith her head and illumined her face. It was the evillest thing I have\never beheld, for a horrible scar had puckered the skin of the forehead\nand drawn up the eyebrows so that it looked like some diabolical\nChinese mask.\n\nSlowly she padded across the yard, carrying the bag as gingerly as if\nit had been an infant. She stopped at the door of one of the outhouses\nand set down the lantern and her burden on the ground. From her apron\nshe drew something which looked like a gas-mask, and put it over her\nhead. She also put on a pair of long gauntlets. Then she unlocked the\ndoor, picked up the lantern and went in. I heard the key turn behind\nher.\n\nCrouching on that wall, I felt a very ugly tremor run down my spine. I\nhad a glimpse of what the Canadian's ghost might have been. That hag,\nhooded like some venomous snake, was too much for my stomach. I dropped\noff the wall and ran--yes, ran till I reached the highroad and saw the\ncheery headlights of a transport wagon, and heard the honest speech of\nthe British soldier. That restored me to my senses, and made me feel\nevery kind of a fool.\n\nAs I drove back to the line with Archie, I was black ashamed of my\nfunk. I told myself that I had seen only an old countrywoman going to\nfeed her hens. I convinced my reason, but I did not convince the whole\nof me. An insensate dread of the place hung around me, and I could only\nretrieve my self-respect by resolving to return and explore every nook\nof it.\n\n\n\nCHAPTER THIRTEEN\n\nThe Adventure of the Picardy Chateau\n\nI looked up Eaucourt Sainte-Anne on the map, and the more I studied its\nposition the less I liked it. It was the knot from which sprang all the\nmain routes to our Picardy front. If the Boche ever broke us, it was\nthe place for which old Hindenburg would make. At all hours troops and\ntransport trains were moving through that insignificant hamlet. Eminent\ngenerals and their staffs passed daily within sight of the Chateau. It\nwas a convenient halting-place for battalions coming back to rest.\nSupposing, I argued, our enemies wanted a key-spot for some assault\nupon the morale or the discipline or health of the British Army, they\ncouldn't find a better than Eaucourt Sainte-Anne. It was the ideal\ncentre of espionage. But when I guardedly sounded my friends of the\nIntelligence they didn't seem to be worrying about it.\n\nFrom them I got a chit to the local French authorities, and, as soon as\nwe came out of the line, towards the end of December, I made straight\nfor the country town of Douvecourt. By a bit of luck our divisional\nquarters were almost next door. I interviewed a tremendous swell in a\nblack uniform and black kid gloves, who received me affably and put his\narchives and registers at my disposal. By this time I talked French\nfairly well, having a natural turn for languages, but half the rapid\nspeech of the _sous-prifet_ was lost on me. By and by he left me with\nthe papers and a clerk, and I proceeded to grub up the history of the\nChateau.\n\nIt had belonged since long before Agincourt to the noble house of the\nD'Eaucourts, now represented by an ancient Marquise who dwelt at\nBiarritz. She had never lived in the place, which a dozen years before\nhad been falling to ruins, when a rich American leased it and partially\nrestored it. He had soon got sick of it--his daughter had married a\nblackguard French cavalry officer with whom he quarrelled, said the\nclerk--and since then there had been several tenants. I wondered why a\nhouse so unattractive should have let so readily, but the clerk\nexplained that the cause was the partridge-shooting. It was about the\nbest in France, and in 1912 had shown the record bag.\n\nThe list of the tenants was before me. There was a second American, an\nEnglishman called Halford, a Paris Jew-banker, and an Egyptian prince.\nBut the space for 1913 was blank, and I asked the clerk about it. He\ntold me that it had been taken by a woollen manufacturer from Lille,\nbut he had never shot the partridges, though he had spent occasional\nnights in the house. He had a five years' lease, and was still paying\nrent to the Marquise. I asked the name, but the clerk had forgotten.\n'It will be written there,' he said.\n\n'But, no,' I said. 'Somebody must have been asleep over this register.\nThere's nothing after 1912.'\n\nHe examined the page and blinked his eyes. 'Someone indeed must have\nslept. No doubt it was young Louis who is now with the guns in\nChampagne. But the name will be on the Commissary's list. It is, as I\nremember, a sort of Flemish.'\n\nHe hobbled off and returned in five minutes.\n\n'Bommaerts,' he said, 'Jacques Bommaerts. A young man with no wife but\nwith money--Dieu de Dieu, what oceans of it!'\n\nThat clerk got twenty-five francs, and he was cheap at the price. I\nwent back to my division with a sense of awe on me. It was a marvellous\nfate that had brought me by odd routes to this out-of-the-way corner.\nFirst, the accident of Hamilton's seeing Gresson; then the night in the\nClearing Station; last the mishap of Archie's plane getting lost in the\nfog. I had three grounds of suspicion--Gresson's sudden illness, the\nCanadian's ghost, and that horrid old woman in the dusk. And now I had\none tremendous fact. The place was leased by a man called Bommaerts,\nand that was one of the two names I had heard whispered in that\nfar-away cleft in the Coolin by the stranger from the sea.\n\nA sensible man would have gone off to the contre-espionage people and\ntold them his story. I couldn't do this; I felt that it was my own\nprivate find and I was going to do the prospecting myself. Every moment\nof leisure I had I was puzzling over the thing. I rode round by the\nChateau one frosty morning and examined all the entrances. The main one\nwas the grand avenue with the locked gates. That led straight to the\nfront of the house where the terrace was--or you might call it the\nback, for the main door was on the other side. Anyhow the drive came up\nto the edge of the terrace and then split into two, one branch going to\nthe stables by way of the outbuildings where I had seen the old woman,\nthe other circling round the house, skirting the moat, and joining the\nback road just before the bridge. If I had gone to the right instead of\nthe left that first evening with Archie, I should have circumnavigated\nthe place without any trouble.\n\nSeen in the fresh morning light the house looked commonplace enough.\nPart of it was as old as Noah, but most was newish and jerry-built, the\nkind of flat-chested, thin French Chateau, all front and no depth, and\nfull of draughts and smoky chimneys. I might have gone in and ransacked\nthe place, but I knew I should find nothing. It was borne in on me that\nit was only when evening fell that that house was interesting and that\nI must come, like Nicodemus, by night. Besides I had a private account\nto settle with my conscience. I had funked the place in the foggy\ntwilight, and it does not do to let a matter like that slide. A man's\ncourage is like a horse that refuses a fence; you have got to take him\nby the head and cram him at it again. If you don't, he will funk worse\nnext time. I hadn't enough courage to be able to take chances with it,\nthough I was afraid of many things, the thing I feared most mortally\nwas being afraid.\n\nI did not get a chance till Christmas Eve. The day before there had\nbeen a fall of snow, but the frost set in and the afternoon ended in a\ngreen sunset with the earth crisp and crackling like a shark's skin. I\ndined early, and took with me Geordie Hamilton, who added to his many\naccomplishments that of driving a car. He was the only man in the\nB.E.F. who guessed anything of the game I was after, and I knew that he\nwas as discreet as a tombstone. I put on my oldest trench cap, slacks,\nand a pair of scaife-soled boots, that I used to change into in the\nevening. I had a useful little electric torch, which lived in my\npocket, and from which a cord led to a small bulb of light that worked\nwith a switch and could be hung on my belt. That left my arms free in\ncase of emergencies. Likewise I strapped on my pistol.\n\nThere was little traffic in the hamlet of Eaucourt Sainte-Anne that\nnight. Few cars were on the road, and the M.T. detachment, judging from\nthe din, seemed to be busy on a private spree. It was about nine\no'clock when we turned into the side road, and at the entrance to it I\nsaw a solid figure in khaki mounting guard beside two bicycles.\nSomething in the man's gesture, as he saluted, struck me as familiar,\nbut I had no time to hunt for casual memories. I left the car just\nshort of the bridge, and took the road which would bring me to the\nterraced front of the house.\n\nOnce I turned the corner of the Chateau and saw the long ghostly facade\nwhite in the moonlight, I felt less confident. The eeriness of the\nplace smote me. In that still, snowy world it loomed up immense and\nmysterious with its rows of shuttered windows, each with that air which\nempty houses have of concealing some wild story. I longed to have old\nPeter with me, for he was the man for this kind of escapade. I had\nheard that he had been removed to Switzerland and I pictured him now in\nsome mountain village where the snow lay deep. I would have given\nanything to have had Peter with a whole leg by my side.\n\nI stepped on the terrace and listened. There was not a sound in the\nworld, not even the distant rumble of a cart. The pile towered above me\nlike a mausoleum, and I reflected that it must take some nerve to\nburgle an empty house. It would be good enough fun to break into a\nbustling dwelling and pinch the plate when the folk were at dinner, but\nto burgle emptiness and silence meant a fight with the terrors in a\nman's soul. It was worse in my case, for I wasn't cheered with\nprospects of loot. I wanted to get inside chiefly to soothe my\nconscience.\n\nI hadn't much doubt I would find a way, for three years of war and the\nfrequent presence of untidy headquarters' staffs have loosened the\njoints of most Picardy houses. There's generally a window that doesn't\nlatch or a door that doesn't bar. But I tried window after window on\nthe terrace without result. The heavy green sun-shutters were down over\neach, and when I broke the hinges of one there was a long bar within to\nhold it firm. I was beginning to think of shinning up a rain-pipe and\ntrying the second floor, when a shutter I had laid hold on swung back\nin my hand. It had been left unfastened, and, kicking the snow from my\nboots, I entered a room.\n\nA gleam of moonlight followed me and I saw I was in a big salon with a\npolished wood floor and dark lumps of furniture swathed in sheets. I\nclicked the bulb at my belt, and the little circle of light showed a\nplace which had not been dwelt in for years. At the far end was another\ndoor, and as I tiptoed towards it something caught my eye on the\nparquet. It was a piece of fresh snow like that which clumps on the\nheel of a boot. I had not brought it there. Some other visitor had\npassed this way, and not long before me.\n\nVery gently I opened the door and slipped in. In front of me was a pile\nof furniture which made a kind of screen, and behind that I halted and\nlistened. There was somebody in the room. I heard the sound of human\nbreathing and soft movements; the man, whoever he was, was at the far\nend from me, and though there was a dim glow of Moon through a broken\nshutter I could see nothing of what he was after. I was beginning to\nenjoy myself now. I knew of his presence and he did not know of mine,\nand that is the sport of stalking.\n\nAn unwary movement of my hand caused the screen to creak. Instantly the\nmovements ceased and there was utter silence. I held my breath, and\nafter a second or two the tiny sounds began again. I had a feeling,\nthough my eyes could not assure me, that the man before me was at work,\nand was using a very small shaded torch. There was just the faintest\nmoving shimmer on the wall beyond, though that might come from the\ncrack of moonlight.\n\nApparently he was reassured, for his movements became more distinct.\nThere was a jar as if a table had been pushed back. Once more there was\nsilence, and I heard only the intake of breath. I have very quick ears,\nand to me it sounded as if the man was rattled. The breathing was quick\nand anxious.\n\nSuddenly it changed and became the ghost of a whistle--the kind of\nsound one makes with the lips and teeth without ever letting the tune\nbreak out clear. We all do it when we are preoccupied with\nsomething--shaving, or writing letters, or reading the newspaper. But I\ndid not think my man was preoccupied. He was whistling to quiet\nfluttering nerves.\n\nThen I caught the air. It was 'Cherry Ripe'.\n\nIn a moment, from being hugely at my ease, I became the nervous one. I\nhad been playing peep-bo with the unseen, and the tables were turned.\nMy heart beat against my ribs like a hammer. I shuffled my feet, and\nagain there fell the tense silence.\n\n'Mary,' I said--and the word seemed to explode like a bomb in the\nstillness--'Mary! It's me--Dick Hannay.'\n\nThere was no answer but a sob and the sound of a timid step.\n\nI took four paces into the darkness and caught in my arms a trembling\ngirl ...\n\nOften in the last months I had pictured the kind of scene which would\nbe the culminating point of my life. When our work was over and war had\nbeen forgotten, somewhere--perhaps in a green Cotswold meadow or in a\nroom of an old manor--I would talk with Mary. By that time we should\nknow each other well and I would have lost my shyness. I would try to\ntell her that I loved her, but whenever I thought of what I should say\nmy heart sank, for I knew I would make a fool of myself. You can't live\nmy kind of life for forty years wholly among men and be of any use at\npretty speeches to women. I knew I should stutter and blunder, and I\nused despairingly to invent impossible situations where I might make my\nlove plain to her without words by some piece of melodramatic sacrifice.\n\nBut the kind Fates had saved me the trouble. Without a syllable save\nChristian names stammered in that eerie darkness we had come to\ncomplete understanding. The fairies had been at work unseen, and the\nthoughts of each of us had been moving towards the other, till love had\ngerminated like a seed in the dark. As I held her in my arms I stroked\nher hair and murmured things which seemed to spring out of some\nancestral memory. Certainly my tongue had never used them before, nor\nmy mind imagined them ... By and by she slipped her arms round my neck\nand with a half sob strained towards me. She was still trembling.\n\n'Dick,' she said, and to hear that name on her lips was the sweetest\nthing I had ever known. 'Dick, is it really you? Tell me I'm not\ndreaming.'\n\n'It's me, sure enough, Mary dear. And now I have found you I will never\nlet you go again. But, my precious child, how on earth did you get\nhere?'\n\nShe disengaged herself and let her little electric torch wander over my\nrough habiliments.\n\n'You look a tremendous warrior, Dick. I have never seen you like this\nbefore. I was in Doubting Castle and very much afraid of Giant Despair,\ntill you came.'\n\n'I think I call it the Interpreter's House,' I said.\n\n'It's the house of somebody we both know,' she went on. 'He calls\nhimself Bommaerts here. That was one of the two names, you remember. I\nhave seen him since in Paris. Oh, it is a long story and you shall hear\nit all soon. I knew he came here sometimes, so I came here too. I have\nbeen nursing for the last fortnight at the Douvecourt Hospital only\nfour miles away.'\n\n'But what brought you alone at night?'\n\n'Madness, I think. Vanity, too. You see I had found out a good deal,\nand I wanted to find out the one vital thing which had puzzled Mr\nBlenkiron. I told myself it was foolish, but I couldn't keep away. And\nthen my courage broke down, and before you came I would have screamed\nat the sound of a mouse. If I hadn't whistled I would have cried.'\n\n'But why alone and at this hour?'\n\n'I couldn't get off in the day. And it was safest to come alone. You\nsee he is in love with me, and when he heard I was coming to Douvecourt\nforgot his caution and proposed to meet me here. He said he was going\non a long journey and wanted to say goodbye. If he had found me\nalone--well, he would have said goodbye. If there had been anyone with\nme, he would have suspected, and he mustn't suspect me. Mr Blenkiron\nsays that would be fatal to his great plan. He believes I am like my\naunts, and that I think him an apostle of peace working by his own\nmethods against the stupidity and wickedness of all the Governments. He\ntalks more bitterly about Germany than about England. He had told me\nhow he had to disguise himself and play many parts on his mission, and\nof course I have applauded him. Oh, I have had a difficult autumn.'\n\n'Mary,' I cried, 'tell me you hate him.'\n\n'No,' she said quietly. 'I do not hate him. I am keeping that for\nlater. I fear him desperately. Some day when we have broken him utterly\nI will hate him, and drive all likeness of him out of my memory like an\nunclean thing. But till then I won't waste energy on hate. We want to\nhoard every atom of our strength for the work of beating him.'\n\nShe had won back her composure, and I turned on my light to look at\nher. She was in nurses' outdoor uniform, and I thought her eyes seemed\ntired. The priceless gift that had suddenly come to me had driven out\nall recollection of my own errand. I thought of Ivery only as a\nwould-be lover of Mary, and forgot the manufacturer from Lille who had\nrented his house for the partridge-shooting. 'And you, Dick,' she\nasked; 'is it part of a general's duties to pay visits at night to\nempty houses?'\n\n'I came to look for traces of M. Bommaerts. I, too, got on his track\nfrom another angle, but that story must wait.'\n\n'You observe that he has been here today?'\n\nShe pointed to some cigarette ash spilled on the table edge, and a\nspace on its surface cleared from dust. 'In a place like this the dust\nwould settle again in a few hours, and that is quite clean. I should\nsay he has been here just after luncheon.'\n\n'Great Scott!' I cried, 'what a close shave! I'm in the mood at this\nmoment to shoot him at sight. You say you saw him in Paris and knew his\nlair. Surely you had a good enough case to have him collared.'\n\nShe shook her head. 'Mr Blenkiron--he's in Paris too--wouldn't hear of\nit. He hasn't just figured the thing out yet, he says. We've identified\none of your names, but we're still in doubt about Chelius.'\n\n'Ah, Chelius! Yes, I see. We must get the whole business complete\nbefore we strike. Has old Blenkiron had any luck?'\n\n'Your guess about the \"Deep-breathing\" advertisement was very clever,\nDick. It was true, and it may give us Chelius. I must leave Mr\nBlenkiron to tell you how. But the trouble is this. We know something\nof the doings of someone who may be Chelius, but we can't link them\nwith Ivery. We know that Ivery is Bommaerts, and our hope is to link\nBommaerts with Chelius. That's why I came here. I was trying to burgle\nthis escritoire in an amateur way. It's a bad piece of fake Empire and\ndeserves smashing.'\n\nI could see that Mary was eager to get my mind back to business, and\nwith some difficulty I clambered down from the exultant heights. The\nintoxication of the thing was on me--the winter night, the circle of\nlight in that dreary room, the sudden coming together of two souls from\nthe ends of the earth, the realization of my wildest hopes, the gilding\nand glorifying of all the future. But she had always twice as much\nwisdom as me, and we were in the midst of a campaign which had no use\nfor day-dreaming. I turned my attention to the desk.\n\nIt was a flat table with drawers, and at the back a half-circle of more\ndrawers with a central cupboard. I tilted it up and most of the drawers\nslid out, empty of anything but dust. I forced two open with my knife\nand they held empty cigar boxes. Only the cupboard remained, and that\nappeared to be locked. I wedged a key from my pocket into its keyhole,\nbut the thing would not budge.\n\n'It's no good,' I said. 'He wouldn't leave anything he valued in a\nplace like this. That sort of fellow doesn't take risks. If he wanted\nto hide something there are a hundred holes in this Chateau which would\npuzzle the best detective.'\n\n'Can't you open it?' she asked. 'I've a fancy about that table. He was\nsitting here this afternoon and he may be coming back.'\n\nI solved the problem by turning up the escritoire and putting my knee\nthrough the cupboard door. Out of it tumbled a little dark-green\nattache case.\n\n'This is getting solemn,' said Mary. 'Is it locked?'\n\nIt was, but I took my knife and cut the lock out and spilled the\ncontents on the table. There were some papers, a newspaper or two, and\na small bag tied with black cord. The last I opened, while Mary looked\nover my shoulder. It contained a fine yellowish powder.\n\n'Stand back,' I said harshly. 'For God's sake, stand back and don't\nbreathe.'\n\nWith trembling hands I tied up the bag again, rolled it in a newspaper,\nand stuffed it into my pocket. For I remembered a day near Peronne when\na Boche plane had come over in the night and had dropped little bags\nlike this. Happily they were all collected, and the men who found them\nwere wise and took them off to the nearest laboratory. They proved to\nbe full of anthrax germs ...\n\nI remembered how Eaucourt Sainte-Anne stood at the junction of a dozen\nroads where all day long troops passed to and from the lines. From such\na vantage ground an enemy could wreck the health of an army ...\n\nI remembered the woman I had seen in the courtyard of this house in the\nfoggy dusk, and I knew now why she had worn a gas-mask.\n\nThis discovery gave me a horrid shock. I was brought down with a crash\nfrom my high sentiment to something earthly and devilish. I was fairly\nwell used to Boche filthiness, but this seemed too grim a piece of the\nutterly damnable. I wanted to have Ivery by the throat and force the\nstuff into his body, and watch him decay slowly into the horror he had\ncontrived for honest men.\n\n'Let's get out of this infernal place,' I said.\n\nBut Mary was not listening. She had picked up one of the newspapers and\nwas gloating over it. I looked and saw that it was open at an\nadvertisement of Weissmann's 'Deep-breathing' system.\n\n'Oh, look, Dick,' she cried breathlessly.\n\nThe column of type had little dots made by a red pencil below certain\nwords.\n\n'It's it,' she whispered, 'it's the cipher--I'm almost sure it's the\ncipher!'\n\n'Well, he'd be likely to know it if anyone did.'\n\n'But don't you see it's the cipher which Chelius uses--the man in\nSwitzerland? Oh, I can't explain now, for it's very long, but I\nthink--I think--I have found out what we have all been wanting. Chelius\n...'\n\n'Whisht!' I said. 'What's that?'\n\nThere was a queer sound from the out-of-doors as if a sudden wind had\nrisen in the still night.\n\n'It's only a car on the main road,' said Mary.\n\n'How did you get in?' I asked.\n\n'By the broken window in the next room. I cycled out here one morning,\nand walked round the place and found the broken catch.'\n\n'Perhaps it is left open on purpose. That may be the way M. Bommaerts\nvisits his country home ... Let's get off, Mary, for this place has a\ncurse on it. It deserves fire from heaven.'\n\nI slipped the contents of the attache case into my pockets. 'I'm going\nto drive you back,' I said. 'I've got a car out there.'\n\n'Then you must take my bicycle and my servant too. He's an old friend\nof yours--one Andrew Amos.'\n\n'Now how on earth did Andrew get over here?'\n\n'He's one of us,' said Mary, laughing at my surprise. 'A most useful\nmember of our party, at present disguised as an _infirmier_ in Lady\nManorwater's Hospital at Douvecourt. He is learning French, and ...'\n\n'Hush!' I whispered. 'There's someone in the next room.'\n\nI swept her behind a stack of furniture, with my eyes glued on a crack\nof light below the door. The handle turned and the shadows raced before\na big electric lamp of the kind they have in stables. I could not see\nthe bearer, but I guessed it was the old woman.\n\nThere was a man behind her. A brisk step sounded on the parquet, and a\nfigure brushed past her. It wore the horizon-blue of a French officer,\nvery smart, with those French riding-boots that show the shape of the\nleg, and a handsome fur-lined pelisse. I would have called him a young\nman, not more than thirty-five. The face was brown and clean-shaven,\nthe eyes bright and masterful ... Yet he did not deceive me. I had not\nboasted idly to Sir Walter when I said that there was one man alive who\ncould never again be mistaken by me.\n\nI had my hand on my pistol, as I motioned Mary farther back into the\nshadows. For a second I was about to shoot. I had a perfect mark and\ncould have put a bullet through his brain with utter certitude. I think\nif I had been alone I might have fired. Perhaps not. Anyhow now I could\nnot do it. It seemed like potting at a sitting rabbit. I was obliged,\nthough he was my worst enemy, to give him a chance, while all the while\nmy sober senses kept calling me a fool.\n\nI stepped into the light.\n\n'Hullo, Mr Ivery,' I said. 'This is an odd place to meet again!'\n\nIn his amazement he fell back a step, while his hungry eyes took in my\nface. There was no mistake about the recognition. I saw something I had\nseen once before in him, and that was fear. Out went the light and he\nsprang for the door.\n\nI fired in the dark, but the shot must have been too high. In the same\ninstant I heard him slip on the smooth parquet and the tinkle of glass\nas the broken window swung open. Hastily I reflected that his car must\nbe at the moat end of the terrace, and that therefore to reach it he\nmust pass outside this very room. Seizing the damaged escritoire, I\nused it as a ram, and charged the window nearest me. The panes and\nshutters went with a crash, for I had driven the thing out of its\nrotten frame. The next second I was on the moonlit snow.\n\nI got a shot at him as he went over the terrace, and again I went wide.\nI never was at my best with a pistol. Still I reckoned I had got him,\nfor the car which was waiting below must come back by the moat to reach\nthe highroad. But I had forgotten the great closed park gates. Somehow\nor other they must have been opened, for as soon as the car started it\nheaded straight for the grand avenue. I tried a couple of long-range\nshots after it, and one must have damaged either Ivery or his\nchauffeur, for there came back a cry of pain.\n\nI turned in deep chagrin to find Mary beside me. She was bubbling with\nlaughter.\n\n'Were you ever a cinema actor, Dick? The last two minutes have been a\nreally high-class performance. \"Featuring Mary Lamington.\" How does the\njargon go?'\n\n'I could have got him when he first entered,' I said ruefully.\n\n'I know,' she said in a graver tone. 'Only of course you couldn't ...\nBesides, Mr Blenkiron doesn't want it--yet.'\n\nShe put her hand on my arm. 'Don't worry about it. It wasn't written it\nshould happen that way. It would have been too easy. We have a long\nroad to travel yet before we clip the wings of the Wild Birds.'\n\n'Look,' I cried. 'The fire from heaven!'\n\nRed tongues of flame were shooting up from the out-buildings at the\nfarther end, the place where I had first seen the woman. Some agreed\nplan must have been acted on, and Ivery was destroying all traces of\nhis infamous yellow powder. Even now the concierge with her odds and\nends of belongings would be slipping out to some refuge in the village.\n\nIn the still dry night the flames rose, for the place must have been\nmade ready for a rapid burning. As I hurried Mary round the moat I\ncould see that part of the main building had caught fire. The hamlet\nwas awakened, and before we reached the corner of the highroad sleepy\nBritish soldiers were hurrying towards the scene, and the Town Major\nwas mustering the fire brigade. I knew that Ivery had laid his plans\nwell, and that they hadn't a chance--that long before dawn the Chateau\nof Eaucourt Sainte-Anne would be a heap of ashes and that in a day or\ntwo the lawyers of the aged Marquise at Biarritz would be wrangling\nwith the insurance company.\n\nAt the corner stood Amos beside two bicycles, solid as a graven image.\nHe recognized me with a gap-toothed grin.\n\n'It's a cauld night, General, but the home fires keep burnin'. I havena\nseen such a cheery lowe since Dickson's mill at Gawly.'\n\nWe packed, bicycles and all, into my car with Amos wedged in the narrow\nseat beside Hamilton. Recognizing a fellow countryman, he gave thanks\nfor the lift in the broadest Doric. 'For,' said he, 'I'm not what you\nwould call a practised hand wi' a velocipede, and my feet are dinnled\nwi' standin' in the snaw.'\n\nAs for me, the miles to Douvecourt passed as in a blissful moment of\ntime. I wrapped Mary in a fur rug, and after that we did not speak a\nword. I had come suddenly into a great possession and was dazed with\nthe joy of it.\n\n\n\nCHAPTER FOURTEEN\n\nMr Blenkiron Discourses on Love and War\n\nThree days later I got my orders to report at Paris for special\nservice. They came none too soon, for I chafed at each hour's delay.\nEvery thought in my head was directed to the game which we were playing\nagainst Ivery. He was the big enemy, compared to whom the ordinary\nBoche in the trenches was innocent and friendly. I had almost lost\ninterest in my division, for I knew that for me the real battle-front\nwas not in Picardy, and that my job was not so easy as holding a length\nof line. Also I longed to be at the same work as Mary.\n\nI remember waking up in billets the morning after the night at the\nChateau with the feeling that I had become extraordinarily rich. I felt\nvery humble, too, and very kindly towards all the world--even to the\nBoche, though I can't say I had ever hated him very wildly. You find\nhate more among journalists and politicians at home than among fighting\nmen. I wanted to be quiet and alone to think, and since that was\nimpossible I went about my work in a happy abstraction. I tried not to\nlook ahead, but only to live in the present, remembering that a war was\non, and that there was desperate and dangerous business before me, and\nthat my hopes hung on a slender thread. Yet for all that I had\nsometimes to let my fancies go free, and revel in delicious dreams.\n\nBut there was one thought that always brought me back to hard ground,\nand that was Ivery. I do not think I hated anybody in the world but\nhim. It was his relation to Mary that stung me. He had the insolence\nwith all his toad-like past to make love to that clean and radiant\ngirl. I felt that he and I stood as mortal antagonists, and the thought\npleased me, for it helped me to put some honest detestation into my\njob. Also I was going to win. Twice I had failed, but the third time I\nshould succeed. It had been like ranging shots for a gun--first short,\nsecond over, and I vowed that the third should be dead on the mark.\n\nI was summoned to G.H.Q., where I had half an hour's talk with the\ngreatest British commander. I can see yet his patient, kindly face and\nthat steady eye which no vicissitude of fortune could perturb. He took\nthe biggest view, for he was statesman as well as soldier, and knew\nthat the whole world was one battle-field and every man and woman among\nthe combatant nations was in the battle-line. So contradictory is human\nnature, that talk made me wish for a moment to stay where I was. I\nwanted to go on serving under that man. I realized suddenly how much I\nloved my work, and when I got back to my quarters that night and saw my\nmen swinging in from a route march I could have howled like a dog at\nleaving them. Though I say it who shouldn't, there wasn't a better\ndivision in the Army.\n\nOne morning a few days later I picked up Mary in Amiens. I always liked\nthe place, for after the dirt of the Somme it was a comfort to go there\nfor a bath and a square meal, and it had the noblest church that the\nhand of man ever built for God. It was a clear morning when we started\nfrom the boulevard beside the railway station; and the air smelt of\nwashed streets and fresh coffee, and women were going marketing and the\nlittle trams ran clanking by, just as in any other city far from the\nsound of guns. There was very little khaki or horizon-blue about, and I\nremember thinking how completely Amiens had got out of the war-zone.\nTwo months later it was a different story.\n\nTo the end I shall count that day as one of the happiest in my life.\nSpring was in the air, though the trees and fields had still their\nwinter colouring. A thousand good fresh scents came out of the earth,\nand the larks were busy over the new furrows. I remember that we ran up\na little glen, where a stream spread into pools among sallows, and the\nroadside trees were heavy with mistletoe. On the tableland beyond the\nSomme valley the sun shone like April. At Beauvais we lunched badly in\nan inn--badly as to food, but there was an excellent Burgundy at two\nfrancs a bottle. Then we slipped down through little flat-chested\ntownships to the Seine, and in the late afternoon passed through St\nGermains forest. The wide green spaces among the trees set my fancy\ndwelling on that divine English countryside where Mary and I would one\nday make our home. She had been in high spirits all the journey, but\nwhen I spoke of the Cotswolds her face grew grave.\n\n'Don't let us speak of it, Dick,' she said. 'It's too happy a thing and\nI feel as if it would wither if we touched it. I don't let myself think\nof peace and home, for it makes me too homesick ... I think we shall\nget there some day, you and I ... but it's a long road to the\nDelectable Mountains, and Faithful, you know, has to die first ...\nThere is a price to be paid.'\n\nThe words sobered me.\n\n'Who is our Faithful?' I asked.\n\n'I don't know. But he was the best of the Pilgrims.'\n\nThen, as if a veil had lifted, her mood changed, and when we came\nthrough the suburbs of Paris and swung down the Champs Elysees she was\nin a holiday humour. The lights were twinkling in the blue January\ndusk, and the warm breath of the city came to greet us. I knew little\nof the place, for I had visited it once only on a four days' Paris\nleave, but it had seemed to me then the most habitable of cities, and\nnow, coming from the battle-field with Mary by my side, it was like the\nhappy ending of a dream.\n\nI left her at her cousin's house near the Rue St Honore, and deposited\nmyself, according to instructions, at the Hotel Louis Quinze. There I\nwallowed in a hot bath, and got into the civilian clothes which had\nbeen sent on from London. They made me feel that I had taken leave of\nmy division for good and all this time. Blenkiron had a private room,\nwhere we were to dine; and a more wonderful litter of books and cigar\nboxes I have never seen, for he hadn't a notion of tidiness. I could\nhear him grunting at his toilet in the adjacent bedroom, and I noticed\nthat the table was laid for three. I went downstairs to get a paper,\nand on the way ran into Launcelot Wake.\n\nHe was no longer a private in a Labour Battalion. Evening clothes\nshowed beneath his overcoat. 'Hullo, Wake, are you in this push too?'\n\n'I suppose so,' he said, and his manner was not cordial. 'Anyhow I was\nordered down here. My business is to do as I am told.'\n\n'Coming to dine?' I asked.\n\n'No. I'm dining with some friends at the Crillon.'\n\nThen he looked me in the face, and his eyes were hot as I first\nremembered them. 'I hear I've to congratulate you, Hannay,' and he held\nout a limp hand.\n\nI never felt more antagonism in a human being.\n\n'You don't like it?' I said, for I guessed what he meant.\n\n'How on earth can I like it?' he cried angrily. 'Good Lord, man, you'll\nmurder her soul. You an ordinary, stupid, successful fellow and\nshe--she's the most precious thing God ever made. You can never\nunderstand a fraction of her preciousness, but you'll clip her wings\nall right. She can never fly now ...'\n\nHe poured out this hysterical stuff to me at the foot of the staircase\nwithin hearing of an elderly French widow with a poodle. I had no\nimpulse to be angry, for I was far too happy.\n\n'Don't, Wake,' I said. 'We're all too close together to quarrel. I'm\nnot fit to black Mary's shoes. You can't put me too low or her too\nhigh. But I've at least the sense to know it. You couldn't want me to\nbe humbler than I felt.'\n\nHe shrugged his shoulders, as he went out to the street. 'Your infernal\nmagnanimity would break any man's temper.'\n\nI went upstairs to find Blenkiron, washed and shaven, admiring a pair\nof bright patent-leather shoes.\n\n'Why, Dick, I've been wearying bad to see you. I was nervous you would\nbe blown to glory, for I've been reading awful things about your\nbattles in the noospapers. The war correspondents worry me so I can't\ntake breakfast.'\n\nHe mixed cocktails and clinked his glass on mine. 'Here's to the young\nlady. I was trying to write her a pretty little sonnet, but the darned\nrhymes wouldn't fit. I've gotten a heap of things to say to you when\nwe've finished dinner.'\n\nMary came in, her cheeks bright from the weather, and Blenkiron\npromptly fell abashed. But she had a way to meet his shyness, for, when\nhe began an embarrassed speech of good wishes, she put her arms round\nhis neck and kissed him. Oddly enough, that set him completely at his\nease.\n\nIt was pleasant to eat off linen and china again, pleasant to see old\nBlenkiron's benignant face and the way he tucked into his food, but it\nwas delicious for me to sit at a meal with Mary across the table. It\nmade me feel that she was really mine, and not a pixie that would\nvanish at a word. To Blenkiron she bore herself like an affectionate\nbut mischievous daughter, while the desperately refined manners that\nafflicted him whenever women were concerned mellowed into something\nlike his everyday self. They did most of the talking, and I remember he\nfetched from some mysterious hiding-place a great box of chocolates,\nwhich you could no longer buy in Paris, and the two ate them like\nspoiled children. I didn't want to talk, for it was pure happiness for\nme to look on. I loved to watch her, when the servants had gone, with\nher elbows on the table like a schoolboy, her crisp gold hair a little\nrumpled, cracking walnuts with gusto, like some child who has been\nallowed down from the nursery for dessert and means to make the most of\nit.\n\nWith his first cigar Blenkiron got to business.\n\n'You want to know about the staff-work we've been busy on at home.\nWell, it's finished now, thanks to you, Dick. We weren't getting on\nvery fast till you took to peroosing the press on your sick-bed and\ndropped us that hint about the \"Deep-breathing\" ads.'\n\n'Then there was something in it?' I asked.\n\n'There was black hell in it. There wasn't any Gussiter, but there was a\nmighty fine little syndicate of crooks with old man Gresson at the back\nof them. First thing, I started out to get the cipher. It took some\nlooking for, but there's no cipher on earth can't be got hold of\nsomehow if you know it's there, and in this case we were helped a lot\nby the return messages in the German papers. It was bad stuff when we\nread it, and explained the darned leakages in important noos we've been\nup against. At first I figured to keep the thing going and turn\nGussiter into a corporation with John S. Blenkiron as president. But it\nwouldn't do, for at the first hint of tampering with their\ncommunications the whole bunch got skeery and sent out SOS signals. So\nwe tenderly plucked the flowers.'\n\n'Gresson, too?' I asked.\n\nHe nodded. 'I guess your seafaring companion's now under the sod. We\nhad collected enough evidence to hang him ten times over ... But that\nwas the least of it. For your little old cipher, Dick, gave us a line\non Ivery.'\n\nI asked how, and Blenkiron told me the story. He had about a dozen\ncross-bearings proving that the organization of the 'Deep-breathing'\ngame had its headquarters in Switzerland. He suspected Ivery from the\nfirst, but the man had vanished out of his ken, so he started working\nfrom the other end, and instead of trying to deduce the Swiss business\nfrom Ivery he tried to deduce Ivery from the Swiss business. He went to\nBerne and made a conspicuous public fool of himself for several weeks.\nHe called himself an agent of the American propaganda there, and took\nsome advertising space in the press and put in spread-eagle\nannouncements of his mission, with the result that the Swiss Government\nthreatened to turn him out of the country if he tampered that amount\nwith their neutrality. He also wrote a lot of rot in the Geneva\nnewspapers, which he paid to have printed, explaining how he was a\npacifist, and was going to convert Germany to peace by 'inspirational\nadvertisement of pure-minded war aims'. All this was in keeping with\nhis English reputation, and he wanted to make himself a bait for Ivery.\n\nBut Ivery did not rise to the fly, and though he had a dozen agents\nworking for him on the quiet he could never hear of the name Chelius.\nThat was, he reckoned, a very private and particular name among the\nWild Birds. However, he got to know a good deal about the Swiss end of\nthe 'Deep-breathing' business. That took some doing and cost a lot of\nmoney. His best people were a girl who posed as a mannequin in a\nmilliner's shop in Lyons and a concierge in a big hotel at St Moritz.\nHis most important discovery was that there was a second cipher in the\nreturn messages sent from Switzerland, different from the one that the\nGussiter lot used in England. He got this cipher, but though he could\nread it he couldn't make anything out of it. He concluded that it was a\nvery secret means of communication between the inner circle of the Wild\nBirds, and that Ivery must be at the back of it ... But he was still a\nlong way from finding out anything that mattered.\n\nThen the whole situation changed, for Mary got in touch with Ivery. I\nmust say she behaved like a shameless minx, for she kept on writing to\nhim to an address he had once given her in Paris, and suddenly she got\nan answer. She was in Paris herself, helping to run one of the railway\ncanteens, and staying with her French cousins, the de Mezieres. One day\nhe came to see her. That showed the boldness of the man, and his\ncleverness, for the whole secret police of France were after him and\nthey never got within sight or sound. Yet here he was coming openly in\nthe afternoon to have tea with an English girl. It showed another\nthing, which made me blaspheme. A man so resolute and single-hearted in\nhis job must have been pretty badly in love to take a risk like that.\n\nHe came, and he called himself the Capitaine Bommaerts, with a\ntransport job on the staff of the French G.Q.G. He was on the staff\nright enough too. Mary said that when she heard that name she nearly\nfell down. He was quite frank with her, and she with him. They are both\npeacemakers, ready to break the laws of any land for the sake of a\ngreat ideal. Goodness knows what stuff they talked together. Mary said\nshe would blush to think of it till her dying day, and I gathered that\non her side it was a mixture of Launcelot Wake at his most pedantic and\nschoolgirl silliness.\n\nHe came again, and they met often, unbeknown to the decorous Madame de\nMezieres. They walked together in the Bois de Boulogne, and once, with\na beating heart, she motored with him to Auteuil for luncheon. He spoke\nof his house in Picardy, and there were moments, I gathered, when he\nbecame the declared lover, to be rebuffed with a hoydenish shyness.\nPresently the pace became too hot, and after some anguished arguments\nwith Bullivant on the long-distance telephone she went off to\nDouvecourt to Lady Manorwater's hospital. She went there to escape from\nhim, but mainly, I think, to have a look--trembling in every limb, mind\nyou--at the Chateau of Eaucourt Sainte-Anne.\n\nI had only to think of Mary to know just what Joan of Arc was. No man\never born could have done that kind of thing. It wasn't recklessness.\nIt was sheer calculating courage.\n\nThen Blenkiron took up the tale. The newspaper we found that Christmas\nEve in the Chateau was of tremendous importance, for Bommaerts had\npricked out in the advertisement the very special second cipher of the\nWild Birds. That proved that Ivery was at the back of the Swiss\nbusiness. But Blenkiron made doubly sure.\n\n'I considered the time had come,' he said, 'to pay high for valuable\nnoos, so I sold the enemy a very pretty de-vice. If you ever gave your\nmind to ciphers and illicit correspondence, Dick, you would know that\nthe one kind of document you can't write on in invisible ink is a\ncoated paper, the kind they use in the weeklies to print photographs of\nleading actresses and the stately homes of England. Anything wet that\ntouches it corrugates the surface a little, and you can tell with a\nmicroscope if someone's been playing at it. Well, we had the good\nfortune to discover just how to get over that little difficulty--how to\nwrite on glazed paper with a quill so as the cutest analyst couldn't\nspot it, and likewise how to detect the writing. I decided to sacrifice\nthat invention, casting my bread upon the waters and looking for a\ngood-sized bakery in return ... I had it sold to the enemy. The job\nwanted delicate handling, but the tenth man from me--he was an Austrian\nJew--did the deal and scooped fifty thousand dollars out of it. Then I\nlay low to watch how my friend would use the de-vice, and I didn't wait\nlong.'\n\nHe took from his pocket a folded sheet of _L'Illustration_. Over a\nphotogravure plate ran some words in a large sprawling hand, as if\nwritten with a brush.\n\n'That page when I got it yesterday,' he said, 'was an unassuming\npicture of General Petain presenting military medals. There wasn't a\nscratch or a ripple on its surface. But I got busy with it, and see\nthere!'\n\nHe pointed out two names. The writing was a set of key-words we did not\nknow, but two names stood out which I knew too well. They were\n'Bommaerts' and 'Chelius'.\n\n'My God!' I cried, 'that's uncanny. It only shows that if you chew long\nenough---'\n\n'Dick,' said Mary, 'you mustn't say that again. At the best it's an\nugly metaphor, and you're making it a platitude.'\n\n'Who is Ivery anyhow?' I asked. 'Do you know more about him than we\nknew in the summer? Mary, what did Bommaerts pretend to be?'\n\n'An Englishman.' Mary spoke in the most matter-of-fact tone, as if it\nwere a perfectly usual thing to be made love to by a spy, and that\nrather soothed my annoyance. 'When he asked me to marry him he proposed\nto take me to a country-house in Devonshire. I rather think, too, he\nhad a place in Scotland. But of course he's a German.'\n\n'Ye-es,' said Blenkiron slowly, 'I've got on to his record, and it\nisn't a pretty story. It's taken some working out, but I've got all the\nlinks tested now ... He's a Boche and a large-sized nobleman in his own\nstate. Did you ever hear of the Graf von Schwabing?'\n\nI shook my head.\n\n'I think I have heard Uncle Charlie speak of him,' said Mary, wrinkling\nher brows. 'He used to hunt with the Pytchley.'\n\n'That's the man. But he hasn't troubled the Pytchley for the last eight\nyears. There was a time when he was the last thing in smartness in the\nGerman court--officer in the Guards, ancient family, rich, darned\nclever--all the fixings. Kaiser liked him, and it's easy to see why. I\nguess a man who had as many personalities as the Graf was amusing\nafter-dinner company. Specially among the Germans, who in my experience\ndon't excel in the lighter vein. Anyway, he was William's white-headed\nboy, and there wasn't a mother with a daughter who wasn't out gunning\nfor Otto von Schwabing. He was about as popular in London and Noo\nYork--and in Paris, too. Ask Sir Walter about him, Dick. He says he had\ntwice the brains of Kuhlmann, and better manners than the Austrian\nfellow he used to yarn about ... Well, one day there came an almighty\ncourt scandal, and the bottom dropped out of the Graf's World. It was a\npretty beastly story, and I don't gather that Schwabing was as deep in\nit as some others. But the trouble was that those others had to be\nshielded at all costs, and Schwabing was made the scapegoat. His name\ncame out in the papers and he had to go .'\n\n'What was the case called?' I asked.\n\nBlenkiron mentioned a name, and I knew why the word Schwabing was\nfamiliar. I had read the story long ago in Rhodesia.\n\n'It was some smash,' Blenkiron went on. 'He was drummed out of the\nGuards, out of the clubs, out of the country ... Now, how would you\nhave felt, Dick, if you had been the Graf? Your life and work and\nhappiness crossed out, and all to save a mangy princeling. \"Bitter as\nhell,\" you say. Hungering for a chance to put it across the lot that\nhad outed you? You wouldn't rest till you had William sobbing on his\nknees asking your pardon, and you not thinking of granting it? That's\nthe way you'd feel, but that wasn't the Graf's way, and what's more it\nisn't the German way. He went into exile hating humanity, and with a\nheart all poison and snakes, but itching to get back. And I'll tell you\nwhy. It's because his kind of German hasn't got any other home on this\nearth. Oh, yes, I know there's stacks of good old Teutons come and\nsquat in our little country and turn into fine Americans. You can do a\nlot with them if you catch them young and teach them the Declaration of\nIndependence and make them study our Sunday papers. But you can't deny\nthere's something comic in the rough about all Germans, before you've\ncivilized them. They're a pecooliar people, a darned pecooliar people,\nelse they wouldn't staff all the menial and indecent occupations on the\nglobe. But that pecooliarity, which is only skin-deep in the working\nBoche, is in the bone of the grandee. Your German aristocracy can't\nconsort on terms of equality with any other Upper Ten Thousand. They\nswagger and bluff about the world, but they know very well that the\nworld's sniggering at them. They're like a boss from Salt Creek Gully\nwho's made his pile and bought a dress suit and dropped into a Newport\nevening party. They don't know where to put their hands or how to keep\ntheir feet still ... Your copper-bottomed English nobleman has got to\nkeep jogging himself to treat them as equals instead of sending them\ndown to the servants' hall. Their fine fixings are just the high light\nthat reveals the everlasting jay. They can't be gentlemen, because they\naren't sure of themselves. The world laughs at them, and they know it\nand it riles them like hell ... That's why when a Graf is booted out of\nthe Fatherland, he's got to creep back somehow or be a wandering Jew\nfor the rest of time.'\n\nBlenkiron lit another cigar and fixed me with his steady, ruminating\neye.\n\n'For eight years the man has slaved, body and soul, for the men who\ndegraded him. He's earned his restoration and I daresay he's got it in\nhis pocket. If merit was rewarded he should be covered with Iron\nCrosses and Red Eagles ... He had a pretty good hand to start out with.\nHe knew other countries and he was a dandy at languages. More, he had\nan uncommon gift for living a part. That is real genius, Dick, however\nmuch it gets up against us. Best of all he had a first-class outfit of\nbrains. I can't say I ever struck a better, and I've come across some\nbright citizens in my time ... And now he's going to win out, unless we\nget mighty busy.'\n\nThere was a knock at the door and the solid figure of Andrew Amos\nrevealed itself.\n\n'It's time ye was home, Miss Mary. It chappit half-eleven as I came up\nthe stairs. It's comin' on to rain, so I've brought an umbrelly.'\n\n'One word,' I said. 'How old is the man?'\n\n'Just gone thirty-six,' Blenkiron replied.\n\nI turned to Mary, who nodded. 'Younger than you, Dick,' she said\nwickedly as she got into her big Jaeger coat.\n\n'I'm going to see you home,' I said.\n\n'Not allowed. You've had quite enough of my society for one day.\nAndrew's on escort duty tonight.'\n\nBlenkiron looked after her as the door closed.\n\n'I reckon you've got the best girl in the world.'\n\n'Ivery thinks the same,' I said grimly, for my detestation of the man\nwho had made love to Mary fairly choked me.\n\n'You can see why. Here's this degenerate coming out of his rotten\nclass, all pampered and petted and satiated with the easy pleasures of\nlife. He has seen nothing of women except the bad kind and the overfed\nspecimens of his own country. I hate being impolite about females, but\nI've always considered the German variety uncommon like cows. He has\nhad desperate years of intrigue and danger, and consorting with every\nkind of scallawag. Remember, he's a big man and a poet, with a brain\nand an imagination that takes every grade without changing gears.\nSuddenly he meets something that is as fresh and lovely as a spring\nflower, and has wits too, and the steeliest courage, and yet is all\nyouth and gaiety. It's a new experience for him, a kind of revelation,\nand he's big enough to value her as she should be valued ... No, Dick,\nI can understand you getting cross, but I reckon it an item to the\nman's credit.'\n\n'It's his blind spot all the same,' I said.\n\n'His blind spot,' Blenkiron repeated solemnly, 'and, please God, we're\ngoing to remember that.'\n\n            *       *       *       *       *\n\nNext morning in miserable sloppy weather Blenkiron carted me about\nParis. We climbed five sets of stairs to a flat away up in Montmartre,\nwhere I was talked to by a fat man with spectacles and a slow voice and\ntold various things that deeply concerned me. Then I went to a room in\nthe Boulevard St Germain, with a little cabinet opening off it, where I\nwas shown papers and maps and some figures on a sheet of paper that\nmade me open my eyes. We lunched in a modest cafe tucked away behind\nthe Palais Royal, and our companions were two Alsatians who spoke\nGerman better than a Boche and had no names--only numbers. In the\nafternoon I went to a low building beside the Invalides and saw many\ngenerals, including more than one whose features were familiar in two\nhemispheres. I told them everything about myself, and I was examined\nlike a convict, and all particulars about my appearance and manner of\nspeech written down in a book. That was to prepare the way for me, in\ncase of need, among the vast army of those who work underground and\nknow their chief but do not know each other.\n\nThe rain cleared before night, and Blenkiron and I walked back to the\nhotel through that lemon-coloured dusk that you get in a French winter.\nWe passed a company of American soldiers, and Blenkiron had to stop and\nstare. I could see that he was stiff with pride, though he wouldn't\nshow it.\n\n'What d'you think of that bunch?' he asked.\n\n'First-rate stuff,' I said.\n\n'The men are all right,' he drawled critically. 'But some of the\nofficer-boys are a bit puffy. They want fining down.'\n\n'They'll get it soon enough, honest fellows. You don't keep your weight\nlong in this war.'\n\n'Say, Dick,' he said shyly, 'what do you truly think of our Americans?\nYou've seen a lot of them, and I'd value your views.' His tone was that\nof a bashful author asking for an opinion on his first book.\n\n'I'll tell you what I think. You're constructing a great middle-class\narmy, and that's the most formidable fighting machine on earth. This\nkind of war doesn't want the Berserker so much as the quiet fellow with\na trained mind and a lot to fight for. The American ranks are filled\nwith all sorts, from cow-punchers to college boys, but mostly with\ndecent lads that have good prospects in life before them and are\nfighting because they feel they're bound to, not because they like it.\nIt was the same stock that pulled through your Civil War. We have a\nmiddle-class division, too--Scottish Territorials, mostly clerks and\nshopmen and engineers and farmers' sons. When I first struck them my\nonly crab was that the officers weren't much better than the men. It's\nstill true, but the men are super-excellent, and consequently so are\nthe officers. That division gets top marks in the Boche calendar for\nsheer fighting devilment ... And, please God, that's what your American\narmy's going to be. You can wash out the old idea of a regiment of\nscallawags commanded by dukes. That was right enough, maybe, in the\ndays when you hurrooshed into battle waving a banner, but it don't do\nwith high explosives and a couple of million men on each side and a\nbattle front of five hundred miles. The hero of this war is the plain\nman out of the middle class, who wants to get back to his home and is\ngoing to use all the brains and grit he possesses to finish the job\nsoon.'\n\n'That sounds about right,' said Blenkiron reflectively. 'It pleases me\nsome, for you've maybe guessed that I respect the British Army quite a\nlittle. Which part of it do you put top?'\n\n'All of it's good. The French are keen judges and they give front place\nto the Scots and the Australians. For myself I think the backbone of\nthe Army is the old-fashioned English county regiments that hardly ever\nget into the papers Though I don't know, if I had to pick, but I'd take\nthe South Africans. There's only a brigade of them, but they're hell's\ndelight in a battle. But then you'll say I'm prejudiced.'\n\n'Well,' drawled Blenkiron, you're a mighty Empire anyhow. I've\nsojourned up and down it and I can't guess how the old-time highbrows\nin your little island came to put it together. But I'll let you into a\nsecret, Dick. I read this morning in a noospaper that there was a\nnatural affinity between Americans and the men of the British\nDominions. Take it from me, there isn't--at least not with this\nAmerican. I don't understand them one little bit. When I see your lean,\ntall Australians with the sun at the back of their eyes, I'm looking at\nmen from another planet. Outside you and Peter, I never got to fathom a\nSouth African. The Canadians live over the fence from us, but you mix\nup a Canuck with a Yank in your remarks and you'll get a bat in the eye\n... But most of us Americans have gotten a grip on your Old Country.\nYou'll find us mighty respectful to other parts of your Empire, but we\nsay anything we damn well please about England. You see, we know her\nthat well and like her that well, we can be free with her.\n\n'It's like,' he concluded as we reached the hotel, 'it's like a lot of\nboys that are getting on in the world and are a bit jealous and\nstand-offish with each other. But they're all at home with the old man\nwho used to warm them up with a hickory cane, even though sometimes in\ntheir haste they call him a stand-patter.'\n\nThat night at dinner we talked solid business--Blenkiron and I and a\nyoung French Colonel from the IIIeme Section at G.Q.G. Blenkiron, I\nremember, got very hurt about being called a business man by the\nFrenchman, who thought he was paying him a compliment.\n\n'Cut it out,' he said. 'It is a word that's gone bad with me. There's\njust two kind of men, those who've gotten sense and those who haven't.\nA big percentage of us Americans make our living by trading, but we\ndon't think because a man's in business or even because he's made big\nmoney that he's any natural good at every job. We've made a college\nprofessor our President, and do what he tells us like little boys,\nthough he don't earn more than some of us pay our works' manager. You\nEnglish have gotten business on the brain, and think a fellow's a dandy\nat handling your Government if he happens to have made a pile by some\nflat-catching ramp on your Stock Exchange. It makes me tired. You're\nabout the best business nation on earth, but for God's sake don't begin\nto talk about it or you'll lose your power. And don't go confusing real\nbusiness with the ordinary gift of raking in the dollars. Any man with\nsense could make money if he wanted to, but he mayn't want. He may\nprefer the fun of the job and let other people do the looting. I reckon\nthe biggest business on the globe today is the work behind your lines\nand the way you feed and supply and transport your army. It beats the\nSteel Corporation and the Standard Oil to a frazzle. But the man at the\nhead of it all don't earn more than a thousand dollars a month ... Your\nnation's getting to worship Mammon, Dick. Cut it out. There's just the\none difference in humanity--sense or no sense, and most likely you\nwon't find any more sense in the man that makes a billion selling bonds\nthan in his brother Tim that lives in a shack and sells corn-cobs. I'm\nnot speaking out of sinful jealousy, for there was a day when I was\nreckoned a railroad king, and I quit with a bigger pile than kings\nusually retire on. But I haven't the sense of old Peter, who never even\nhad a bank account ... And it's sense that wins in this war.'\n\nThe Colonel, who spoke good English, asked a question about a speech\nwhich some politician had made.\n\n'There isn't all the sense I'd like to see at the top,' said Blenkiron.\n'They're fine at smooth words. That wouldn't matter, but they're\nthinking smooth thoughts. What d'you make of the situation, Dick?'\n\n'I think it's the worst since First Ypres,' I said. 'Everybody's\ncock-a-whoop, but God knows why.'\n\n'God knows why,' Blenkiron repeated. 'I reckon it's a simple\ncalculation, and you can't deny it any more than a mathematical law.\nRussia is counted out. The Boche won't get food from her for a good\nmany months, but he can get more men, and he's got them. He's fighting\nonly on one foot, and he's been able to bring troops and guns west so\nhe's as strong as the Allies now on paper. And he's stronger in\nreality. He's got better railways behind him, and he's fighting on\ninside lines and can concentrate fast against any bit of our front. I'm\nno soldier, but that's so, Dick?'\n\nThe Frenchman smiled and shook his head. 'All the same they will not\npass. They could not when they were two to one in 1914, and they will\nnot now. If we Allies could not break through in the last year when we\nhad many more men, how will the Germans succeed now with only equal\nnumbers?'\n\nBlenkiron did not look convinced. 'That's what they all say. I talked\nto a general last week about the coming offensive, and he said he was\npraying for it to hurry up, for he reckoned Fritz would get the fright\nof his life. It's a good spirit, maybe, but I don't think it's sound on\nthe facts. We've got two mighty great armies of fine fighting-men, but,\nbecause we've two commands, we're bound to move ragged like a peal of\nbells. The Hun's got one army and forty years of stiff tradition, and,\nwhat's more, he's going all out this time. He's going to smash our\nfront before America lines up, or perish in the attempt ... Why do you\nsuppose all the peace racket in Germany has died down, and the very men\nthat were talking democracy in the summer are now hot for fighting to a\nfinish? I'll tell you. It's because old Ludendorff has promised them\ncomplete victory this spring if they spend enough men, and the Boche is\na good gambler and is out to risk it. We're not up against a local\nattack this time. We're standing up to a great nation going bald-headed\nfor victory or destruction. If we're broken, then America's got to\nfight a new campaign by herself when she's ready, and the Boche has\ntime to make Russia his feeding-ground and diddle our blockade. That\nputs another five years on to the war, maybe another ten. Are we free\nand independent peoples going to endure that much? ... I tell you we're\ntossing to quit before Easter.'\n\nHe turned towards me, and I nodded assent.\n\n'That's more or less my view,' I said. 'We ought to hold, but it'll be\nby our teeth and nails. For the next six months we'll be fighting\nwithout any margin.'\n\n'But, my friends, you put it too gravely,' cried the Frenchman. 'We may\nlose a mile or two of ground--yes. But serious danger is not possible.\nThey had better chances at Verdun and they failed. Why should they\nsucceed now?'\n\n'Because they are staking everything,' Blenkiron replied. 'It is the\nlast desperate struggle of a wounded beast, and in these struggles\nsometimes the hunter perishes. Dick's right. We've got a wasting margin\nand every extra ounce of weight's going to tell. The battle's in the\nfield, and it's also in every corner of every Allied land. That's why\nwithin the next two months we've got to get even with the Wild Birds.'\n\nThe French Colonel--his name was de Valliere--smiled at the name, and\nBlenkiron answered my unspoken question.\n\n'I'm going to satisfy some of your curiosity, Dick, for I've put\ntogether considerable noos of the menagerie. Germany has a good army of\nspies outside her borders. We shoot a batch now and then, but the\nothers go on working like beavers and they do a mighty deal of harm.\nThey're beautifully organized, but they don't draw on such good human\nmaterial as we, and I reckon they don't pay in results more than ten\ncents on a dollar of trouble. But there they are. They're the\nintelligence officers and their business is just to forward noos.\nThey're the birds in the cage, the--what is it your friend called them?'\n\n'_Die Stubenvogel,_' I said.\n\n'Yes, but all the birds aren't caged. There's a few outside the bars\nand they don't collect noos. They do things. If there's anything\ndesperate they're put on the job, and they've got power to act without\nwaiting on instructions from home. I've investigated till my brain's\ntired and I haven't made out more than half a dozen whom I can say for\ncertain are in the business. There's your pal, the Portuguese Jew,\nDick. Another's a woman in Genoa, a princess of some sort married to a\nGreek financier. One's the editor of a pro-Ally up-country paper in the\nArgentine. One passes as a Baptist minister in Colorado. One was a\npolice spy in the Tzar's Government and is now a red-hot revolutionary\nin the Caucasus. And the biggest, of course, is Moxon Ivery, who in\nhappier times was the Graf von Schwabing. There aren't above a hundred\npeople in the world know of their existence, and these hundred call\nthem the Wild Birds.'\n\n'Do they work together?' I asked.\n\n'Yes. They each get their own jobs to do, but they're apt to flock\ntogether for a big piece of devilment. There were four of them in\nFrance a year ago before the battle of the Aisne, and they pretty near\nrotted the French Army. That's so, Colonel?'\n\nThe soldier nodded grimly. 'They seduced our weary troops and they\nbought many politicians. Almost they succeeded, but not quite. The\nnation is sane again, and is judging and shooting the accomplices at\nits leisure. But the principals we have never caught.'\n\n'You hear that, Dick, said Blenkiron. 'You're satisfied this isn't a\nwhimsy of a melodramatic old Yank? I'll tell you more. You know how\nIvery worked the submarine business from England. Also, it was the Wild\nBirds that wrecked Russia. It was Ivery that paid the Bolshevists to\nsedooce the Army, and the Bolshevists took his money for their own\npurpose, thinking they were playing a deep game, when all the time he\nwas grinning like Satan, for they were playing his. It was Ivery or\nsome other of the bunch that doped the brigades that broke at\nCaporetto. If I started in to tell you the history of their doings you\nwouldn't go to bed, and if you did you wouldn't sleep ... There's just\nthis to it. Every finished subtle devilry that the Boche has wrought\namong the Allies since August 1914 has been the work of the Wild Birds\nand more or less organized by Ivery. They're worth half a dozen army\ncorps to Ludendorff. They're the mightiest poison merchants the world\never saw, and they've the nerve of hell ...'\n\n'I don't know,' I interrupted. 'Ivery's got his soft spot. I saw him in\nthe Tube station.'\n\n'Maybe, but he's got the kind of nerve that's wanted. And now I rather\nfancy he's whistling in his flock.'\n\nBlenkiron consulted a notebook. 'Pavia--that's the Argentine\nman--started last month for Europe. He transhipped from a coasting\nsteamer in the West Indies and we've temporarily lost track of him, but\nhe's left his hunting-ground. What do you reckon that means?'\n\n'It means,' Blenkiron continued solemnly, 'that Ivery thinks the game's\nnearly over. The play's working up for the big climax ... And that\nclimax is going to be damnation for the Allies, unless we get a move\non.'\n\n'Right,' I said. 'That's what I'm here for. What's the move?'\n\n'The Wild Birds mustn't ever go home, and the man they call Ivery or\nBommaerts or Chelius has to decease. It's a cold-blooded proposition,\nbut it's him or the world that's got to break. But before he quits this\nearth we're bound to get wise about some of his plans, and that means\nthat we can't just shoot a pistol at his face. Also we've got to find\nhim first. We reckon he's in Switzerland, but that is a state with\nquite a lot of diversified scenery to lose a man in ... Still I guess\nwe'll find him. But it's the kind of business to plan out as carefully\nas a battle. I'm going back to Berne on my old stunt to boss the show,\nand I'm giving the orders. You're an obedient child, Dick, so I don't\nreckon on any trouble that way.'\n\nThen Blenkiron did an ominous thing. He pulled up a little table and\nstarted to lay out Patience cards. Since his duodenum was cured he\nseemed to have dropped that habit, and from his resuming it I gathered\nthat his mind was uneasy. I can see that scene as if it were\nyesterday--the French colonel in an armchair smoking a cigarette in a\nlong amber holder, and Blenkiron sitting primly on the edge of a yellow\nsilk ottoman, dealing his cards and looking guiltily towards me.\n\n'You'll have Peter for company,' he said. 'Peter's a sad man, but he\nhas a great heart, and he's been mighty useful to me already. They're\ngoing to move him to England very soon. The authorities are afraid of\nhim, for he's apt to talk wild, his health having made him peevish\nabout the British. But there's a deal of red-tape in the world, and the\norders for his repatriation are slow in coming.' The speaker winked\nvery slowly and deliberately with his left eye.\n\nI asked if I was to be with Peter, much cheered at the prospect.\n\n'Why, yes. You and Peter are the collateral in the deal. But the big\ngame's not with you.'\n\nI had a presentiment of something coming, something anxious and\nunpleasant.\n\n'Is Mary in it?' I asked.\n\nHe nodded and seemed to pull himself together for an explanation.\n\n'See here, Dick. Our main job is to get Ivery back to Allied soil where\nwe can handle him. And there's just the one magnet that can fetch him\nback. You aren't going to deny that.'\n\nI felt my face getting very red, and that ugly hammer began beating in\nmy forehead. Two grave, patient eyes met my glare.\n\n'I'm damned if I'll allow it!' I cried. 'I've some right to a say in\nthe thing. I won't have Mary made a decoy. It's too infernally\ndegrading.'\n\n'It isn't pretty, but war isn't pretty, and nothing we do is pretty.\nI'd have blushed like a rose when I was young and innocent to imagine\nthe things I've put my hand to in the last three years. But have you\nany other way, Dick? I'm not proud, and I'll scrap the plan if you can\nshow me another ... Night after night I've hammered the thing out, and\nI can't hit on a better ... Heigh-ho, Dick, this isn't like you,' and\nhe grinned ruefully. 'You're making yourself a fine argument in favour\nof celibacy--in time of war, anyhow. What is it the poet sings?--\n\n   White hands cling to the bridle rein,\n   Slipping the spur from the booted heel--'\n\nI was as angry as sin, but I felt all the time I had no case. Blenkiron\nstopped his game of Patience, sending the cards flying over the carpet,\nand straddled on the hearthrug.\n\n'You're never going to be a piker. What's dooty, if you won't carry it\nto the other side of Hell? What's the use of yapping about your country\nif you're going to keep anything back when she calls for it? What's the\ngood of meaning to win the war if you don't put every cent you've got\non your stake? You'll make me think you're like the jacks in your\nEnglish novels that chuck in their hand and say it's up to God, and\ncall that \"seeing it through\" ... No, Dick, that kind of dooty don't\ndeserve a blessing. You dursn't keep back anything if you want to save\nyour soul.\n\n'Besides,' he went on, 'what a girl it is! She can't scare and she\ncan't soil. She's white-hot youth and innocence, and she'd take no more\nharm than clean steel from a muck-heap.'\n\nI knew I was badly in the wrong, but my pride was all raw.\n\n'I'm not going to agree till I've talked to Mary.'\n\n'But Miss Mary has consented,' he said gently. 'She made the plan.'\n\n            *       *       *       *       *\n\nNext day, in clear blue weather that might have been May, I drove Mary\ndown to Fontainebleau. We lunched in the inn by the bridge and walked\ninto the forest. I hadn't slept much, for I was tortured by what I\nthought was anxiety for her, but which was in truth jealousy of Ivery.\nI don't think that I would have minded her risking her life, for that\nwas part of the game we were both in, but I jibbed at the notion of\nIvery coming near her again. I told myself it was honourable pride, but\nI knew deep down in me that it was jealousy.\n\nI asked her if she had accepted Blenkiron's plan, and she turned\nmischievous eyes on me.\n\n'I knew I should have a scene with you, Dick. I told Mr Blenkiron so\n... Of course I agreed. I'm not even very much afraid of it. I'm a\nmember of the team, you know, and I must play up to my form. I can't do\na man's work, so all the more reason why I should tackle the thing I\ncan do.'\n\n'But,' I stammered, 'it's such a ... such a degrading business for a\nchild like you. I can't bear ... It makes me hot to think of it.'\n\nHer reply was merry laughter.\n\n'You're an old Ottoman, Dick. You haven't doubled Cape Turk yet, and I\ndon't believe you're round Seraglio Point. Why, women aren't the\nbrittle things men used to think them. They never were, and the war has\nmade them like whipcord. Bless you, my dear, we're the tougher sex now.\nWe've had to wait and endure, and we've been so beaten on the anvil of\npatience that we've lost all our megrims.'\n\nShe put her hands on my shoulders and looked me in the eyes.\n\n'Look at me, Dick, look at your someday-to-be espoused saint. I'm\nnineteen years of age next August. Before the war I should have only\njust put my hair up. I should have been the kind of shivering debutante\nwho blushes when she's spoken to, and oh! I should have thought such\nsilly, silly things about life ... Well, in the last two years I've\nbeen close to it, and to death. I've nursed the dying. I've seen souls\nin agony and in triumph. England has allowed me to serve her as she\nallows her sons. Oh, I'm a robust young woman now, and indeed I think\nwomen were always robuster than men ... Dick, dear Dick, we're lovers,\nbut we're comrades too--always comrades, and comrades trust each other.'\n\nI hadn't anything to say, except contrition, for I had my lesson. I had\nbeen slipping away in my thoughts from the gravity of our task, and\nMary had brought me back to it. I remember that as we walked through\nthe woodland we came to a place where there were no signs of war.\nElsewhere there were men busy felling trees, and anti-aircraft guns,\nand an occasional transport wagon, but here there was only a shallow\ngrassy vale, and in the distance, bloomed over like a plum in the\nevening haze, the roofs of an old dwelling-house among gardens.\n\nMary clung to my arm as we drank in the peace of it.\n\n'That is what lies for us at the end of the road, Dick,' she said\nsoftly.\n\nAnd then, as she looked, I felt her body shiver. She returned to the\nstrange fancy she had had in the St Germains woods three days before.\n\n'Somewhere it's waiting for us and we shall certainly find it ... But\nfirst we must go through the Valley of the Shadow ... And there is the\nsacrifice to be made ... the best of us.'\n\n\n\nCHAPTER FIFTEEN\n\nSt Anton\n\nTen days later the porter Joseph Zimmer of Arosa, clad in the tough and\nshapeless trousers of his class, but sporting an old velveteen\nshooting-coat bequeathed to him by a former German master--speaking the\nguttural tongue of the Grisons, and with all his belongings in one\nmassive rucksack, came out of the little station of St Anton and\nblinked in the frosty sunshine. He looked down upon the little old\nvillage beside its icebound lake, but his business was with the new\nvillage of hotels and villas which had sprung up in the last ten years\nsouth of the station. He made some halting inquiries of the station\npeople, and a cab-driver outside finally directed him to the place he\nsought--the cottage of the Widow Summermatter, where resided an English\nintern, one Peter Pienaar.\n\nThe porter Joseph Zimmer had had a long and roundabout journey. A\nfortnight before he had worn the uniform of a British major-general. As\nsuch he had been the inmate of an expensive Paris hotel, till one\nmorning, in grey tweed clothes and with a limp, he had taken the\nParis-Mediterranean Express with a ticket for an officers' convalescent\nhome at Cannes. Thereafter he had declined in the social scale. At\nDijon he had been still an Englishman, but at Pontarlier he had become\nan American bagman of Swiss parentage, returning to wind up his\nfather's estate. At Berne he limped excessively, and at Zurich, at a\nlittle back-street hotel, he became frankly the peasant. For he met a\nfriend there from whom he acquired clothes with that odd rank smell,\nfar stronger than Harris tweed, which marks the raiment of most Swiss\nguides and all Swiss porters. He also acquired a new name and an old\naunt, who a little later received him with open arms and explained to\nher friends that he was her brother's son from Arosa who three winters\nago had hurt his leg wood-cutting and had been discharged from the levy.\n\nA kindly Swiss gentleman, as it chanced, had heard of the deserving\nJoseph and interested himself to find him employment. The said\nphilanthropist made a hobby of the French and British prisoners\nreturned from Germany, and had in mind an officer, a crabbed South\nAfrican with a bad leg, who needed a servant. He was, it seemed, an\nill-tempered old fellow who had to be billeted alone, and since he\ncould speak German, he would be happier with a Swiss native. Joseph\nhaggled somewhat over the wages, but on his aunt's advice he accepted\nthe job, and, with a very complete set of papers and a store of\nready-made reminiscences (it took him some time to swot up the names of\nthe peaks and passes he had traversed) set out for St Anton, having\ndispatched beforehand a monstrously ill-spelt letter announcing his\ncoming. He could barely read and write, but he was good at maps, which\nhe had studied carefully, and he noticed with satisfaction that the\nvalley of St Anton gave easy access to Italy.\n\nAs he journeyed south the reflections of that porter would have\nsurprised his fellow travellers in the stuffy third-class carriage. He\nwas thinking of a conversation he had had some days before in a cafe at\nDijon with a young Englishman bound for Modane ...\n\nWe had bumped up against each other by chance in that strange flitting\nwhen all went to different places at different times, asking nothing of\neach other's business. Wake had greeted me rather shamefacedly and had\nproposed dinner together.\n\nI am not good at receiving apologies, and Wake's embarrassed me more\nthan they embarrassed him. 'I'm a bit of a cad sometimes,' he said.\n'You know I'm a better fellow than I sounded that night, Hannay.'\n\nI mumbled something about not talking rot--the conventional phrase.\nWhat worried me was that the man was suffering. You could see it in his\neyes. But that evening I got nearer Wake than ever before, and he and I\nbecame true friends, for he laid bare his soul before me. That was his\ntrouble, that he could lay bare his soul, for ordinary healthy folk\ndon't analyse their feelings. Wake did, and I think it brought him\nrelief.\n\n'Don't think I was ever your rival. I would no more have proposed to\nMary than I would have married one of her aunts. She was so sure of\nherself, so happy in her single-heartedness that she terrified me. My\ntype of man is not meant for marriage, for women must be in the centre\nof life, and we must always be standing aside and looking on. It is a\ndamnable thing to be left-handed.'\n\n'The trouble about you, my dear chap,' I said, 'is that you're too hard\nto please.'\n\n'That's one way of putting it. I should put it more harshly. I hate\nmore than I love. All we humanitarians and pacifists have hatred as our\nmainspring. Odd, isn't it, for people who preach brotherly love? But\nit's the truth. We're full of hate towards everything that doesn't\nsquare in with our ideas, everything that jars on our lady-like nerves.\nFellows like you are so in love with their cause that they've no time\nor inclination to detest what thwarts them. We've no cause--only\nnegatives, and that means hatred, and self-torture, and a beastly\njaundice of soul.'\n\nThen I knew that Wake's fault was not spiritual pride, as I had\ndiagnosed it at Biggleswick. The man was abased with humility.\n\n'I see more than other people see,' he went on, 'and I feel more.\nThat's the curse on me. You're a happy man and you get things done,\nbecause you only see one side of a case, one thing at a time. How would\nyou like it if a thousand strings were always tugging at you, if you\nsaw that every course meant the sacrifice of lovely and desirable\nthings, or even the shattering of what you know to be unreplaceable?\nI'm the kind of stuff poets are made of, but I haven't the poet's gift,\nso I stagger about the world left-handed and game-legged ... Take the\nwar. For me to fight would be worse than for another man to run away.\nFrom the bottom of my heart I believe that it needn't have happened,\nand that all war is a blistering iniquity. And yet belief has got very\nlittle to do with virtue. I'm not as good a man as you, Hannay, who\nhave never thought out anything in your life. My time in the Labour\nbattalion taught me something. I knew that with all my fine aspirations\nI wasn't as true a man as fellows whose talk was silly oaths and who\ndidn't care a tinker's curse about their soul.'\n\nI remember that I looked at him with a sudden understanding. 'I think I\nknow you. You're the sort of chap who won't fight for his country\nbecause he can't be sure that she's altogether in the right. But he'd\ncheerfully die for her, right or wrong.'\n\nHis face relaxed in a slow smile. 'Queer that you should say that. I\nthink it's pretty near the truth. Men like me aren't afraid to die, but\nthey haven't quite the courage to live. Every man should be happy in a\nservice like you, when he obeys orders. I couldn't get on in any\nservice. I lack the bump of veneration. I can't swallow things merely\nbecause I'm told to. My sort are always talking about \"service\", but we\nhaven't the temperament to serve. I'd give all I have to be an ordinary\ncog in the wheel, instead of a confounded outsider who finds fault with\nthe machinery ... Take a great violent high-handed fellow like you. You\ncan sink yourself till you become only a name and a number. I couldn't\nif I tried. I'm not sure if I want to either. I cling to the odds and\nends that are my own.'\n\n'I wish I had had you in my battalion a year ago,' I said.\n\n'No, you don't. I'd only have been a nuisance. I've been a Fabian since\nOxford, but you're a better socialist than me. I'm a rancid\nindividualist.'\n\n'But you must be feeling better about the war?' I asked.\n\n'Not a bit of it. I'm still lusting for the heads of the politicians\nthat made it and continue it. But I want to help my country. Honestly,\nHannay, I love the old place. More, I think, than I love myself, and\nthat's saying a devilish lot. Short of fighting--which would be the sin\nagainst the Holy Spirit for me--I'll do my damnedest. But you'll\nremember I'm not used to team work. If I'm a jealous player, beat me\nover the head.'\n\nHis voice was almost wistful, and I liked him enormously.\n\n'Blenkiron will see to that,' I said. 'We're going to break you to\nharness, Wake, and then you'll be a happy man. You keep your mind on\nthe game and forget about yourself. That's the cure for jibbers.'\n\nAs I journeyed to St Anton I thought a lot about that talk. He was\nquite right about Mary, who would never have married him. A man with\nsuch an angular soul couldn't fit into another's. And then I thought\nthat the chief thing about Mary was just her serene certainty. Her eyes\nhad that settled happy look that I remembered to have seen only in one\nother human face, and that was Peter's ... But I wondered if Peter's\neyes were still the same.\n\nI found the cottage, a little wooden thing which had been left perched\non its knoll when the big hotels grew around it. It had a fence in\nfront, but behind it was open to the hillside. At the gate stood a bent\nold woman with a face like a pippin. My make-up must have been good,\nfor she accepted me before I introduced myself.\n\n'God be thanked you are come,' she cried. 'The poor lieutenant needed a\nman to keep him company. He sleeps now, as he does always in the\nafternoon, for his leg wearies him in the night ... But he is brave,\nlike a soldier ... Come, I will show you the house, for you two will be\nalone now.'\n\nStepping softly she led me indoors, pointing with a warning finger to\nthe little bedroom where Peter slept. I found a kitchen with a big\nstove and a rough floor of planking, on which lay some badly cured\nskins. Off it was a sort of pantry with a bed for me. She showed me the\npots and pans for cooking and the stores she had laid in, and where to\nfind water and fuel. 'I will do the marketing daily,' she said, 'and if\nyou need me, my dwelling is half a mile up the road beyond the new\nchurch. God be with you, young man, and be kind to that wounded one.'\n\nWhen the Widow Summermatter had departed I sat down in Peter's\narm-chair and took stock of the place. It was quiet and simple and\nhomely, and through the window came the gleam of snow on the diamond\nhills. On the table beside the stove were Peter's cherished\nbelongings--his buck-skin pouch and the pipe which Jannie Grobelaar had\ncarved for him in St Helena, an aluminium field match-box I had given\nhim, a cheap large-print Bible such as padres present to well-disposed\nprivates, and an old battered _Pilgrim's Progress_ with gaudy pictures.\nThe illustration at which I opened showed Faithful going up to Heaven\nfrom the fire of Vanity Fair like a woodcock that has just been\nflushed. Everything in the room was exquisitely neat, and I knew that\nthat was Peter and not the Widow Summermatter. On a peg behind the door\nhung his much-mended coat, and sticking out of a pocket I recognized a\nsheaf of my own letters. In one corner stood something which I had\nforgotten about--an invalid chair.\n\nThe sight of Peter's plain little oddments made me feel solemn. I\nwondered if his eyes would be like Mary's now, for I could not conceive\nwhat life would be for him as a cripple. Very silently I opened the\nbedroom door and slipped inside.\n\nHe was lying on a camp bedstead with one of those striped Swiss\nblankets pulled up round his ears, and he was asleep. It was the old\nPeter beyond doubt. He had the hunter's gift of breathing evenly\nthrough his nose, and the white scar on the deep brown of his forehead\nwas what I had always remembered. The only change since I last saw him\nwas that he had let his beard grow again, and it was grey.\n\nAs I looked at him the remembrance of all we had been through together\nflooded back upon me, and I could have cried with joy at being beside\nhim. Women, bless their hearts! can never know what long comradeship\nmeans to men; it is something not in their lives--something that\nbelongs only to that wild, undomesticated world which we forswear when\nwe find our mates. Even Mary understood only a bit of it. I had just\nwon her love, which was the greatest thing that ever came my way, but\nif she had entered at that moment I would scarcely have turned my head.\nI was back again in the old life and was not thinking of the new.\n\nSuddenly I saw that Peter was awake and was looking at me.\n\n'Dick,' he said in a whisper, 'Dick, my old friend.'\n\nThe blanket was tossed off, and his long, lean arms were stretched out\nto me. I gripped his hands, and for a little we did not speak. Then I\nsaw how woefully he had changed. His left leg had shrunk, and from the\nknee down was like a pipe stem. His face, when awake, showed the lines\nof hard suffering and he seemed shorter by half a foot. But his eyes\nwere still like Mary's. Indeed they seemed to be more patient and\npeaceful than in the days when he sat beside me on the buck-waggon and\npeered over the hunting-veld.\n\nI picked him up--he was no heavier than Mary--and carried him to his\nchair beside the stove. Then I boiled water and made tea, as we had so\noften done together.\n\n'Peter, old man,' I said, 'we're on trek again, and this is a very snug\nlittle _rondavel_. We've had many good yarns, but this is going to be\nthe best. First of all, how about your health?'\n\n'Good, I'm a strong man again, but slow like a hippo cow. I have been\nlonely sometimes, but that is all by now. Tell me of the big battles.'\n\nBut I was hungry for news of him and kept him to his own case. He had\nno complaint of his treatment except that he did not like Germans. The\ndoctors at the hospital had been clever, he said, and had done their\nbest for him, but nerves and sinews and small bones had been so wrecked\nthat they could not mend his leg, and Peter had all the Boer's dislike\nof amputation. One doctor had been in Damaraland and talked to him of\nthose baked sunny places and made him homesick. But he returned always\nto his dislike of Germans. He had seen them herding our soldiers like\nbrute beasts, and the commandant had a face like Stumm and a chin that\nstuck out and wanted hitting. He made an exception for the great airman\nLensch, who had downed him.\n\n'He is a white man, that one,' he said. 'He came to see me in hospital\nand told me a lot of things. I think he made them treat me well. He is\na big man, Dick, who would make two of me, and he has a round, merry\nface and pale eyes like Frickie Celliers who could put a bullet through\na pauw's head at two hundred yards. He said he was sorry I was lame,\nfor he hoped to have more fights with me. Some woman that tells\nfortunes had said that I would be the end of him, but he reckoned she\nhad got the thing the wrong way on. I hope he will come through this\nwar, for he is a good man, though a German ... But the others! They are\nlike the fool in the Bible, fat and ugly in good fortune and proud and\nvicious when their luck goes. They are not a people to be happy with.'\n\nThen he told me that to keep up his spirits he had amused himself with\nplaying a game. He had prided himself on being a Boer, and spoken\ncoldly of the British. He had also, I gathered, imparted many things\ncalculated to deceive. So he left Germany with good marks, and in\nSwitzerland had held himself aloof from the other British wounded, on\nthe advice of Blenkiron, who had met him as soon as he crossed the\nfrontier. I gathered it was Blenkiron who had had him sent to St Anton,\nand in his time there, as a disgruntled Boer, he had mixed a good deal\nwith Germans. They had pumped him about our air service, and Peter had\ntold them many ingenious lies and heard curious things in return.\n\n'They are working hard, Dick,' he said. 'Never forget that. The German\nis a stout enemy, and when we beat him with a machine he sweats till he\nhas invented a new one. They have great pilots, but never so many good\nones as we, and I do not think in ordinary fighting they can ever beat\nus. But you must watch Lensch, for I fear him. He has a new machine, I\nhear, with great engines and a short wingspread, but the wings so\ncambered that he can climb fast. That will be a surprise to spring upon\nus. You will say that we'll soon better it. So we shall, but if it was\nused at a time when we were pushing hard it might make the little\ndifference that loses battles.'\n\n'You mean,' I said, 'that if we had a great attack ready and had driven\nall the Boche planes back from our front, Lensch and his circus might\nget over in spite of us and blow the gaff?'\n\n'Yes,' he said solemnly. 'Or if we were attacked, and had a weak spot,\nLensch might show the Germans where to get through. I do not think we\nare going to attack for a long time; but I am pretty sure that Germany\nis going to fling every man against us. That is the talk of my friends,\nand it is not bluff.'\n\n            *       *       *       *       *\n\nThat night I cooked our modest dinner, and we smoked our pipes with the\nstove door open and the good smell of woodsmoke in our nostrils. I told\nhim of all my doings and of the Wild Birds and Ivery and the job we\nwere engaged on. Blenkiron's instructions were that we two should live\nhumbly and keep our eyes and ears open, for we were outside\nsuspicion--the cantankerous lame Boer and his loutish servant from\nArosa. Somewhere in the place was a rendezvous of our enemies, and\nthither came Chelius on his dark errands.\n\nPeter nodded his head sagely, 'I think I have guessed the place. The\ndaughter of the old woman used to pull my chair sometimes down to the\nvillage, and I have sat in cheap inns and talked to servants. There is\na fresh-water pan there, it is all covered with snow now, and beside it\nthere is a big house that they call the Pink Chalet. I do not know much\nabout it, except that rich folk live in it, for I know the other houses\nand they are harmless. Also the big hotels, which are too cold and\npublic for strangers to meet in.'\n\nI put Peter to bed, and it was a joy to me to look after him, to give\nhim his tonic and prepare the hot water bottle that comforted his\nneuralgia. His behaviour was like a docile child's, and he never lapsed\nfrom his sunny temper, though I could see how his leg gave him hell.\nThey had tried massage for it and given it up, and there was nothing\nfor him but to endure till nature and his tough constitution deadened\nthe tortured nerves again. I shifted my bed out of the pantry and slept\nin the room with him, and when I woke in the night, as one does the\nfirst time in a strange place, I could tell by his breathing that he\nwas wakeful and suffering.\n\nNext day a bath chair containing a grizzled cripple and pushed by a\nlimping peasant might have been seen descending the long hill to the\nvillage. It was clear frosty weather which makes the cheeks tingle, and\nI felt so full of beans that it was hard to remember my game leg. The\nvalley was shut in on the east by a great mass of rocks and glaciers,\nbelonging to a mountain whose top could not be seen. But on the south,\nabove the snowy fir-woods, there was a most delicate lace-like peak\nwith a point like a needle. I looked at it with interest, for beyond it\nlay the valley which led to the Staub pass, and beyond that was\nItaly--and Mary.\n\nThe old village of St Anton had one long, narrow street which bent at\nright angles to a bridge which spanned the river flowing from the lake.\nThence the road climbed steeply, but at the other end of the street it\nran on the level by the water's edge, lined with gimcrack\nboarding-houses, now shuttered to the world, and a few villas in\npatches of garden. At the far end, just before it plunged into a\npine-wood, a promontory jutted into the lake, leaving a broad space\nbetween the road and the water. Here were the grounds of a more\nconsiderable dwelling--snow-covered laurels and rhododendrons with one\nor two bigger trees--and just on the water-edge stood the house itself,\ncalled the Pink Chalet.\n\nI wheeled Peter past the entrance on the crackling snow of the highway.\nSeen through the gaps of the trees the front looked new, but the back\npart seemed to be of some age, for I could see high walls, broken by\nfew windows, hanging over the water. The place was no more a chalet\nthan a donjon, but I suppose the name was given in honour of a wooden\ngallery above the front door. The whole thing was washed in an ugly\npink. There were outhouses--garage or stables among the trees--and at\nthe entrance there were fairly recent tracks of an automobile.\n\nOn our way back we had some very bad beer in a cafe and made friends\nwith the woman who kept it. Peter had to tell her his story, and I\ntrotted out my aunt in Zurich, and in the end we heard her grievances.\nShe was a true Swiss, angry at all the belligerents who had spoiled her\nlivelihood, hating Germany most but also fearing her most. Coffee, tea,\nfuel, bread, even milk and cheese were hard to get and cost a ransom.\nIt would take the land years to recover, and there would be no more\ntourists, for there was little money left in the world. I dropped a\nquestion about the Pink Chalet, and was told that it belonged to one\nSchweigler, a professor of Berne, an old man who came sometimes for a\nfew days in the summer. It was often let, but not now. Asked if it was\noccupied, she remarked that some friends of the Schweiglers--rich\npeople from Basle--had been there for the winter. 'They come and go in\ngreat cars,' she said bitterly, 'and they bring their food from the\ncities. They spend no money in this poor place.'\n\n            *       *       *       *       *\n\nPresently Peter and I fell into a routine of life, as if we had always\nkept house together. In the morning he went abroad in his chair, in the\nafternoon I would hobble about on my own errands. We sank into the\nbackground and took its colour, and a less conspicuous pair never faced\nthe eye of suspicion. Once a week a young Swiss officer, whose business\nit was to look after British wounded, paid us a hurried visit. I used\nto get letters from my aunt in Zurich, Sometimes with the postmark of\nArosa, and now and then these letters would contain curiously worded\nadvice or instructions from him whom my aunt called 'the kind patron'.\nGenerally I was told to be patient. Sometimes I had word about the\nhealth of 'my little cousin across the mountains'. Once I was bidden\nexpect a friend of the patron's, the wise doctor of whom he had often\nspoken, but though after that I shadowed the Pink Chalet for two days\nno doctor appeared.\n\nMy investigations were a barren business. I used to go down to the\nvillage in the afternoon and sit in an out-of-the-way cafe, talking\nslow German with peasants and hotel porters, but there was little to\nlearn. I knew all there was to hear about the Pink Chalet, and that was\nnothing. A young man who ski-ed stayed for three nights and spent his\ndays on the alps above the fir-woods. A party of four, including two\nwomen, was reported to have been there for a night--all ramifications\nof the rich family of Basle. I studied the house from the lake, which\nshould have been nicely swept into ice-rinks, but from lack of visitors\nwas a heap of blown snow. The high old walls of the back part were\nbuilt straight from the water's edge. I remember I tried a short cut\nthrough the grounds to the high-road and was given 'Good afternoon' by\na smiling German manservant. One way and another I gathered there were\na good many serving-men about the place--too many for the infrequent\nguests. But beyond this I discovered nothing.\n\nNot that I was bored, for I had always Peter to turn to. He was\nthinking a lot about South Africa, and the thing he liked best was to\ngo over with me every detail of our old expeditions. They belonged to a\nlife which he could think about without pain, whereas the war was too\nnear and bitter for him. He liked to hobble out-of-doors after the\ndarkness came and look at his old friends, the stars. He called them by\nthe words they use on the veld, and the first star of morning he called\nthe _voorlooper_--the little boy who inspans the oxen--a name I had not\nheard for twenty years. Many a great yarn we spun in the long evenings,\nbut I always went to bed with a sore heart. The longing in his eyes was\ntoo urgent, longing not for old days or far countries, but for the\nhealth and strength which had once been his pride.\n\nOne night I told him about Mary.\n\n'She will be a happy _mysie_,' he said, 'but you will need to be very\nclever with her, for women are queer cattle and you and I don't know\ntheir ways. They tell me English women do not cook and make clothes\nlike our vrouws, so what will she find to do? I doubt an idle woman\nwill be like a mealie-fed horse.'\n\nIt was no good explaining to him the kind of girl Mary was, for that\nwas a world entirely beyond his ken. But I could see that he felt\nlonelier than ever at my news. So I told him of the house I meant to\nhave in England when the war was over--an old house in a green hilly\ncountry, with fields that would carry four head of cattle to the Morgan\nand furrows of clear water, and orchards of plums and apples. 'And you\nwill stay with us all the time,' I said. 'You will have your own rooms\nand your own boy to look after you, and you will help me to farm, and\nwe will catch fish together, and shoot the wild ducks when they come up\nfrom the pans in the evening. I have found a better countryside than\nthe Houtbosch, where you and I planned to have a farm. It is a blessed\nand happy place, England.'\n\nHe shook his head. 'You are a kind man, Dick, but your pretty _mysie_\nwon't want an ugly old fellow like me hobbling about her house ... I do\nnot think I will go back to Africa, for I should be sad there in the\nsun. I will find a little place in England, and some day I will visit\nyou, old friend.'\n\nThat night his stoicism seemed for the first time to fail him. He was\nsilent for a long time and went early to bed, where I can vouch for it\nhe did not sleep. But he must have thought a lot in the night time, for\nin the morning he had got himself in hand and was as cheerful as a\nsandboy.\n\nI watched his philosophy with amazement. It was far beyond anything I\ncould have compassed myself. He was so frail and so poor, for he had\nnever had anything in the world but his bodily fitness, and he had lost\nthat now. And remember, he had lost it after some months of glittering\nhappiness, for in the air he had found the element for which he had\nbeen born. Sometimes he dropped a hint of those days when he lived in\nthe clouds and invented a new kind of battle, and his voice always grew\nhoarse. I could see that he ached with longing for their return. And\nyet he never had a word of complaint. That was the ritual he had set\nhimself, his point of honour, and he faced the future with the same\nkind of courage as that with which he had tackled a wild beast or\nLensch himself. Only it needed a far bigger brand of fortitude.\n\nAnother thing was that he had found religion. I doubt if that is the\nright way to put it, for he had always had it. Men who live in the\nwilds know they are in the hands of God. But his old kind had been a\ntattered thing, more like heathen superstition, though it had always\nkept him humble. But now he had taken to reading the Bible and to\nthinking in his lonely nights, and he had got a creed of his own. I\ndare say it was crude enough, I am sure it was unorthodox; but if the\nproof of religion is that it gives a man a prop in bad days, then\nPeter's was the real thing. He used to ferret about in the Bible and\nthe _Pilgrim's Progress_--they were both equally inspired in his\neyes--and find texts which he interpreted in his own way to meet his\ncase. He took everything quite literally. What happened three thousand\nyears ago in Palestine might, for all he minded, have been going on\nnext door. I used to chaff him and tell him that he was like the\nKaiser, very good at fitting the Bible to his purpose, but his\nsincerity was so complete that he only smiled. I remember one night,\nwhen he had been thinking about his flying days, he found a passage in\nThessalonians about the dead rising to meet their Lord in the air, and\nthat cheered him a lot. Peter, I could see, had the notion that his\ntime here wouldn't be very long, and he liked to think that when he got\nhis release he would find once more the old rapture.\n\nOnce, when I said something about his patience, he said he had got to\ntry to live up to Mr Standfast. He had fixed on that character to\nfollow, though he would have preferred Mr Valiant-for-Truth if he had\nthought himself good enough. He used to talk about Mr Standfast in his\nqueer way as if he were a friend of us both, like Blenkiron ... I tell\nyou I was humbled out of all my pride by the sight of Peter, so\nuncomplaining and gentle and wise. The Almighty Himself couldn't have\nmade a prig out of him, and he never would have thought of preaching.\nOnly once did he give me advice. I had always a liking for short cuts,\nand I was getting a bit restive under the long inaction. One day when I\nexpressed my feelings on the matter, Peter upped and read from the\n_Pilgrim's Progress_: 'Some also have wished that the next way to their\nFather's house were here, that they might be troubled no more with\neither hills or mountains to go over, but the Way is the Way, and there\nis an end.'\n\nAll the same when we got into March and nothing happened I grew pretty\nanxious. Blenkiron had said we were fighting against time, and here\nwere the weeks slipping away. His letters came occasionally, always in\nthe shape of communications from my aunt. One told me that I would soon\nbe out of a job, for Peter's repatriation was just about through, and\nhe might get his movement order any day. Another spoke of my little\ncousin over the hills, and said that she hoped soon to be going to a\nplace called Santa Chiara in the Val Saluzzana. I got out the map in a\nhurry and measured the distance from there to St Anton and pored over\nthe two roads thither--the short one by the Staub Pass and the long one\nby the Marjolana. These letters made me think that things were nearing\na climax, but still no instructions came. I had nothing to report in my\nown messages, I had discovered nothing in the Pink Chalet but idle\nservants, I was not even sure if the Pink Chalet were not a harmless\nvilla, and I hadn't come within a thousand miles of finding Chelius.\nAll my desire to imitate Peter's stoicism didn't prevent me from\ngetting occasionally rattled and despondent.\n\nThe one thing I could do was to keep fit, for I had a notion I might\nsoon want all my bodily strength. I had to keep up my pretence of\nlameness in the daytime, so I used to take my exercise at night. I\nwould sleep in the afternoon, when Peter had his siesta, and then about\nten in the evening, after putting him to bed, I would slip out-of-doors\nand go for a four or five hours' tramp. Wonderful were those midnight\nwanderings. I pushed up through the snow-laden pines to the ridges\nwhere the snow lay in great wreaths and scallops, till I stood on a\ncrest with a frozen world at my feet and above me a host of glittering\nstars. Once on a night of full moon I reached the glacier at the valley\nhead, scrambled up the moraine to where the ice began, and peered\nfearfully into the spectral crevasses. At such hours I had the earth to\nmyself, for there was not a sound except the slipping of a burden of\nsnow from the trees or the crack and rustle which reminded me that a\nglacier was a moving river. The war seemed very far away, and I felt\nthe littleness of our human struggles, till I thought of Peter turning\nfrom side to side to find ease in the cottage far below me. Then I\nrealized that the spirit of man was the greatest thing in this spacious\nworld ... I would get back about three or four, have a bath in the\nwater which had been warming in my absence, and creep into bed, almost\nashamed of having two sound legs, when a better man a yard away had but\none.\n\nOddly enough at these hours there seemed more life in the Pink Chalet\nthan by day. Once, tramping across the lake long after midnight, I saw\nlights in the lake-front in windows which for ordinary were blank and\nshuttered. Several times I cut across the grounds, when the moon was\ndark. On one such occasion a great car with no lights swept up the\ndrive, and I heard low voices at the door. Another time a man ran\nhastily past me, and entered the house by a little door on the eastern\nside, which I had not before noticed ... Slowly the conviction began to\ngrow on me that we were not wrong in marking down this place, that\nthings went on within it which it deeply concerned us to discover. But\nI was puzzled to think of a way. I might butt inside, but for all I\nknew it would be upsetting Blenkiron's plans, for he had given me no\ninstructions about housebreaking. All this unsettled me worse than\never. I began to lie awake planning some means of entrance ... I would\nbe a peasant from the next valley who had twisted his ankle ... I would\ngo seeking an imaginary cousin among the servants ... I would start a\nfire in the place and have the doors flung open to zealous neighbours...\n\nAnd then suddenly I got instructions in a letter from Blenkiron.\n\nIt came inside a parcel of warm socks that arrived from my kind aunt.\nBut the letter for me was not from her. It was in Blenkiron's large\nsprawling hand and the style of it was all his own. He told me that he\nhad about finished his job. He had got his line on Chelius, who was the\nbird he expected, and that bird would soon wing its way southward\nacross the mountains for the reason I knew of.\n\n'We've got an almighty move on,' he wrote, 'and please God you're going\nto hustle some in the next week. It's going better than I ever hoped.'\nBut something was still to be done. He had struck a countryman, one\nClarence Donne, a journalist of Kansas City, whom he had taken into the\nbusiness. Him he described as a 'crackerjack' and commended to my\nesteem. He was coming to St Anton, for there was a game afoot at the\nPink Chalet, which he would give me news of. I was to meet him next\nevening at nine-fifteen at the little door in the east end of the\nhouse. 'For the love of Mike, Dick,' he concluded, 'be on time and do\neverything Clarence tells you as if he was me. It's a mighty complex\naffair, but you and he have sand enough to pull through. Don't worry\nabout your little cousin. She's safe and out of the job now.'\n\nMy first feeling was one of immense relief, especially at the last\nwords. I read the letter a dozen times to make sure I had its meaning.\nA flash of suspicion crossed my mind that it might be a fake,\nprincipally because there was no mention of Peter, who had figured\nlarge in the other missives. But why should Peter be mentioned when he\nwasn't on in this piece? The signature convinced me. Ordinarily\nBlenkiron signed himself in full with a fine commercial flourish. But\nwhen I was at the Front he had got into the habit of making a kind of\nhieroglyphic of his surname to me and sticking J.S. after it in a\nbracket. That was how this letter was signed, and it was sure proof it\nwas all right.\n\nI spent that day and the next in wild spirits. Peter spotted what was\non, though I did not tell him for fear of making him envious. I had to\nbe extra kind to him, for I could see that he ached to have a hand in\nthe business. Indeed he asked shyly if I couldn't fit him in, and I had\nto lie about it and say it was only another of my aimless\ncircumnavigations of the Pink Chalet.\n\n'Try and find something where I can help,' he pleaded. 'I'm pretty\nstrong still, though I'm lame, and I can shoot a bit.'\n\nI declared that he would be used in time, that Blenkiron had promised\nhe would be used, but for the life of me I couldn't see how.\n\nAt nine o'clock on the evening appointed I was on the lake opposite the\nhouse, close in under the shore, making my way to the rendezvous. It\nwas a coal-black night, for though the air was clear the stars were\nshining with little light, and the moon had not yet risen. With a\npremonition that I might be long away from food, I had brought some\nslabs of chocolate, and my pistol and torch were in my pocket. It was\nbitter cold, but I had ceased to mind weather, and I wore my one suit\nand no overcoat.\n\nThe house was like a tomb for silence. There was no crack of light\nanywhere, and none of those smells of smoke and food which proclaim\nhabitation. It was an eerie job scrambling up the steep bank east of\nthe place, to where the flat of the garden started, in a darkness so\ngreat that I had to grope my way like a blind man.\n\nI found the little door by feeling along the edge of the building. Then\nI stepped into an adjacent clump of laurels to wait on my companion. He\nwas there before me.\n\n'Say,' I heard a rich Middle West voice whisper, 'are you Joseph\nZimmer? I'm not shouting any names, but I guess you are the guy I was\ntold to meet here.'\n\n'Mr Donne?' I whispered back.\n\n'The same,' he replied. 'Shake.'\n\nI gripped a gloved and mittened hand which drew me towards the door.\n\n\n\nCHAPTER SIXTEEN\n\nI Lie on a Hard Bed\n\nThe journalist from Kansas City was a man of action. He wasted no words\nin introducing himself or unfolding his plan of campaign. 'You've got\nto follow me, mister, and not deviate one inch from my tracks. The\nexplaining part will come later. There's big business in this shack\ntonight.' He unlocked the little door with scarcely a sound, slid the\ncrust of snow from his boots, and preceded me into a passage as black\nas a cellar. The door swung smoothly behind us, and after the sharp\nout-of-doors the air smelt stuffy as the inside of a safe.\n\nA hand reached back to make sure that I followed. We appeared to be in\na flagged passage under the main level of the house. My hobnailed boots\nslipped on the floor, and I steadied myself on the wall, which seemed\nto be of undressed stone. Mr Donne moved softly and assuredly, for he\nwas better shod for the job than me, and his guiding hand came back\nconstantly to make sure of my whereabouts.\n\nI remember that I felt just as I had felt when on that August night I\nhad explored the crevice of the Coolin--the same sense that something\nqueer was going to happen, the same recklessness and contentment.\nMoving a foot at a time with immense care, we came to a right-hand\nturning. Two shallow steps led us to another passage, and then my\ngroping hands struck a blind wall. The American was beside me, and his\nmouth was close to my ear.\n\n'Got to crawl now,' he whispered. 'You lead, mister, while I shed this\ncoat of mine. Eight feet on your stomach and then upright.'\n\nI wriggled through a low tunnel, broad enough to take three men\nabreast, but not two feet high. Half-way through I felt suffocated, for\nI never liked holes, and I had a momentary anxiety as to what we were\nafter in this cellar pilgrimage. Presently I smelt free air and got on\nto my knees.\n\n'Right, mister?' came a whisper from behind. My companion seemed to be\nwaiting till I was through before he followed.\n\n'Right,' I answered, and very carefully rose to my feet.\n\nThen something happened behind me. There was a jar and a bump as if the\nroof of the tunnel had subsided. I turned sharply and groped at the\nmouth. I stuck my leg down and found a block.\n\n'Donne,' I said, as loud as I dared, 'are you hurt? Where are you?'\n\nBut no answer came.\n\nEven then I thought only of an accident. Something had miscarried, and\nI was cut off in the cellars of an unfriendly house away from the man\nwho knew the road and had a plan in his head. I was not so much\nfrightened as exasperated. I turned from the tunnel-mouth and groped\ninto the darkness before me. I might as well prospect the kind of\nprison into which I had blundered.\n\nI took three steps--no more. My feet seemed suddenly to go from me and\nfly upward. So sudden was it that I fell heavy and dead like a log, and\nmy head struck the floor with a crash that for a moment knocked me\nsenseless. I was conscious of something falling on me and of an\nintolerable pressure on my chest. I struggled for breath, and found my\narms and legs pinned and my whole body in a kind of wooden vice. I was\nsick with concussion, and could do nothing but gasp and choke down my\nnausea. The cut in the back of my head was bleeding freely and that\nhelped to clear my wits, but I lay for a minute or two incapable of\nthought. I shut my eyes tight, as a man does when he is fighting with a\nswoon.\n\nWhen I opened them there was light. It came from the left side of the\nroom, the broad glare of a strong electric torch. I watched it\nstupidly, but it gave me the fillip needed to pick up the threads. I\nremembered the tunnel now and the Kansas journalist. Then behind the\nlight I saw a face which pulled my flickering senses out of the mire.\n\nI saw the heavy ulster and the cap, which I had realized, though I had\nnot seen, outside in the dark laurels. They belonged to the journalist,\nClarence Donne, the trusted emissary of Blenkiron. But I saw his face\nnow, and it was that face which I had boasted to Bullivant I could\nnever mistake again upon earth. I did not mistake it now, and I\nremember I had a faint satisfaction that I had made good my word. I had\nnot mistaken it, for I had not had the chance to look at it till this\nmoment. I saw with acid clearness the common denominator of all its\ndisguises--the young man who lisped in the seaside villa, the stout\nphilanthropist of Biggleswick, the pulpy panic-stricken creature of the\nTube station, the trim French staff officer of the Picardy chateau ...\nI saw more, for I saw it beyond the need of disguise. I was looking at\nvon Schwabing, the exile, who had done more for Germany than any army\ncommander ... Mary's words came back to me--'the most dangerous man in\nthe world' ... I was not afraid, or broken-hearted at failure, or\nangry--not yet, for I was too dazed and awestruck. I looked at him as\none might look at some cataclysm of nature which had destroyed a\ncontinent.\n\nThe face was smiling.\n\n'I am happy to offer you hospitality at last,' it said.\n\nI pulled my wits farther out of the mud to attend to him. The cross-bar\non my chest pressed less hard and I breathed better. But when I tried\nto speak, the words would not come.\n\n'We are old friends,' he went on. 'We have known each other quite\nintimately for four years, which is a long time in war. I have been\ninterested in you, for you have a kind of crude intelligence, and you\nhave compelled me to take you seriously. If you were cleverer you would\nappreciate the compliment. But you were fool enough to think you could\nbeat me, and for that you must be punished. Oh no, don't flatter\nyourself you were ever dangerous. You were only troublesome and\npresumptuous like a mosquito one flicks off one's sleeve.'\n\nHe was leaning against the side of a heavy closed door. He lit a cigar\nfrom a little gold tinder box and regarded me with amused eyes.\n\n'You will have time for reflection, so I propose to enlighten you a\nlittle. You are an observer of little things. So? Did you ever see a\ncat with a mouse? The mouse runs about and hides and manoeuvres and\nthinks it is playing its own game. But at any moment the cat can\nstretch out its paw and put an end to it. You are the mouse, my poor\nGeneral--for I believe you are one of those funny amateurs that the\nEnglish call Generals. At any moment during the last nine months I\ncould have put an end to you with a nod.'\n\nMy nausea had stopped and I could understand what he said, though I had\nstill no power to reply.\n\n'Let me explain,' he went on. 'I watched with amusement your gambols at\nBiggleswick. My eyes followed you when you went to the Clyde and in\nyour stupid twistings in Scotland. I gave you rope, because you were\nfutile, and I had graver things to attend to. I allowed you to amuse\nyourself at your British Front with childish investigations and to play\nthe fool in Paris. I have followed every step of your course in\nSwitzerland, and I have helped your idiotic Yankee friend to plot\nagainst myself. While you thought you were drawing your net around me,\nI was drawing mine around you. I assure you, it has been a charming\nrelaxation from serious business.'\n\nI knew the man was lying. Some part was true, for he had clearly fooled\nBlenkiron; but I remembered the hurried flight from Biggleswick and\nEaucourt Sainte-Anne when the game was certainly against him. He had me\nat his mercy, and was wreaking his vanity on me. That made him smaller\nin my eyes, and my first awe began to pass.\n\n'I never cherish rancour, you know,' he said. 'In my business it is\nsilly to be angry, for it wastes energy. But I do not tolerate\ninsolence, my dear General. And my country has the habit of doing\njustice on her enemies. It may interest you to know that the end is not\nfar off. Germany has faced a jealous world in arms and she is about to\nbe justified of her great courage. She has broken up bit by bit the\nclumsy organization of her opponents. Where is Russia today, the\nsteam-roller that was to crush us? Where is the poor dupe Rumania?\nWhere is the strength of Italy, who was once to do wonders for what she\ncalled Liberty? Broken, all of them. I have played my part in that work\nand now the need is past. My country with free hands is about to turn\nupon your armed rabble in the West and drive it into the Atlantic. Then\nwe shall deal with the ragged remains of France and the handful of\nnoisy Americans. By midsummer there will be peace dictated by\ntriumphant Germany.'\n\n'By God, there won't!' I had found my voice at last.\n\n'By God, there will,' he said pleasantly. 'It is what you call a\nmathematical certainty. You will no doubt die bravely, like the savage\ntribes that your Empire used to conquer. But we have the greater\ndiscipline and the stronger spirit and the bigger brain. Stupidity is\nalways punished in the end, and you are a stupid race. Do not think\nthat your kinsmen across the Atlantic will save you. They are a\ncommercial people and by no means sure of themselves. When they have\nblustered a little they will see reason and find some means of saving\ntheir faces. Their comic President will make a speech or two and write\nus a solemn note, and we will reply with the serious rhetoric which he\nloves, and then we shall kiss and be friends. You know in your heart\nthat it will be so.'\n\nA great apathy seemed to settle on me. This bragging did not make me\nangry, and I had no longer any wish to contradict him. It may have been\nthe result of the fall, but my mind had stopped working. I heard his\nvoice as one listens casually to the ticking of a clock.\n\n'I will tell you more,' he was saying. 'This is the evening of the 18th\nday of March. Your generals in France expect an attack, but they are\nnot sure where it will come. Some think it may be in Champagne or on\nthe Aisne, some at Ypres, some at St Quentin. Well, my dear General,\nyou alone will I take into our confidence. On the morning of the 21st,\nthree days from now, we attack the right wing of the British Army. In\ntwo days we shall be in Amiens. On the third we shall have driven a\nwedge as far as the sea. Then in a week or so we shall have rolled up\nyour army from the right, and presently we shall be in Boulogne and\nCalais. After that Paris falls, and then Peace.'\n\nI made no answer. The word 'Amiens' recalled Mary, and I was trying to\nremember the day in January when she and I had motored south from that\npleasant city.\n\n'Why do I tell you these things? Your intelligence, for you are not\naltogether foolish, will have supplied the answer. It is because your\nlife is over. As your Shakespeare says, the rest is silence ... No, I\nam not going to kill you. That would be crude, and I hate crudities. I\nam going now on a little journey, and when I return in twenty-four\nhours' time you will be my companion. You are going to visit Germany,\nmy dear General.'\n\nThat woke me to attention, and he noticed it, for he went on with gusto.\n\n'You have heard of the _Untergrundbahn_? No? And you boast of an\nIntelligence service! Yet your ignorance is shared by the whole of your\nGeneral Staff. It is a little organization of my own. By it we can take\nunwilling and dangerous people inside our frontier to be dealt with as\nwe please. Some have gone from England and many from France. Officially\nI believe they are recorded as \"missing\", but they did not go astray on\nany battle-field. They have been gathered from their homes or from\nhotels or offices or even the busy streets. I will not conceal from you\nthat the service of our Underground Railway is a little irregular from\nEngland and France. But from Switzerland it is smooth as a trunk line.\nThere are unwatched spots on the frontier, and we have our agents among\nthe frontier guards, and we have no difficulty about passes. It is a\npretty device, and you will soon be privileged to observe its working\n... In Germany I cannot promise you comfort, but I do not think your\nlife will be dull.'\n\nAs he spoke these words, his urbane smile changed to a grin of impish\nmalevolence. Even through my torpor I felt the venom and I shivered.\n\n'When I return I shall have another companion.' His voice was honeyed\nagain. 'There is a certain pretty lady who was to be the bait to entice\nme into Italy. It was so? Well, I have fallen to the bait. I have\narranged that she shall meet me this very night at a mountain inn on\nthe Italian side. I have arranged, too, that she shall be alone. She is\nan innocent child, and I do not think that she has been more than a\ntool in the clumsy hands of your friends. She will come with me when I\nask her, and we shall be a merry party in the Underground Express.'\n\nMy apathy vanished, and every nerve in me was alive at the words.\n\n'You cur!' I cried. 'She loathes the sight of you. She wouldn't touch\nyou with the end of a barge-pole.'\n\nHe flicked the ash from his cigar. 'I think you are mistaken. I am very\npersuasive, and I do not like to use compulsion with a woman. But,\nwilling or not, she will come with me. I have worked hard and I am\nentitled to my pleasure, and I have set my heart on that little lady.'\n\nThere was something in his tone, gross, leering, assured, half\ncontemptuous, that made my blood boil. He had fairly got me on the raw,\nand the hammer beat violently in my forehead. I could have wept with\nsheer rage, and it took all my fortitude to keep my mouth shut. But I\nwas determined not to add to his triumph.\n\nHe looked at his watch. 'Time passes,' he said. 'I must depart to my\ncharming assignation. I will give your remembrances to the lady.\nForgive me for making no arrangements for your comfort till I return.\nYour constitution is so sound that it will not suffer from a day's\nfasting. To set your mind at rest I may tell you that escape is\nimpossible. This mechanism has been proved too often, and if you did\nbreak loose from it my servants would deal with you. But I must speak a\nword of caution. If you tamper with it or struggle too much it will act\nin a curious way. The floor beneath you covers a shaft which runs to\nthe lake below. Set a certain spring at work and you may find yourself\nshot down into the water far below the ice, where your body will rot\ntill the spring ... That, of course, is an alternative open to you, if\nyou do not care to wait for my return.'\n\nHe lit a fresh cigar, waved his hand, and vanished through the doorway.\nAs it shut behind him, the sound of his footsteps instantly died away.\nThe walls must have been as thick as a prison's.\n\n            *       *       *       *       *\n\nI suppose I was what people in books call 'stunned'. The illumination\nduring the past few minutes had been so dazzling that my brain could\nnot master it. I remember very clearly that I did not think about the\nghastly failure of our scheme, or the German plans which had been\ninsolently unfolded to me as to one dead to the world. I saw a single\npicture--an inn in a snowy valley (I saw it as a small place like\nPeter's cottage), a solitary girl, that smiling devil who had left me,\nand then the unknown terror of the Underground Railway. I think my\ncourage went for a bit, and I cried with feebleness and rage. The\nhammer in my forehead had stopped for it only beat when I was angry in\naction. Now that I lay trapped, the manhood had slipped out of my\njoints, and if Ivery had still been in the doorway, I think I would\nhave whined for mercy. I would have offered him all the knowledge I had\nin the world if he had promised to leave Mary alone.\n\nHappily he wasn't there, and there was no witness of my cowardice.\nHappily, too, it is just as difficult to be a coward for long as to be\na hero. It was Blenkiron's phrase about Mary that pulled me\ntogether--'She can't scare and she can't soil'. No, by heavens, she\ncouldn't. I could trust my lady far better than I could trust myself. I\nwas still sick with anxiety, but I was getting a pull on myself. I was\ndone in, but Ivery would get no triumph out of me. Either I would go\nunder the ice, or I would find a chance of putting a bullet through my\nhead before I crossed the frontier. If I could do nothing else I could\nperish decently ... And then I laughed, and I knew I was past the\nworst. What made me laugh was the thought of Peter. I had been pitying\nhim an hour ago for having only one leg, but now he was abroad in the\nliving, breathing world with years before him, and I lay in the depths,\nlimbless and lifeless, with my number up.\n\nI began to muse on the cold water under the ice where I could go if I\nwanted. I did not think that I would take that road, for a man's\nchances are not gone till he is stone dead, but I was glad the way\nexisted ... And then I looked at the wall in front of me, and, very far\nup, I saw a small square window.\n\nThe stars had been clouded when I entered that accursed house, but the\nmist must have cleared. I saw my old friend Orion, the hunter's star,\nlooking through the bars. And that suddenly made me think.\n\nPeter and I had watched them by night, and I knew the place of all the\nchief constellations in relation to the St Anton valley. I believed\nthat I was in a room on the lake side of the Pink Chalet: I must be, if\nIvery had spoken the truth. But if so, I could not conceivably see\nOrion from its window ... There was no other possible conclusion, I\nmust be in a room on the east side of the house, and Ivery had been\nlying. He had already lied in his boasting of how he had outwitted me\nin England and at the Front. He might be lying about Mary ... No, I\ndismissed that hope. Those words of his had rung true enough.\n\nI thought for a minute and concluded that he had lied to terrorize me\nand keep me quiet; therefore this infernal contraption had probably its\nweak point. I reflected, too, that I was pretty strong, far stronger\nprobably than Ivery imagined, for he had never seen me stripped. Since\nthe place was pitch dark I could not guess how the thing worked, but I\ncould feel the cross-bars rigid on my chest and legs and the side-bars\nwhich pinned my arms to my sides ... I drew a long breath and tried to\nforce my elbows apart. Nothing moved, nor could I raise the bars on my\nlegs the smallest fraction.\n\nAgain I tried, and again. The side-bar on my right seemed to be less\nrigid than the others. I managed to get my right hand raised above the\nlevel of my thigh, and then with a struggle I got a grip with it on the\ncross-bar, which gave me a small leverage. With a mighty effort I drove\nmy right elbow and shoulder against the side-bar. It seemed to give\nslightly ... I summoned all my strength and tried again. There was a\ncrack and then a splintering, the massive bar shuffled limply back, and\nmy right arm was free to move laterally, though the cross-bar prevented\nme from raising it.\n\nWith some difficulty I got at my coat pocket where reposed my electric\ntorch and my pistol. With immense labour and no little pain I pulled\nthe former out and switched it on by drawing the catch against the\ncross-bar. Then I saw my prison house.\n\nIt was a little square chamber, very high, with on my left the massive\ndoor by which Ivery had departed. The dark baulks of my rack were\nplain, and I could roughly make out how the thing had been managed.\nSome spring had tilted up the flooring, and dropped the framework from\nits place in the right-hand wall. It was clamped, I observed, by an\narrangement in the floor just in front of the door. If I could get rid\nof that catch it would be easy to free myself, for to a man of my\nstrength the weight would not be impossibly heavy.\n\nMy fortitude had come back to me, and I was living only in the moment,\nchoking down any hope of escape. My first job was to destroy the catch\nthat clamped down the rack, and for that my only weapon was my pistol.\nI managed to get the little electric torch jammed in the corner of the\ncross-bar, where it lit up the floor towards the door. Then it was\nhell's own business extricating the pistol from my pocket. Wrist and\nfingers were always cramping, and I was in terror that I might drop it\nwhere I could not retrieve it.\n\nI forced myself to think out calmly the question of the clamp, for a\npistol bullet is a small thing, and I could not afford to miss. I\nreasoned it out from my knowledge of mechanics, and came to the\nconclusion that the centre of gravity was a certain bright spot of\nmetal which I could just see under the cross-bars. It was bright and so\nmust have been recently repaired, and that was another reason for\nthinking it important. The question was how to hit it, for I could not\nget the pistol in line with my eye. Let anyone try that kind of\nshooting, with a bent arm over a bar, when you are lying flat and\nlooking at the mark from under the bar, and he will understand its\ndifficulties. I had six shots in my revolver, and I must fire two or\nthree ranging shots in any case. I must not exhaust all my cartridges,\nfor I must have a bullet left for any servant who came to pry, and I\nwanted one in reserve for myself. But I did not think shots would be\nheard outside the room; the walls were too thick.\n\nI held my wrist rigid above the cross-bar and fired. The bullet was an\ninch to the right of the piece of bright steel. Moving a fraction I\nfired again. I had grazed it on the left. With aching eyes glued on the\nmark, I tried a third time. I saw something leap apart, and suddenly\nthe whole framework under which I lay fell loose and mobile ... I was\nvery cool and restored the pistol to my pocket and took the torch in my\nhand before I moved ... Fortune had been kind, for I was free. I turned\non my face, humped my back, and without much trouble crawled out from\nunder the contraption.\n\nI did not allow myself to think of ultimate escape, for that would only\nflurry me, and one step at a time was enough. I remember that I dusted\nmy clothes, and found that the cut in the back of my head had stopped\nbleeding. I retrieved my hat, which had rolled into a corner when I\nfell ... Then I turned my attention to the next step.\n\nThe tunnel was impossible, and the only way was the door. If I had\nstopped to think I would have known that the chances against getting\nout of such a house were a thousand to one. The pistol shots had been\nmuffled by the cavernous walls, but the place, as I knew, was full of\nservants and, even if I passed the immediate door, I would be collared\nin some passage. But I had myself so well in hand that I tackled the\ndoor as if I had been prospecting to sink a new shaft in Rhodesia.\n\nIt had no handle nor, so far as I could see, a keyhole ... But I\nnoticed, as I turned my torch on the ground, that from the clamp which\nI had shattered a brass rod sunk in the floor led to one of the\ndoor-posts. Obviously the thing worked by a spring and was connected\nwith the mechanism of the rack.\n\nA wild thought entered my mind and brought me to my feet. I pushed the\ndoor and it swung slowly open. The bullet which freed me had released\nthe spring which controlled it.\n\nThen for the first time, against all my maxims of discretion, I began\nto hope. I took off my hat and felt my forehead burning, so that I\nrested it for a moment on the cool wall ... Perhaps my luck still held.\nWith a rush came thoughts of Mary and Blenkiron and Peter and\neverything we had laboured for, and I was mad to win.\n\nI had no notion of the interior of the house or where lay the main door\nto the outer world. My torch showed me a long passage with something\nlike a door at the far end, but I clicked it off, for I did not dare to\nuse it now. The place was deadly quiet. As I listened I seemed to hear\na door open far away, and then silence fell again.\n\nI groped my way down the passage till I had my hands on the far door. I\nhoped it might open on the hall, where I could escape by a window or a\nbalcony, for I judged the outer door would be locked. I listened, and\nthere came no sound from within. It was no use lingering, so very\nstealthily I turned the handle and opened it a crack.\n\nIt creaked and I waited with beating heart on discovery, for inside I\nsaw the glow of light. But there was no movement, so it must be empty.\nI poked my head in and then followed with my body.\n\nIt was a large room, with logs burning in a stove, and the floor thick\nwith rugs. It was lined with books, and on a table in the centre a\nreading-lamp was burning. Several dispatch-boxes stood on the table,\nand there was a little pile of papers. A man had been here a minute\nbefore, for a half-smoked cigar was burning on the edge of the inkstand.\n\nAt that moment I recovered complete use of my wits and all my\nself-possession. More, there returned to me some of the old\ndevil-may-careness which before had served me well. Ivery had gone, but\nthis was his sanctum. Just as on the roofs of Erzerum I had burned to\nget at Stumm's papers, so now it was borne in on me that at all costs I\nmust look at that pile.\n\nI advanced to the table and picked up the topmost paper. It was a\nlittle typewritten blue slip with the lettering in italics, and in a\ncorner a curious, involved stamp in red ink. On it I read:\n\n'_Die Wildvoegel muessen beimkehren._'\n\nAt the same moment I heard steps and the door opened on the far side, I\nstepped back towards the stove, and fingered the pistol in my pocket.\n\nA man entered, a man with a scholar's stoop, an unkempt beard, and\nlarge sleepy dark eyes. At the sight of me he pulled up and his whole\nbody grew taut. It was the Portuguese Jew, whose back I had last seen\nat the smithy door in Skye, and who by the mercy of God had never seen\nmy face.\n\nI stopped fingering my pistol, for I had an inspiration. Before he\ncould utter a word I got in first.\n\n'_Die Voegelein schweigen im Walde,_' I said.\n\nHis face broke into a pleasant smile, and he replied:\n\n'_Warte nur, balde rubest du auch._'\n\n'Ach,' he said in German, holding out his hand, 'you have come this\nway, when we thought you would go by Modane. I welcome you, for I know\nyour exploits. You are Conradi, who did so nobly in Italy?'\n\nI bowed. 'Yes, I am Conradi,' I said.\n\n\n\nCHAPTER SEVENTEEN\n\nThe Col of the Swallows\n\nHe pointed to the slip on the table.\n\n'You have seen the orders?'\n\nI nodded.\n\n'The long day's work is over. You must rejoice, for your part has been\nthe hardest, I think. Some day you will tell me about it?'\n\nThe man's face was honest and kindly, rather like that of the engineer\nGaudian, whom two years before I had met in Germany. But his eyes\nfascinated me, for they were the eyes of the dreamer and fanatic, who\nwould not desist from his quest while life lasted. I thought that Ivery\nhad chosen well in his colleague.\n\n'My task is not done yet,' I said. 'I came here to see Chelius.'\n\n'He will be back tomorrow evening.'\n\n'Too late. I must see him at once. He has gone to Italy, and I must\novertake him.'\n\n'You know your duty best,' he said gravely.\n\n'But you must help me. I must catch him at Santa Chiara, for it is a\nbusiness of life and death. Is there a car to be had?'\n\n'There is mine. But there is no chauffeur. Chelius took him.'\n\n'I can drive myself and I know the road. But I have no pass to cross\nthe frontier.'\n\n'That is easily supplied,' he said, smiling.\n\nIn one bookcase there was a shelf of dummy books. He unlocked this and\nrevealed a small cupboard, whence he took a tin dispatch-box. From some\npapers he selected one, which seemed to be already signed.\n\n'Name?' he asked.\n\n'Call me Hans Gruber of Brieg,' I said. 'I travel to pick up my master,\nwho is in the timber trade.'\n\n'And your return?'\n\n'I will come back by my old road,' I said mysteriously; and if he knew\nwhat I meant it was more than I did myself.\n\nHe completed the paper and handed it to me. 'This will take you through\nthe frontier posts. And now for the car. The servants will be in bed,\nfor they have been preparing for a long journey, but I will myself show\nit you. There is enough petrol on board to take you to Rome.'\n\nHe led me through the hall, unlocked the front door, and we crossed the\nsnowy lawn to the garage. The place was empty but for a great car,\nwhich bore the marks of having come from the muddy lowlands. To my joy\nI saw that it was a Daimler, a type with which I was familiar. I lit\nthe lamps, started the engine, and ran it out on to the road.\n\n'You will want an overcoat,' he said.\n\n'I never wear them.'\n\n'Food?'\n\n'I have some chocolate. I will breakfast at Santa Chiara.'\n\n'Well, God go with you!'\n\nA minute later I was tearing along the lake-side towards St Anton\nvillage.\n\n            *       *       *       *       *\n\nI stopped at the cottage on the hill. Peter was not yet in bed. I found\nhim sitting by the fire, trying to read, but I saw by his face that he\nhad been waiting anxiously on my coming.\n\n'We're in the soup, old man,' I said as I shut the door. In a dozen\nsentences I told him of the night's doings, of Ivery's plan and my\ndesperate errand.\n\n'You wanted a share,' I cried. 'Well, everything depends on you now.\nI'm off after Ivery, and God knows what will happen. Meantime, you have\ngot to get on to Blenkiron, and tell him what I've told you. He must\nget the news through to G.H.Q. somehow. He must trap the Wild Birds\nbefore they go. I don't know how, but he must. Tell him it's all up to\nhim and you, for I'm out of it. I must save Mary, and if God's willing\nI'll settle with Ivery. But the big job is for Blenkiron--and you.\nSomehow he has made a bad break, and the enemy has got ahead of him. He\nmust sweat blood to make up. My God, Peter, it's the solemnest moment\nof our lives. I don't see any light, but we mustn't miss any chances.\nI'm leaving it all to you.'\n\nI spoke like a man in a fever, for after what I had been through I\nwasn't quite sane. My coolness in the Pink Chalet had given place to a\ncrazy restlessness. I can see Peter yet, standing in the ring of\nlamplight, supporting himself by a chair back, wrinkling his brows and,\nas he always did in moments of excitement, scratching gently the tip of\nhis left ear. His face was happy.\n\n'Never fear, Dick,' he said. 'It will all come right. _Ons sal 'n plan\nmaak._'\n\nAnd then, still possessed with a demon of disquiet, I was on the road\nagain, heading for the pass that led to Italy.\n\nThe mist had gone from the sky, and the stars were shining brightly.\nThe moon, now at the end of its first quarter, was setting in a gap of\nthe mountains, as I climbed the low col from the St Anton valley to the\ngreater Staubthal. There was frost and the hard snow crackled under my\nwheels, but there was also that feel in the air which preludes storm. I\nwondered if I should run into snow in the high hills. The whole land\nwas deep in peace. There was not a light in the hamlets I passed\nthrough, not a soul on the highway.\n\nIn the Staubthal I joined the main road and swung to the left up the\nnarrowing bed of the valley. The road was in noble condition, and the\ncar was running finely, as I mounted through forests of snowy Pines to\na land where the mountains crept close together, and the highway coiled\nround the angles of great crags or skirted perilously some profound\ngorge, with only a line of wooden posts to defend it from the void. In\nplaces the snow stood in walls on either side, where the road was kept\nopen by man's labour. In other parts it lay thin, and in the dim light\none might have fancied that one was running through open meadowlands.\n\nSlowly my head was getting clearer, and I was able to look round my\nproblem. I banished from my mind the situation I had left behind me.\nBlenkiron must cope with that as best he could. It lay with him to deal\nwith the Wild Birds, my job was with Ivery alone. Sometime in the early\nmorning he would reach Santa Chiara, and there he would find Mary.\nBeyond that my imagination could forecast nothing. She would be\nalone--I could trust his cleverness for that; he would try to force her\nto come with him, or he might persuade her with some lying story. Well,\nplease God, I should come in for the tail end of the interview, and at\nthe thought I cursed the steep gradients I was climbing, and longed for\nsome magic to lift the Daimler beyond the summit and set it racing down\nthe slope towards Italy.\n\nI think it was about half-past three when I saw the lights of the\nfrontier post. The air seemed milder than in the valleys, and there was\na soft scurry of snow on my right cheek. A couple of sleepy Swiss\nsentries with their rifles in their hands stumbled out as I drew up.\n\nThey took my pass into the hut and gave me an anxious quarter of an\nhour while they examined it. The performance was repeated fifty yards\non at the Italian post, where to my alarm the sentries were inclined to\nconversation. I played the part of the sulky servant, answering in\nmonosyllables and pretending to immense stupidity.\n\n'You are only just in time, friend,' said one in German. 'The weather\ngrows bad and soon the pass will close. Ugh, it is as cold as last\nwinter on the Tonale. You remember, Giuseppe?'\n\nBut in the end they let me move on. For a little I felt my way\ngingerly, for on the summit the road had many twists and the snow was\nconfusing to the eyes. Presently came a sharp drop and I let the\nDaimler go. It grew colder, and I shivered a little; the snow became a\nwet white fog around the glowing arc of the headlights; and always the\nroad fell, now in long curves, now in steep short dips, till I was\naware of a glen opening towards the south. From long living in the\nwilds I have a kind of sense for landscape without the testimony of the\neyes, and I knew where the ravine narrowed or widened though it was\nblack darkness.\n\nIn spite of my restlessness I had to go slowly, for after the first\nrush downhill I realized that, unless I was careful, I might wreck the\ncar and spoil everything. The surface of the road on the southern slope\nof the mountains was a thousand per cent worse than that on the other.\nI skidded and side-slipped, and once grazed the edge of the gorge. It\nwas far more maddening than the climb up, for then it had been a\nstraight-forward grind with the Daimler doing its utmost, whereas now I\nhad to hold her back because of my own lack of skill. I reckon that\ntime crawling down from the summit of the Staub as some of the weariest\nhours I ever spent.\n\nQuite suddenly I ran out of the ill weather into a different climate.\nThe sky was clear above me, and I saw that dawn was very near. The\nfirst pinewoods were beginning, and at last came a straight slope where\nI could let the car out. I began to recover my spirits, which had been\nvery dashed, and to reckon the distance I had still to travel ... And\nthen, without warning, a new world sprang up around me. Out of the blue\ndusk white shapes rose like ghosts, peaks and needles and domes of ice,\ntheir bases fading mistily into shadow, but the tops kindling till they\nglowed like jewels. I had never seen such a sight, and the wonder of it\nfor a moment drove anxiety from my heart. More, it gave me an earnest\nof victory. I was in clear air once more, and surely in this diamond\nether the foul things which loved the dark must be worsted ...\n\nAnd then I saw, a mile ahead, the little square red-roofed building\nwhich I knew to be the inn of Santa Chiara.\n\nIt was here that misfortune met me. I had grown careless now, and\nlooked rather at the house than the road. At one point the hillside had\nslipped down--it must have been recent, for the road was well kept--and\nI did not notice the landslide till I was on it. I slewed to the right,\ntook too wide a curve, and before I knew the car was over the far edge.\nI slapped on the brakes, but to avoid turning turtle I had to leave the\nroad altogether. I slithered down a steep bank into a meadow, where for\nmy sins I ran into a fallen tree trunk with a jar that shook me out of\nmy seat and nearly broke my arm. Before I examined the car I knew what\nhad happened. The front axle was bent, and the off front wheel badly\nbuckled.\n\nI had not time to curse my stupidity. I clambered back to the road and\nset off running down it at my best speed. I was mortally stiff, for\nIvery's rack was not good for the joints, but I realized it only as a\ndrag on my pace, not as an affliction in itself. My whole mind was set\non the house before me and what might be happening there.\n\nThere was a man at the door of the inn, who, when he caught sight of my\nfigure, began to move to meet me. I saw that it was Launcelot Wake, and\nthe sight gave me hope.\n\nBut his face frightened me. It was drawn and haggard like one who never\nsleeps, and his eyes were hot coals.\n\n'Hannay,' he cried, 'for God's sake what does it mean?'\n\n'Where is Mary?' I gasped, and I remember I clutched at a lapel of his\ncoat.\n\nHe pulled me to the low stone wall by the roadside.\n\n'I don't know,' he said hoarsely. 'We got your orders to come here this\nmorning. We were at Chiavagno, where Blenkiron told us to wait. But\nlast night Mary disappeared ... I found she had hired a carriage and\ncome on ahead. I followed at once, and reached here an hour ago to find\nher gone ... The woman who keeps the place is away and there are only\ntwo old servants left. They tell me that Mary came here late, and that\nvery early in the morning a closed car came over the Staub with a man\nin it. They say he asked to see the young lady, and that they talked\ntogether for some time, and that then she went off with him in the car\ndown the valley ... I must have passed it on my way up ... There's been\nsome black devilment that I can't follow. Who was the man? Who was the\nman?'\n\nHe looked as if he wanted to throttle me.\n\n'I can tell you that,' I said. 'It was Ivery.'\n\nHe stared for a second as if he didn't understand. Then he leaped to\nhis feet and cursed like a trooper. 'You've botched it, as I knew you\nwould. I knew no good would come of your infernal subtleties.' And he\nconsigned me and Blenkiron and the British army and Ivery and everybody\nelse to the devil.\n\nI was past being angry. 'Sit down, man,' I said, 'and listen to me.' I\ntold him of what had happened at the Pink Chalet. He heard me out with\nhis head in his hands. The thing was too bad for cursing.\n\n'The Underground Railway!' he groaned. 'The thought of it drives me\nmad. Why are you so calm, Hannay? She's in the hands of the cleverest\ndevil in the world, and you take it quietly. You should be a raving\nlunatic.'\n\n'I would be if it were any use, but I did all my raving last night in\nthat den of Ivery's. We've got to pull ourselves together, Wake. First\nof all, I trust Mary to the other side of eternity. She went with him\nof her own free will. I don't know why, but she must have had a reason,\nand be sure it was a good one, for she's far cleverer than you or me\n... We've got to follow her somehow. Ivery's bound for Germany, but his\nroute is by the Pink Chalet, for he hopes to pick me up there. He went\ndown the valley; therefore he is going to Switzerland by the Marjolana.\nThat is a long circuit and will take him most of the day. Why he chose\nthat way I don't know, but there it is. We've got to get back by the\nStaub.'\n\n'How did you come?' he asked.\n\n'That's our damnable luck. I came in a first-class six-cylinder\nDaimler, which is now lying a wreck in a meadow a mile up the road.\nWe've got to foot it.'\n\n'We can't do it. It would take too long. Besides, there's the frontier\nto pass.'\n\nI remembered ruefully that I might have got a return passport from the\nPortuguese Jew, if I had thought of anything at the time beyond getting\nto Santa Chiara.\n\n'Then we must make a circuit by the hillside and dodge the guards. It's\nno use making difficulties, Wake. We're fairly up against it, but we've\ngot to go on trying till we drop. Otherwise I'll take your advice and\ngo mad.'\n\n'And supposing you get back to St Anton, you'll find the house shut up\nand the travellers gone hours before by the Underground Railway.'\n\n'Very likely. But, man, there's always the glimmering of a chance. It's\nno good chucking in your hand till the game's out.'\n\n'Drop your proverbial philosophy, Mr Martin Tupper, and look up there.'\n\nHe had one foot on the wall and was staring at a cleft in the snow-line\nacross the valley. The shoulder of a high peak dropped sharply to a\nkind of nick and rose again in a long graceful curve of snow. All below\nthe nick was still in deep shadow, but from the configuration of the\nslopes I judged that a tributary glacier ran from it to the main\nglacier at the river head.\n\n'That's the Colle delle Rondini,' he said, 'the Col of the Swallows. It\nleads straight to the Staubthal near Grunewald. On a good day I have\ndone it in seven hours, but it's not a pass for winter-time. It has\nbeen done of course, but not often.... Yet, if the weather held, it\nmight go even now, and that would bring us to St Anton by the evening.\nI wonder'--and he looked me over with an appraising eye--'I wonder if\nyou're up to it.'\n\nMy stiffness had gone and I burned to set my restlessness to physical\ntoil.\n\n'If you can do it, I can,' I said.\n\n'No. There you're wrong. You're a hefty fellow, but you're no\nmountaineer, and the ice of the Colle delle Rondini needs knowledge. It\nwould be insane to risk it with a novice, if there were any other way.\nBut I'm damned if I see any, and I'm going to chance it. We can get a\nrope and axes in the inn. Are you game?'\n\n'Right you are. Seven hours, you say. We've got to do it in six.'\n\n'You will be humbler when you get on the ice,' he said grimly. 'We'd\nbetter breakfast, for the Lord knows when we shall see food again.'\n\nWe left the inn at five minutes to nine, with the sky cloudless and a\nstiff wind from the north-west, which we felt even in the deep-cut\nvalley. Wake walked with a long, slow stride that tried my patience. I\nwanted to hustle, but he bade me keep in step. 'You take your orders\nfrom me, for I've been at this job before. Discipline in the ranks,\nremember.'\n\nWe crossed the river gorge by a plank bridge, and worked our way up the\nright bank, past the moraine, to the snout of the glacier. It was bad\ngoing, for the snow concealed the boulders, and I often floundered in\nholes. Wake never relaxed his stride, but now and then he stopped to\nsniff the air.\n\nI observed that the weather looked good, and he differed. 'It's too\nclear. There'll be a full-blown gale on the Col and most likely snow in\nthe afternoon.' He pointed to a fat yellow cloud that was beginning to\nbulge over the nearest peak. After that I thought he lengthened his\nstride.\n\n'Lucky I had these boots resoled and nailed at Chiavagno,' was the only\nother remark he made till we had passed the seracs of the main glacier\nand turned up the lesser ice-stream from the Colle delle Rondini.\n\nBy half-past ten we were near its head, and I could see clearly the\nribbon of pure ice between black crags too steep for snow to lie on,\nwhich was the means of ascent to the Col. The sky had clouded over, and\nugly streamers floated on the high slopes. We tied on the rope at the\nfoot of the bergschrund, which was easy to pass because of the winter's\nsnow. Wake led, of course, and presently we came on to the icefall.\n\nIn my time I had done a lot of scrambling on rocks and used to promise\nmyself a season in the Alps to test myself on the big peaks. If I ever\ngo it will be to climb the honest rock towers around Chamonix, for I\nwon't have anything to do with snow mountains. That day on the Colle\ndelle Rondini fairly sickened me of ice. I daresay I might have liked\nit if I had done it in a holiday mood, at leisure and in good spirits.\nBut to crawl up that couloir with a sick heart and a desperate impulse\nto hurry was the worst sort of nightmare. The place was as steep as a\nwall of smooth black ice that seemed hard as granite. Wake did the\nstep-cutting, and I admired him enormously. He did not seem to use much\nforce, but every step was hewn cleanly the right size, and they were\nspaced the right distance. In this job he was the true professional. I\nwas thankful Blenkiron was not with us, for the thing would have given\na squirrel vertigo. The chips of ice slithered between my legs and I\ncould watch them till they brought up just above the bergschrund.\n\nThe ice was in shadow and it was bitterly cold. As we crawled up I had\nnot the exercise of using the axe to warm me, and I got very numb\nstanding on one leg waiting for the next step. Worse still, my legs\nbegan to cramp. I was in good condition, but that time under Ivery's\nrack had played the mischief with my limbs. Muscles got out of place in\nmy calves and stood in aching lumps, till I almost squealed with the\npain of it. I was mortally afraid I should slip, and every time I moved\nI called out to Wake to warn him. He saw what was happening and got the\npick of his axe fixed in the ice before I was allowed to stir. He spoke\noften to cheer me up, and his voice had none of its harshness. He was\nlike some ill-tempered generals I have known, very gentle in a battle.\n\nAt the end the snow began to fall, a soft powder like the overspill of\na storm raging beyond the crest. It was just after that that Wake cried\nout that in five minutes we would be at the summit. He consulted his\nwrist-watch. 'Jolly good time, too. Only twenty-five minutes behind my\nbest. It's not one o'clock.'\n\nThe next I knew I was lying flat on a pad of snow easing my cramped\nlegs, while Wake shouted in my ear that we were in for something bad. I\nwas aware of a driving blizzard, but I had no thought of anything but\nthe blessed relief from pain. I lay for some minutes on my back with my\nlegs stiff in the air and the toes turned inwards, while my muscles\nfell into their proper place.\n\nIt was certainly no spot to linger in. We looked down into a trough of\ndriving mist, which sometimes swirled aside and showed a knuckle of\nblack rock far below. We ate some chocolate, while Wake shouted in my\near that now we had less step-cutting. He did his best to cheer me, but\nhe could not hide his anxiety. Our faces were frosted over like a\nwedding-cake and the sting of the wind was like a whiplash on our\neyelids.\n\nThe first part was easy, down a slope of firm snow where steps were not\nneeded. Then came ice again, and we had to cut into it below the fresh\nsurface snow. This was so laborious that Wake took to the rocks on the\nright side of the couloir, where there was some shelter from the main\nforce of the blast. I found it easier, for I knew something about\nrocks, but it was difficult enough with every handhold and foothold\nglazed. Presently we were driven back again to the ice, and painfully\ncut our way through a throat of the ravine where the sides narrowed.\nThere the wind was terrible, for the narrows made a kind of funnel, and\nwe descended, plastered against the wall, and scarcely able to breathe,\nwhile the tornado plucked at our bodies as if it would whisk us like\nwisps of grass into the abyss.\n\nAfter that the gorge widened and we had an easier slope, till suddenly\nwe found ourselves perched on a great tongue of rock round which the\nsnow blew like the froth in a whirlpool. As we stopped for breath, Wake\nshouted in my ear that this was the Black Stone.\n\n'The what?' I yelled.\n\n'The Schwarzstein. The Swiss call the pass the Schwarzsteinthor. You\ncan see it from Grunewald.'\n\nI suppose every man has a tinge of superstition in him. To hear that\nname in that ferocious place gave me a sudden access of confidence. I\nseemed to see all my doings as part of a great predestined plan. Surely\nit was not for nothing that the word which had been the key of my first\nadventure in the long tussle should appear in this last phase. I felt\nnew strength in my legs and more vigour in my lungs. 'A good omen,' I\nshouted. 'Wake, old man, we're going to win out.'\n\n'The worst is still to come,' he said.\n\nHe was right. To get down that tongue of rock to the lower snows of the\ncouloir was a job that fairly brought us to the end of our tether. I\ncan feel yet the sour, bleak smell of wet rock and ice and the hard\nnerve pain that racked my forehead. The Kaffirs used to say that there\nwere devils in the high berg, and this place was assuredly given over\nto the powers of the air who had no thought of human life. I seemed to\nbe in the world which had endured from the eternity before man was\ndreamed of. There was no mercy in it, and the elements were pitting\ntheir immortal strength against two pigmies who had profaned their\nsanctuary. I yearned for warmth, for the glow of a fire, for a tree or\nblade of grass or anything which meant the sheltered homeliness of\nmortality. I knew then what the Greeks meant by panic, for I was scared\nby the apathy of nature. But the terror gave me a kind of comfort, too.\nIvery and his doings seemed less formidable. Let me but get out of this\ncold hell and I could meet him with a new confidence.\n\nWake led, for he knew the road and the road wanted knowing. Otherwise\nhe should have been last on the rope, for that is the place of the\nbetter man in a descent. I had some horrible moments following on when\nthe rope grew taut, for I had no help from it. We zigzagged down the\nrock, sometimes driven to the ice of the adjacent couloirs, sometimes\non the outer ridge of the Black Stone, sometimes wriggling down little\ncracks and over evil boiler-plates. The snow did not lie on it, but the\nrock crackled with thin ice or oozed ice water. Often it was only by\nthe grace of God that I did not fall headlong, and pull Wake out of his\nhold to the bergschrund far below. I slipped more than once, but always\nby a miracle recovered myself. To make things worse, Wake was tiring. I\ncould feel him drag on the rope, and his movements had not the\nprecision they had had in the morning. He was the mountaineer, and I\nthe novice. If he gave out, we should never reach the valley.\n\nThe fellow was clear grit all through. When we reached the foot of the\ntooth and sat huddled up with our faces away from the wind, I saw that\nhe was on the edge of fainting. What that effort must have cost him in\nthe way of resolution you may guess, but he did not fail till the worst\nwas past. His lips were colourless, and he was choking with the nausea\nof fatigue. I found a flask of brandy in his pocket, and a mouthful\nrevived him.\n\n'I'm all out,' he said. 'The road's easier now, and I can direct YOU\nabout the rest ... You'd better leave me. I'll only be a drag. I'll\ncome on when I feel better.'\n\n'No, you don't, you old fool. You've got me over that infernal iceberg,\nand I'm going to see you home.'\n\nI rubbed his arms and legs and made him swallow some chocolate. But\nwhen he got on his feet he was as doddery as an old man. Happily we had\nan easy course down a snow gradient, which we glissaded in very\nunorthodox style. The swift motion freshened him up a little, and he\nwas able to put on the brake with his axe to prevent us cascading into\nthe bergschrund. We crossed it by a snow bridge, and started out on the\nseracs of the Schwarzstein glacier.\n\nI am no mountaineer--not of the snow and ice kind, anyway--but I have a\nbig share of physical strength and I wanted it all now. For those\nseracs were an invention of the devil. To traverse that labyrinth in a\nblinding snowstorm, with a fainting companion who was too weak to jump\nthe narrowest crevasse, and who hung on the rope like lead when there\nwas occasion to use it, was more than I could manage. Besides, every\nstep that brought us nearer to the valley now increased my eagerness to\nhurry, and wandering in that maze of clotted ice was like the nightmare\nwhen you stand on the rails with the express coming and are too weak to\nclimb on the platform. As soon as possible I left the glacier for the\nhillside, and though that was laborious enough in all conscience, yet\nit enabled me to steer a straight course. Wake never spoke a word. When\nI looked at him his face was ashen under a gale which should have made\nhis cheeks glow, and he kept his eyes half closed. He was staggering on\nat the very limits of his endurance ...\n\nBy and by we were on the moraine, and after splashing through a dozen\nlittle glacier streams came on a track which led up the hillside. Wake\nnodded feebly when I asked if this was right. Then to my joy I saw a\ngnarled pine.\n\nI untied the rope and Wake dropped like a log on the ground. 'Leave\nme,' he groaned. 'I'm fairly done. I'll come on later.' And he shut his\neyes.\n\nMy watch told me that it was after five o'clock.\n\n'Get on my back,' I said. 'I won't part from you till I've found a\ncottage. You're a hero. You've brought me over those damned mountains\nin a blizzard, and that's what no other man in England would have done.\nGet up.'\n\nHe obeyed, for he was too far gone to argue. I tied his wrists together\nwith a handkerchief below my chin, for I wanted my arms to hold up his\nlegs. The rope and axes I left in a cache beneath the pine-tree. Then I\nstarted trotting down the track for the nearest dwelling.\n\nMy strength felt inexhaustible and the quicksilver in my bones drove me\nforward. The snow was still falling, but the wind was dying down, and\nafter the inferno of the pass it was like summer. The road wound over\nthe shale of the hillside and then into what in spring must have been\nupland meadows. Then it ran among trees, and far below me on the right\nI could hear the glacier river churning in its gorge. Soon little empty\nhuts appeared, and rough enclosed paddocks, and presently I came out on\na shelf above the stream and smelt the wood-smoke of a human habitation.\n\nI found a middle-aged peasant in the cottage, a guide by profession in\nsummer and a woodcutter in winter.\n\n'I have brought my Herr from Santa Chiara,' I said, 'over the\nSchwarzsteinthor. He is very weary and must sleep.'\n\nI decanted Wake into a chair, and his head nodded on his chest. But his\ncolour was better.\n\n'You and your Herr are fools,' said the man gruffly, but not unkindly.\n'He must sleep or he will have a fever. The Schwarzsteinthor in this\ndevil's weather! Is he English?'\n\n'Yes,' I said, 'like all madmen. But he's a good Herr, and a brave\nmountaineer.'\n\nWe stripped Wake of his Red Cross uniform, now a collection of sopping\nrags, and got him between blankets with a huge earthenware bottle of\nhot water at his feet. The woodcutter's wife boiled milk, and this,\nwith a little brandy added, we made him drink. I was quite easy in my\nmind about him, for I had seen this condition before. In the morning he\nwould be as stiff as a poker, but recovered.\n\n'Now I'm off for St Anton,' I said. 'I must get there tonight.'\n\n'You are the hardy one,' the man laughed. 'I will show you the quick\nroad to Grunewald, where is the railway. With good fortune you may get\nthe last train.'\n\nI gave him fifty francs on my Herr's behalf, learned his directions for\nthe road, and set off after a draught of goat's milk, munching my last\nslab of chocolate. I was still strung up to a mechanical activity, and\nI ran every inch of the three miles to the Staubthal without\nconsciousness of fatigue. I was twenty minutes too soon for the train,\nand, as I sat on a bench on the platform, my energy suddenly ebbed\naway. That is what happens after a great exertion. I longed to sleep,\nand when the train arrived I crawled into a carriage like a man with a\nstroke. There seemed to be no force left in my limbs. I realized that I\nwas leg-weary, which is a thing you see sometimes with horses, but not\noften with men.\n\nAll the journey I lay like a log in a kind of coma, and it was with\ndifficulty that I recognized my destination, and stumbled out of the\ntrain. But I had no sooner emerged from the station of St Anton than I\ngot my second wind. Much snow had fallen since yesterday, but it had\nstopped now, the sky was clear, and the moon was riding. The sight of\nthe familiar place brought back all my anxieties. The day on the Col of\nthe Swallows was wiped out of my memory, and I saw only the inn at\nSanta Chiara, and heard Wake's hoarse voice speaking of Mary. The\nlights were twinkling from the village below, and on the right I saw\nthe clump of trees which held the Pink Chalet.\n\nI took a short cut across the fields, avoiding the little town. I ran\nhard, stumbling often, for though I had got my mental energy back my\nlegs were still precarious. The station clock had told me that it was\nnearly half-past nine.\n\nSoon I was on the high-road, and then at the Chalet gates. I heard as\nin a dream what seemed to be three shrill blasts on a whistle. Then a\nbig car passed me, making for St Anton. For a second I would have\nhailed it, but it was past me and away. But I had a conviction that my\nbusiness lay in the house, for I thought Ivery was there, and Ivery was\nwhat mattered.\n\nI marched up the drive with no sort of plan in my head, only a blind\nrushing on fate. I remembered dimly that I had still three cartridges\nin my revolver.\n\nThe front door stood open and I entered and tiptoed down the passage to\nthe room where I had found the Portuguese Jew. No one hindered me, but\nit was not for lack of servants. I had the impression that there were\npeople near me in the darkness, and I thought I heard German softly\nspoken. There was someone ahead of me, perhaps the speaker, for I could\nhear careful footsteps. It was very dark, but a ray of light came from\nbelow the door of the room. Then behind me I heard the hall door clang,\nand the noise of a key turned in its lock. I had walked straight into a\ntrap and all retreat was cut off.\n\nMy mind was beginning to work more clearly, though my purpose was still\nvague. I wanted to get at Ivery and I believed that he was somewhere in\nfront of me. And then I thought of the door which led from the chamber\nwhere I had been imprisoned. If I could enter that way I would have the\nadvantage of surprise.\n\nI groped on the right-hand side of the passage and found a handle. It\nopened upon what seemed to be a dining-room, for there was a faint\nsmell of food. Again I had the impression of people near, who for some\nunknown reason did not molest me. At the far end I found another door,\nwhich led to a second room, which I guessed to be adjacent to the\nlibrary. Beyond it again must lie the passage from the chamber with the\nrack. The whole place was as quiet as a shell.\n\nI had guessed right. I was standing in the passage where I had stood\nthe night before. In front of me was the library, and there was the\nsame chink of light showing. Very softly I turned the handle and opened\nit a crack ...\n\nThe first thing that caught my eye was the profile of Ivery. He was\nlooking towards the writing-table, where someone was sitting.\n\n\n\nCHAPTER EIGHTEEN\n\nThe Underground Railway\n\nThis is the story which I heard later from Mary ...\n\nShe was at Milan with the new Anglo-American hospital when she got\nBlenkiron's letter. Santa Chiara had always been the place agreed upon,\nand this message mentioned specifically Santa Chiara, and fixed a date\nfor her presence there. She was a little puzzled by it, for she had not\nyet had a word from Ivery, to whom she had written twice by the\nroundabout address in France which Bommaerts had given her. She did not\nbelieve that he would come to Italy in the ordinary course of things,\nand she wondered at Blenkiron's certainty about the date.\n\nThe following morning came a letter from Ivery in which he ardently\npressed for a meeting. It was the first of several, full of strange\ntalk about some approaching crisis, in which the forebodings of the\nprophet were mingled with the solicitude of a lover.\n\n'The storm is about to break,' he wrote, 'and I cannot think only of my\nown fate. I have something to tell you which vitally concerns yourself.\nYou say you are in Lombardy. The Chiavagno valley is within easy reach,\nand at its head is the inn of Santa Chiara, to which I come on the\nmorning of March 19th. Meet me there even if only for half an hour, I\nimplore you. We have already shared hopes and confidences, and I would\nnow share with you a knowledge which I alone in Europe possess. You\nhave the heart of a lion, my lady, worthy of what I can bring you.'\n\nWake was summoned from the _Croce Rossa_ unit with which he was working\nat Vicenza, and the plan arranged by Blenkiron was faithfully carried\nout. Four officers of the Alpini, in the rough dress of peasants of the\nhills, met them in Chiavagno on the morning of the 18th. It was\narranged that the hostess of Santa Chiara should go on a visit to her\nsister's son, leaving the inn, now in the shuttered quiet of\nwintertime, under the charge of two ancient servants. The hour of\nIvery's coming on the 19th had been fixed by him for noon, and that\nmorning Mary would drive up the valley, while Wake and the Alpini went\ninconspicuously by other routes so as to be in station around the place\nbefore midday.\n\nBut on the evening of the 18th at the Hotel of the Four Kings in\nChiavagno Mary received another message. It was from me and told her\nthat I was crossing the Staub at midnight and would be at the inn\nbefore dawn. It begged her to meet me there, to meet me alone without\nthe others, because I had that to say to her which must be said before\nIvery's coming. I have seen the letter. It was written in a hand which\nI could not have distinguished from my own scrawl. It was not exactly\nwhat I would myself have written, but there were phrases in it which to\nMary's mind could have come only from me. Oh, I admit it was cunningly\ndone, especially the love-making, which was just the kind of stammering\nthing which I would have achieved if I had tried to put my feelings on\npaper. Anyhow, Mary had no doubt of its genuineness. She slipped off\nafter dinner, hired a carriage with two broken-winded screws and set\noff up the valley. She left a line for Wake telling him to follow\naccording to the plan--a line which he never got, for his anxiety when\nhe found she had gone drove him to immediate pursuit.\n\nAt about two in the morning of the 19th after a slow and icy journey\nshe arrived at the inn, knocked up the aged servants, made herself a\ncup of chocolate out of her tea-basket and sat down to wait on my\ncoming.\n\nShe has described to me that time of waiting. A home-made candle in a\ntall earthenware candlestick lit up the little _salle-a-manger_, which\nwas the one room in use. The world was very quiet, the snow muffled the\nroads, and it was cold with the penetrating chill of the small hours of\na March night. Always, she has told me, will the taste of chocolate and\nthe smell of burning tallow bring back to her that strange place and\nthe flutter of the heart with which she waited. For she was on the eve\nof the crisis of all our labours, she was very young, and youth has a\nquick fancy which will not be checked. Moreover, it was I who was\ncoming, and save for the scrawl of the night before, we had had no\ncommunication for many weeks ... She tried to distract her mind by\nrepeating poetry, and the thing that came into her head was Keats's\n'Nightingale', an odd poem for the time and place.\n\nThere was a long wicker chair among the furnishings of the room, and\nshe lay down on it with her fur cloak muffled around her. There were\nsounds of movement in the inn. The old woman who had let her in, with\nthe scent of intrigue of her kind, had brightened when she heard that\nanother guest was coming. Beautiful women do not travel at midnight for\nnothing. She also was awake and expectant.\n\nThen quite suddenly came the sound of a car slowing down outside. She\nsprang to her feet in a tremor of excitement. It was like the Picardy\nchateau again--the dim room and a friend coming out of the night. She\nheard the front door open and a step in the little hall ...\n\nShe was looking at Ivery.... He slipped his driving-coat off as he\nentered, and bowed gravely. He was wearing a green hunting suit which\nin the dusk seemed like khaki, and, as he was about my own height, for\na second she was misled. Then she saw his face and her heart stopped.\n\n'You!' she cried. She had sunk back again on the wicker chair.\n\n'I have come as I promised,' he said, 'but a little earlier. You will\nforgive me my eagerness to be with you.'\n\nShe did not heed his words, for her mind was feverishly busy. My letter\nhad been a fraud and this man had discovered our plans. She was alone\nwith him, for it would be hours before her friends came from Chiavagno.\nHe had the game in his hands, and of all our confederacy she alone\nremained to confront him. Mary's courage was pretty near perfect, and\nfor the moment she did not think of herself or her own fate. That came\nlater. She was possessed with poignant disappointment at our failure.\nAll our efforts had gone to the winds, and the enemy had won with\ncontemptuous ease. Her nervousness disappeared before the intense\nregret, and her brain set coolly and busily to work.\n\nIt was a new Ivery who confronted her, a man with vigour and purpose in\nevery line of him and the quiet confidence of power. He spoke with a\nserious courtesy.\n\n'The time for make-believe is past,' he was saying. 'We have fenced\nwith each other. I have told you only half the truth, and you have\nalways kept me at arm's length. But you knew in your heart, my dearest\nlady, that there must be the full truth between us some day, and that\nday has come. I have often told you that I love you. I do not come now\nto repeat that declaration. I come to ask you to entrust yourself to\nme, to join your fate to mine, for I can promise you the happiness\nwhich you deserve.'\n\nHe pulled up a chair and sat beside her. I cannot put down all that he\nsaid, for Mary, once she grasped the drift of it, was busy with her own\nthoughts and did not listen. But I gather from her that he was very\ncandid and seemed to grow as he spoke in mental and moral stature. He\ntold her who he was and what his work had been. He claimed the same\npurpose as hers, a hatred of war and a passion to rebuild the world\ninto decency. But now he drew a different moral. He was a German: it\nwas through Germany alone that peace and regeneration could come. His\ncountry was purged from her faults, and the marvellous German\ndiscipline was about to prove itself in the eye of gods and men. He\ntold her what he had told me in the room at the Pink Chalet, but with\nanother colouring. Germany was not vengeful or vainglorious, only\npatient and merciful. God was about to give her the power to decide the\nworld's fate, and it was for him and his kind to see that the decision\nwas beneficent. The greater task of his people was only now beginning.\n\nThat was the gist of his talk. She appeared to listen, but her mind was\nfar away. She must delay him for two hours, three hours, four hours. If\nnot, she must keep beside him. She was the only one of our company left\nin touch with the enemy ...\n\n'I go to Germany now,' he was saying. 'I want you to come with me--to\nbe my wife.'\n\nHe waited for an answer, and got it in the form of a startled question.\n\n'To Germany? How?'\n\n'It is easy,' he said, smiling. 'The car which is waiting outside is\nthe first stage of a system of travel which we have perfected.' Then he\ntold her about the Underground Railway--not as he had told it to me, to\nscare, but as a proof of power and forethought.\n\nHis manner was perfect. He was respectful, devoted, thoughtful of all\nthings. He was the suppliant, not the master. He offered her power and\npride, a dazzling career, for he had deserved well of his country, the\ndevotion of the faithful lover. He would take her to his mother's\nhouse, where she would be welcomed like a princess. I have no doubt he\nwas sincere, for he had many moods, and the libertine whom he had\nrevealed to me at the Pink Chalet had given place to the honourable\ngentleman. He could play all parts well because he could believe in\nhimself in them all.\n\nThen he spoke of danger, not so as to slight her courage, but to\nemphasize his own thoughtfulness. The world in which she had lived was\ncrumbling, and he alone could offer a refuge. She felt the steel\ngauntlet through the texture of the velvet glove.\n\nAll the while she had been furiously thinking, with her chin in her\nhand in the old way ... She might refuse to go. He could compel her, no\ndoubt, for there was no help to be got from the old servants. But it\nmight be difficult to carry an unwilling woman over the first stages of\nthe Underground Railway. There might be chances ... Supposing he\naccepted her refusal and left her. Then indeed he would be gone for\never and our game would have closed with a fiasco. The great antagonist\nof England would go home rejoicing, taking his sheaves with him.\n\nAt this time she had no personal fear of him. So curious a thing is the\nhuman heart that her main preoccupation was with our mission, not with\nher own fate. To fail utterly seemed too bitter. Supposing she went\nwith him. They had still to get out of Italy and cross Switzerland. If\nshe were with him she would be an emissary of the Allies in the enemy's\ncamp. She asked herself what could she do, and told herself 'Nothing.'\nShe felt like a small bird in a very large trap, and her chief\nsensation was that of her own powerlessness. But she had learned\nBlenkiron's gospel and knew that Heaven sends amazing chances to the\nbold. And, even as she made her decision, she was aware of a dark\nshadow lurking at the back of her mind, the shadow of the fear which\nshe knew was awaiting her. For she was going into the unknown with a\nman whom she hated, a man who claimed to be her lover.\n\nIt was the bravest thing I have ever heard of, and I have lived my life\namong brave men.\n\n'I will come with you,' she said. 'But you mustn't speak to me, please.\nI am tired and troubled and I want peace to think.'\n\nAs she rose weakness came over her and she swayed till his arm caught\nher. 'I wish I could let you rest for a little,' he said tenderly, 'but\ntime presses. The car runs smoothly and you can sleep there.'\n\nHe summoned one of the servants to whom he handed Mary. 'We leave in\nten minutes,' he said, and he went out to see to the car.\n\nMary's first act in the bedroom to which she was taken was to bathe her\neyes and brush her hair. She felt dimly that she must keep her head\nclear. Her second was to scribble a note to Wake, telling him what had\nhappened, and to give it to the servant with a tip.\n\n'The gentleman will come in the morning,' she said. 'You must give it\nhim at once, for it concerns the fate of your country.' The woman\ngrinned and promised. It was not the first time she had done errands\nfor pretty ladies.\n\nIvery settled her in the great closed car with much solicitude, and\nmade her comfortable with rugs. Then he went back to the inn for a\nsecond, and she saw a light move in the _salle-a-manger_. He returned\nand spoke to the driver in German, taking his seat beside him.\n\nBut first he handed Mary her note to Wake. 'I think you left this\nbehind you,' he said. He had not opened it.\n\nAlone in the car Mary slept. She saw the figures of Ivery and the\nchauffeur in the front seat dark against the headlights, and then they\ndislimned into dreams. She had undergone a greater strain than she\nknew, and was sunk in the heavy sleep of weary nerves.\n\nWhen she woke it was daylight. They were still in Italy, as her first\nglance told her, so they could not have taken the Staub route. They\nseemed to be among the foothills, for there was little snow, but now\nand then up tributary valleys she had glimpses of the high peaks. She\ntried hard to think what it could mean, and then remembered the\nMarjolana. Wake had laboured to instruct her in the topography of the\nAlps, and she had grasped the fact of the two open passes. But the\nMarjolana meant a big circuit, and they would not be in Switzerland\ntill the evening. They would arrive in the dark, and pass out of it in\nthe dark, and there would be no chance of succour. She felt very lonely\nand very weak.\n\nThroughout the morning her fear grew. The more hopeless her chance of\ndefeating Ivery became the more insistently the dark shadow crept over\nher mind. She tried to steady herself by watching the show from the\nwindows. The car swung through little villages, past vineyards and\npine-woods and the blue of lakes, and over the gorges of mountain\nstreams. There seemed to be no trouble about passports. The sentries at\nthe controls waved a reassuring hand when they were shown some card\nwhich the chauffeur held between his teeth. In one place there was a\nlongish halt, and she could hear Ivery talking Italian with two\nofficers of Bersaglieri, to whom he gave cigars. They were fresh-faced,\nupstanding boys, and for a second she had an idea of flinging open the\ndoor and appealing to them to save her. But that would have been\nfutile, for Ivery was clearly amply certificated. She wondered what\npart he was now playing.\n\nThe Marjolana route had been chosen for a purpose. In one town Ivery\nmet and talked to a civilian official, and more than once the car\nslowed down and someone appeared from the wayside to speak a word and\nvanish. She was assisting at the last gathering up of the threads of a\ngreat plan, before the Wild Birds returned to their nest. Mostly these\nconferences seemed to be in Italian, but once or twice she gathered\nfrom the movement of the lips that German was spoken and that this\nrough peasant or that black-hatted bourgeois was not of Italian blood.\n\nEarly in the morning, soon after she awoke, Ivery had stopped the car\nand offered her a well-provided luncheon basket. She could eat nothing,\nand watched him breakfast off sandwiches beside the driver. In the\nafternoon he asked her permission to sit with her. The car drew up in a\nlonely place, and a tea-basket was produced by the chauffeur. Ivery\nmade tea, for she seemed too listless to move, and she drank a cup with\nhim. After that he remained beside her.\n\n'In half an hour we shall be out of Italy,' he said. The car was\nrunning up a long valley to the curious hollow between snowy saddles\nwhich is the crest of the Marjolana. He showed her the place on a road\nmap. As the altitude increased and the air grew colder he wrapped the\nrugs closer around her and apologized for the absence of a foot-warmer.\n'In a little,' he said, 'we shall be in the land where your slightest\nwish will be law.'\n\nShe dozed again and so missed the frontier post. When she woke the car\nwas slipping down the long curves of the Weiss valley, before it\nnarrows to the gorge through which it debouches on Grunewald.\n\n'We are in Switzerland now,' she heard his voice say. It may have been\nfancy, but it seemed to her that there was a new note in it. He spoke\nto her with the assurance of possession. They were outside the country\nof the Allies, and in a land where his web was thickly spread.\n\n'Where do we stop tonight?' she asked timidly.\n\n'I fear we cannot stop. Tonight also you must put up with the car. I\nhave a little errand to do on the way, which will delay us a few\nminutes, and then we press on. Tomorrow, my fairest one, fatigue will\nbe ended.'\n\nThere was no mistake now about the note of possession in his voice.\nMary's heart began to beat fast and wild. The trap had closed down on\nher and she saw the folly of her courage. It had delivered her bound\nand gagged into the hands of one whom she loathed more deeply every\nmoment, whose proximity was less welcome than a snake's. She had to\nbite hard on her lip to keep from screaming.\n\nThe weather had changed and it was snowing hard, the same storm that\nhad greeted us on the Col of the Swallows. The pace was slower now, and\nIvery grew restless. He looked frequently at his watch, and snatched\nthe speaking-tube to talk to the driver. Mary caught the word 'St\nAnton'.\n\n'Do we go by St Anton?' she found voice to ask.\n\n'Yes,' he said shortly.\n\nThe word gave her the faintest glimmering of hope, for she knew that\nPeter and I had lived at St Anton. She tried to look out of the blurred\nwindow, but could see nothing except that the twilight was falling. She\nbegged for the road-map, and saw that so far as she could make out they\nwere still in the broad Grunewald valley and that to reach St Anton\nthey had to cross the low pass from the Staubthal. The snow was still\ndrifting thick and the car crawled.\n\nThen she felt the rise as they mounted to the pass. Here the going was\nbad, very different from the dry frost in which I had covered the same\nroad the night before. Moreover, there seemed to be curious obstacles.\nSome careless wood-cart had dropped logs on the highway, and more than\nonce both Ivery and the chauffeur had to get out to shift them. In one\nplace there had been a small landslide which left little room to pass,\nand Mary had to descend and cross on foot while the driver took the car\nover alone. Ivery's temper seemed to be souring. To the girl's relief\nhe resumed the outside seat, where he was engaged in constant argument\nwith the chauffeur.\n\nAt the head of the pass stands an inn, the comfortable hostelry of Herr\nKronig, well known to all who clamber among the lesser peaks of the\nStaubthal. There in the middle of the way stood a man with a lantern.\n\n'The road is blocked by a snowfall,' he cried. 'They are clearing it\nnow. It will be ready in half an hour's time.'\n\nIvery sprang from his seat and darted into the hotel. His business was\nto speed up the clearing party, and Herr Kronig himself accompanied him\nto the scene of the catastrophe. Mary sat still, for she had suddenly\nbecome possessed of an idea. She drove it from her as foolishness, but\nit kept returning. Why had those tree-trunks been spilt on the road?\nWhy had an easy pass after a moderate snowfall been suddenly closed?\n\nA man came out of the inn-yard and spoke to the chauffeur. It seemed to\nbe an offer of refreshment, for the latter left his seat and\ndisappeared inside. He was away for some time and returned shivering\nand grumbling at the weather, with the collar of his greatcoat turned\nup around his ears. A lantern had been hung in the porch and as he\npassed Mary saw the man. She had been watching the back of his head\nidly during the long drive, and had observed that it was of the round\nbullet type, with no nape to the neck, which is common in the\nFatherland. Now she could not see his neck for the coat collar, but she\ncould have sworn that the head was a different shape. The man seemed to\nsuffer acutely from the cold, for he buttoned the collar round his chin\nand pulled his cap far over his brows.\n\nIvery came back, followed by a dragging line of men with spades and\nlanterns. He flung himself into the front seat and nodded to the driver\nto start. The man had his engine going already so as to lose no time.\nHe bumped over the rough debris of the snowfall and then fairly let the\ncar hum. Ivery was anxious for speed, but he did not want his neck\nbroken and he yelled out to take care. The driver nodded and slowed\ndown, but presently he had got up speed again.\n\nIf Ivery was restless, Mary was worse. She seemed suddenly to have come\non the traces of her friends. In the St Anton valley the snow had\nstopped and she let down the window for air, for she was choking with\nsuspense. The car rushed past the station, down the hill by Peter's\ncottage, through the village, and along the lake shore to the Pink\nChalet.\n\nIvery halted it at the gate. 'See that you fill up with petrol,' he\ntold the man. 'Bid Gustav get the Daimler and be ready to follow in\nhalf in hour.'\n\nHe spoke to Mary through the open window.\n\n'I will keep you only a very little time. I think you had better wait\nin the car, for it will be more comfortable than a dismantled house. A\nservant will bring you food and more rugs for the night journey.'\n\nThen he vanished up the dark avenue.\n\nMary's first thought was to slip out and get back to the village and\nthere to find someone who knew me or could take her where Peter lived.\nBut the driver would prevent her, for he had been left behind on guard.\nShe looked anxiously at his back, for he alone stood between her and\nliberty.\n\nThat gentleman seemed to be intent on his own business. As soon as\nIvery's footsteps had grown faint, he had backed the car into the\nentrance, and turned it so that it faced towards St Anton. Then very\nslowly it began to move.\n\nAt the same moment a whistle was blown shrilly three times. The door on\nthe right had opened and someone who had been waiting in the shadows\nclimbed painfully in. Mary saw that it was a little man and that he was\na cripple. She reached a hand to help him, and he fell on to the\ncushions beside her. The car was gathering speed.\n\nBefore she realized what was happening the new-comer had taken her hand\nand was patting it.\n\n            *       *       *       *       *\n\nAbout two minutes later I was entering the gate of the Pink Chalet.\n\n\n\nCHAPTER NINETEEN\n\nThe Cage of the Wild Birds\n\n'Why, Mr Ivery, come right in,' said the voice at the table. There was\na screen before me, stretching from the fireplace to keep off the\ndraught from the door by which I had entered. It stood higher than my\nhead but there were cracks in it through which I could watch the room.\nI found a little table on which I could lean my back, for I was\ndropping with fatigue.\n\nBlenkiron sat at the writing-table and in front of him were little rows\nof Patience cards. Wood ashes still smouldered in the stove, and a lamp\nstood at his right elbow which lit up the two figures. The bookshelves\nand the cabinets were in twilight.\n\n'I've been hoping to see you for quite a time.' Blenkiron was busy\narranging the little heaps of cards, and his face was wreathed in\nhospitable smiles. I remember wondering why he should play the host to\nthe true master of the house.\n\nIvery stood erect before him. He was rather a splendid figure now that\nhe had sloughed all disguises and was on the threshold of his triumph.\nEven through the fog in which my brain worked it was forced upon me\nthat here was a man born to play a big part. He had a jowl like a Roman\nking on a coin, and scornful eyes that were used to mastery. He was\nyounger than me, confound him, and now he looked it.\n\nHe kept his eyes on the speaker, while a smile played round his mouth,\na very ugly smile.\n\n'So,' he said. 'We have caught the old crow too. I had scarcely hoped\nfor such good fortune, and, to speak the truth, I had not concerned\nmyself much about you. But now we shall add you to the bag. And what a\nbag of vermin to lay out on the lawn!' He flung back his head and\nlaughed.\n\n'Mr Ivery--' Blenkiron began, but was cut short.\n\n'Drop that name. All that is past, thank God! I am the Graf von\nSchwabing, an officer of the Imperial Guard. I am not the least of the\nweapons that Germany has used to break her enemies.'\n\n'You don't say,' drawled Blenkiron, still fiddling with his Patience\ncards.\n\nThe man's moment had come, and he was minded not to miss a jot of his\ntriumph. His figure seemed to expand, his eye kindled, his voice rang\nwith pride. It was melodrama of the best kind and he fairly rolled it\nround his tongue. I don't think I grudged it him, for I was fingering\nsomething in my pocket. He had won all right, but he wouldn't enjoy his\nvictory long, for soon I would shoot him. I had my eye on the very spot\nabove his right ear where I meant to put my bullet ... For I was very\nclear that to kill him was the only way to protect Mary. I feared the\nwhole seventy millions of Germany less than this man. That was the\nsingle idea that remained firm against the immense fatigue that pressed\ndown on me.\n\n'I have little time to waste on you,' said he who had been called\nIvery. 'But I will spare a moment to tell you a few truths. Your\nchildish game never had a chance. I played with you in England and I\nhave played with you ever since. You have never made a move but I have\nquietly countered it. Why, man, you gave me your confidence. The\nAmerican Mr Donne ...'\n\n'What about Clarence?' asked Blenkiron. His face seemed a study in pure\nbewilderment.\n\n'I was that interesting journalist.'\n\n'Now to think of that!' said Blenkiron in a sad, gentle voice. 'I\nthought I was safe with Clarence. Why, he brought me a letter from old\nJoe Hooper and he knew all the boys down Emporia way.'\n\nIvery laughed. 'You have never done me justice, I fear; but I think you\nwill do it now. Your gang is helpless in my hands. General Hannay ...'\nAnd I wish I could give you a notion of the scorn with which he\npronounced the word 'General'.\n\n'Yes--Dick?' said Blenkiron intently.\n\n'He has been my prisoner for twenty-four hours. And the pretty Miss\nMary, too. You are all going with me in a little to my own country. You\nwill not guess how. We call it the Underground Railway, and you will\nhave the privilege of studying its working.... I had not troubled much\nabout you, for I had no special dislike of you. You are only a\nblundering fool, what you call in your country easy fruit.'\n\n'I thank you, Graf,' Blenkiron said solemnly.\n\n'But since you are here you will join the others ... One last word. To\nbeat inepts such as you is nothing. There is a far greater thing. My\ncountry has conquered. You and your friends will be dragged at the\nchariot wheels of a triumph such as Rome never saw. Does that penetrate\nyour thick skull? Germany has won, and in two days the whole round\nearth will be stricken dumb by her greatness.'\n\nAs I watched Blenkiron a grey shadow of hopelessness seemed to settle\non his face. His big body drooped in his chair, his eyes fell, and his\nleft hand shuffled limply among his Patience cards. I could not get my\nmind to work, but I puzzled miserably over his amazing blunders. He had\nwalked blindly into the pit his enemies had dug for him. Peter must\nhave failed to get my message to him, and he knew nothing of last\nnight's work or my mad journey to Italy. We had all bungled, the whole\nwretched bunch of us, Peter and Blenkiron and myself ... I had a\nfeeling at the back of my head that there was something in it all that\nI couldn't understand, that the catastrophe could not be quite as\nsimple as it seemed. But I had no power to think, with the insolent\nfigure of Ivery dominating the room ... Thank God I had a bullet\nwaiting for him. That was the one fixed point in the chaos of my mind.\nFor the first time in my life I was resolute on killing one particular\nman, and the purpose gave me a horrid comfort.\n\nSuddenly Ivery's voice rang out sharp. 'Take your hand out of your\npocket. You fool, you are covered from three points in the walls. A\nmovement and my men will make a sieve of you. Others before you have\nsat in that chair, and I am used to take precautions. Quick. Both hands\non the table.'\n\nThere was no mistake about Blenkiron's defeat. He was done and out, and\nI was left with the only card. He leaned wearily on his arms with the\npalms of his hands spread out.\n\n'I reckon you've gotten a strong hand, Graf,' he said, and his voice\nwas flat with despair.\n\n'I hold a royal flush,' was the answer.\n\nAnd then suddenly came a change. Blenkiron raised his head, and his\nsleepy, ruminating eyes looked straight at Ivery.\n\n'I call you,' he said.\n\nI didn't believe my ears. Nor did Ivery.\n\n'The hour for bluff is past,' he said.\n\n'Nevertheless I call you.'\n\nAt that moment I felt someone squeeze through the door behind me and\ntake his place at my side. The light was so dim that I saw only a\nshort, square figure, but a familiar voice whispered in my ear. 'It's\nme--Andra Amos. Man, this is a great ploy. I'm here to see the end o't.'\n\nNo prisoner waiting on the finding of the jury, no commander expecting\nnews of a great battle, ever hung in more desperate suspense than I did\nduring the next seconds. I had forgotten my fatigue; my back no longer\nneeded support. I kept my eyes glued to the crack in the screen and my\nears drank in greedily every syllable.\n\nBlenkiron was now sitting bolt upright with his chin in his hands.\nThere was no shadow of melancholy in his lean face.\n\n'I say I call you, Herr Graf von Schwabing. I'm going to put you wise\nabout some little things. You don't carry arms, so I needn't warn you\nagainst monkeying with a gun. You're right in saying that there are\nthree places in these walls from which you can shoot. Well, for your\ninformation I may tell you that there's guns in all three, but they're\ncovering _you_ at this moment. So you'd better be good.'\n\nIvery sprang to attention like a ramrod. 'Karl,' he cried. 'Gustav!'\n\nAs if by magic figures stood on either side of him, like warders by a\ncriminal. They were not the sleek German footmen whom I had seen at the\nChalet. One I did not recognize. The other was my servant, Geordie\nHamilton.\n\nHe gave them one glance, looked round like a hunted animal, and then\nsteadied himself. The man had his own kind of courage.\n\n'I've gotten something to say to you,' Blenkiron drawled. 'It's been a\ntough fight, but I reckon the hot end of the poker is with you. I\ncompliment you on Clarence Donne. You fooled me fine over that\nbusiness, and it was only by the mercy of God you didn't win out. You\nsee, there was just the one of us who was liable to recognize you\nwhatever way you twisted your face, and that was Dick Hannay. I give\nyou good marks for Clarence ... For the rest, I had you beaten flat.'\n\nHe looked steadily at him. 'You don't believe it. Well, I'll give you\nproof. I've been watching your Underground Railway for quite a time.\nI've had my men on the job, and I reckon most of the lines are now\nclosed for repairs. All but the trunk line into France. That I'm\nkeeping open, for soon there's going to be some traffic on it.'\n\nAt that I saw Ivery's eyelids quiver. For all his self-command he was\nbreaking.\n\n'I admit we cut it mighty fine, along of your fooling me about\nClarence. But you struck a bad snag in General Hannay, Graf. Your\nheart-to-heart talk with him was poor business. You reckoned you had\nhim safe, but that was too big a risk to take with a man like Dick,\nunless you saw him cold before you left him ... He got away from this\nplace, and early this morning I knew all he knew. After that it was\neasy. I got the telegram you had sent this morning in the name of\nClarence Donne and it made me laugh. Before midday I had this whole\noutfit under my hand. Your servants have gone by the Underground\nRailway--to France. Ehrlich--well, I'm sorry about Ehrlich.'\n\nI knew now the name of the Portuguese Jew.\n\n'He wasn't a bad sort of man,' Blenkiron said regretfully, 'and he was\nplumb honest. I couldn't get him to listen to reason, and he would play\nwith firearms. So I had to shoot.'\n\n'Dead?' asked Ivery sharply.\n\n'Ye-es. I don't miss, and it was him or me. He's under the ice\nnow--where you wanted to send Dick Hannay. He wasn't your kind, Graf,\nand I guess he has some chance of getting into Heaven. If I weren't a\nhard-shell Presbyterian I'd say a prayer for his soul.'\n\nI looked only at Ivery. His face had gone very pale, and his eyes were\nwandering. I am certain his brain was working at lightning speed, but\nhe was a rat in a steel trap and the springs held him. If ever I saw a\nman going through hell it was now. His pasteboard castle had crumbled\nabout his ears and he was giddy with the fall of it. The man was made\nof pride, and every proud nerve of him was caught on the raw.\n\n'So much for ordinary business,' said Blenkiron. 'There's the matter of\na certain lady. You haven't behaved over-nice about her, Graf, but I'm\nnot going to blame you. You maybe heard a whistle blow when you were\ncoming in here? No! Why, it sounded like Gabriel's trump. Peter must\nhave put some lung power into it. Well, that was the signal that Miss\nMary was safe in your car ... but in our charge. D'you comprehend?'\n\nHe did. The ghost of a flush appeared in his cheeks.\n\n'You ask about General Hannay? I'm not just exactly sure where Dick is\nat the moment, but I opine he's in Italy.'\n\nI kicked aside the screen, thereby causing Amos almost to fall on his\nface.\n\n'I'm back,' I said, and pulled up an arm-chair, and dropped into it.\n\nI think the sight of me was the last straw for Ivery. I was a wild\nenough figure, grey with weariness, soaked, dirty, with the clothes of\nthe porter Joseph Zimmer in rags from the sharp rocks of the\nSchwarzsteinthor. As his eyes caught mine they wavered, and I saw\nterror in them. He knew he was in the presence of a mortal enemy.\n\n'Why, Dick,' said Blenkiron with a beaming face, 'this is mighty\nopportune. How in creation did you get here?'\n\n'I walked,' I said. I did not want to have to speak, for I was too\ntired. I wanted to watch Ivery's face.\n\nBlenkiron gathered up his Patience cards, slipped them into a little\nleather case and put it in his pocket.\n\n'I've one thing more to tell you. The Wild Birds have been summoned\nhome, but they won't ever make it. We've gathered them in--Pavia, and\nHofgaard, and Conradi. Ehrlich is dead. And you are going to join the\nrest in our cage.'\n\nAs I looked at my friend, his figure seemed to gain in presence. He sat\nsquare in his chair with a face like a hanging judge, and his eyes,\nsleepy no more, held Ivery as in a vice. He had dropped, too, his drawl\nand the idioms of his ordinary speech, and his voice came out hard and\nmassive like the clash of granite blocks.\n\n'You're at the bar now, Graf von Schwabing. For years you've done your\nbest against the decencies of life. You have deserved well of your\ncountry, I don't doubt it. But what has your country deserved of the\nworld? One day soon Germany has to do some heavy paying, and you are\nthe first instalment.'\n\n'I appeal to the Swiss law. I stand on Swiss soil, and I demand that I\nbe surrendered to the Swiss authorities.' Ivery spoke with dry lips and\nthe sweat was on his brow.\n\n'Oh, no, no,' said Blenkiron soothingly. 'The Swiss are a nice people,\nand I would hate to add to the worries of a poor little neutral state\n... All along both sides have been outside the law in this game, and\nthat's going to continue. We've abode by the rules and so must you ...\nFor years you've murdered and kidnapped and seduced the weak and\nignorant, but we're not going to judge your morals. We leave that to\nthe Almighty when you get across Jordan. We're going to wash our hands\nof you as soon as we can. You'll travel to France by the Underground\nRailway and there be handed over to the French Government. From what I\nknow they've enough against you to shoot you every hour of the day for\na twelvemonth.'\n\nI think he had expected to be condemned by us there and then and sent\nto join Ehrlich beneath the ice. Anyhow, there came a flicker of hope\ninto his eyes. I daresay he saw some way to dodge the French\nauthorities if he once got a chance to use his miraculous wits. Anyhow,\nhe bowed with something very like self-possession, and asked permission\nto smoke. As I have said, the man had his own courage.\n\n'Blenkiron,' I cried, 'we're going to do nothing of the kind.'\n\nHe inclined his head gravely towards me. 'What's your notion, Dick?'\n\n'We've got to make the punishment fit the crime,' I said. I was so\ntired that I had to form my sentences laboriously, as if I were\nspeaking a half-understood foreign tongue.\n\n'Meaning?'\n\n'I mean that if you hand him over to the French he'll either twist out\nof their hands somehow or get decently shot, which is far too good for\nhim. This man and his kind have sent millions of honest folk to their\ngraves. He has sat spinning his web like a great spider and for every\nthread there has been an ocean of blood spilled. It's his sort that\nmade the war, not the brave, stupid, fighting Boche. It's his sort\nthat's responsible for all the clotted beastliness ... And he's never\nbeen in sight of a shell. I'm for putting him in the front line. No, I\ndon't mean any Uriah the Hittite business. I want him to have a\nsporting chance, just what other men have. But, by God, he's going to\nlearn what is the upshot of the strings he's been pulling so merrily\n... He told me in two days' time Germany would smash our armies to\nhell. He boasted that he would be mostly responsible for it. Well, let\nhim be there to see the smashing.'\n\n'I reckon that's just,' said Blenkiron.\n\nIvery's eyes were on me now, fascinated and terrified like those of a\nbird before a rattlesnake. I saw again the shapeless features of the\nman in the Tube station, the residuum of shrinking mortality behind his\ndisguises. He seemed to be slipping something from his pocket towards\nhis mouth, but Geordie Hamilton caught his wrist.\n\n'Wad ye offer?' said the scandalized voice of my servant. 'Sirr, the\nprisoner would appear to be trying to puishon hisself. Wull I search\nhim?'\n\nAfter that he stood with each arm in the grip of a warder.\n\n'Mr Ivery,' I said, 'last night, when I was in your power, you indulged\nyour vanity by gloating over me. I expected it, for your class does not\nbreed gentlemen. We treat our prisoners differently, but it is fair\nthat you should know your fate. You are going into France, and I will\nsee that you are taken to the British front. There with my old division\nyou will learn something of the meaning of war. Understand that by no\nconceivable chance can you escape. Men will be detailed to watch you\nday and night and to see that you undergo the full rigour of the\nbattlefield. You will have the same experience as other people, no\nmore, no less. I believe in a righteous God and I know that sooner or\nlater you will find death--death at the hands of your own people--an\nhonourable death which is far beyond your deserts. But before it comes\nyou will have understood the hell to which you have condemned honest\nmen.'\n\nIn moments of great fatigue, as in moments of great crisis, the mind\ntakes charge and may run on a track independent of the will. It was not\nmyself that spoke, but an impersonal voice which I did not know, a\nvoice in whose tones rang a strange authority. Ivery recognized the icy\nfinality of it, and his body seemed to wilt, and droop. Only the hold\nof the warders kept him from falling.\n\nI, too, was about at the end of my endurance. I felt dimly that the\nroom had emptied except for Blenkiron and Amos, and that the former was\ntrying to make me drink brandy from the cup of a flask. I struggled to\nmy feet with the intention of going to Mary, but my legs would not\ncarry me ... I heard as in a dream Amos giving thanks to an Omnipotence\nin whom he officially disbelieved. 'What's that the auld man in the\nBible said? Now let thou thy servant depart in peace. That's the way\nI'm feelin' mysel'.' And then slumber came on me like an armed man, and\nin the chair by the dying wood-ash I slept off the ache of my limbs,\nthe tension of my nerves, and the confusion of my brain.\n\n\n\nCHAPTER TWENTY\n\nThe Storm Breaks in the West\n\nThe following evening--it was the 20th day of March--I started for\nFrance after the dark fell. I drove Ivery's big closed car, and within\nsat its owner, bound and gagged, as others had sat before him on the\nsame errand. Geordie Hamilton and Amos were his companions. From what\nBlenkiron had himself discovered and from the papers seized in the Pink\nChalet I had full details of the road and its mysterious stages. It was\nlike the journey of a mad dream. In a back street of a little town I\nwould exchange passwords with a nameless figure and be given\ninstructions. At a wayside inn at an appointed hour a voice speaking a\nthick German would advise that this bridge or that railway crossing had\nbeen cleared. At a hamlet among pine woods an unknown man would clamber\nup beside me and take me past a sentry-post. Smooth as clockwork was\nthe machine, till in the dawn of a spring morning I found myself\ndropping into a broad valley through little orchards just beginning to\nblossom, and I knew that I was in France. After that, Blenkiron's own\narrangements began, and soon I was drinking coffee with a young\nlieutenant of Chasseurs, and had taken the gag from Ivery's mouth. The\nbluecoats looked curiously at the man in the green ulster whose face\nwas the colour of clay and who lit cigarette from cigarette with a\nshaky hand.\n\nThe lieutenant rang up a General of Division who knew all about us. At\nhis headquarters I explained my purpose, and he telegraphed to an Army\nHeadquarters for a permission which was granted. It was not for nothing\nthat in January I had seen certain great personages in Paris, and that\nBlenkiron had wired ahead of me to prepare the way. Here I handed over\nIvery and his guard, for I wanted them to proceed to Amiens under\nFrench supervision, well knowing that the men of that great army are\nnot used to let slip what they once hold.\n\nIt was a morning of clear spring sunlight when we breakfasted in that\nlittle red-roofed town among vineyards with a shining river looping at\nour feet. The General of Division was an Algerian veteran with a brush\nof grizzled hair, whose eye kept wandering to a map on the wall where\npins and stretched thread made a spider's web.\n\n'Any news from the north?' I asked.\n\n'Not yet,' he said. 'But the attack comes soon. It will be against our\narmy in Champagne.' With a lean finger he pointed out the enemy\ndispositions.\n\n'Why not against the British?' I asked. With a knife and fork I made a\nright angle and put a salt dish in the centre. 'That is the German\nconcentration. They can so mass that we do not know which side of the\nangle they will strike till the blow falls.'\n\n'It is true,' he replied. 'But consider. For the enemy to attack\ntowards the Somme would be to fight over many miles of an old\nbattle-ground where all is still desert and every yard of which you\nBritish know. In Champagne at a bound he might enter unbroken country.\nIt is a long and difficult road to Amiens, but not so long to Chilons.\nSuch is the view of Petain. Does it convince you?'\n\n'The reasoning is good. Nevertheless he will strike at Amiens, and I\nthink he will begin today.'\n\nHe laughed and shrugged his shoulders. '_Nous verrons_. You are\nobstinate, my general, like all your excellent countrymen.'\n\nBut as I left his headquarters an aide-de-camp handed him a message on\na pink slip. He read it, and turned to me with a grave face.\n\n'You have a flair, my friend. I am glad we did not wager. This morning\nat dawn there is great fighting around St Quentin. Be comforted, for\nthey will not pass. Your _Marechal_ will hold them.'\n\nThat was the first news I had of the battle.\n\nAt Dijon according to plan I met the others. I only just caught the\nParis train, and Blenkiron's great wrists lugged me into the carriage\nwhen it was well in motion. There sat Peter, a docile figure in a\ncarefully patched old R.F.C. uniform. Wake was reading a pile of French\npapers, and in a corner Mary, with her feet up on the seat, was sound\nasleep.\n\nWe did not talk much, for the life of the past days had been so hectic\nthat we had no wish to recall it. Blenkiron's face wore an air of\nsatisfaction, and as he looked out at the sunny spring landscape he\nhummed his only tune. Even Wake had lost his restlessness. He had on a\npair of big tortoiseshell reading glasses, and when he looked up from\nhis newspaper and caught my eye he smiled. Mary slept like a child,\ndelicately flushed, her breath scarcely stirring the collar of the\ngreatcoat which was folded across her throat. I remember looking with a\nkind of awe at the curve of her young face and the long lashes that lay\nso softly on her cheek, and wondering how I had borne the anxiety of\nthe last months. Wake raised his head from his reading, glanced at Mary\nand then at me, and his eyes were kind, almost affectionate. He seemed\nto have won peace of mind among the hills.\n\nOnly Peter was out of the picture. He was a strange, disconsolate\nfigure, as he shifted about to ease his leg, or gazed incuriously from\nthe window. He had shaved his beard again, but it did not make him\nyounger, for his face was too lined and his eyes too old to change.\nWhen I spoke to him he looked towards Mary and held up a warning finger.\n\n'I go back to England,' he whispered. 'Your little _mysie_ is going to\ntake care of me till I am settled. We spoke of it yesterday at my\ncottage. I will find a lodging and be patient till the war is over. And\nyou, Dick?'\n\n'Oh, I rejoin my division. Thank God, this job is over. I have an easy\n_trund_ now and can turn my attention to straight-forward soldiering. I\ndon't mind telling you that I'll be glad to think that you and Mary and\nBlenkiron are safe at home. What about you, Wake?'\n\n'I go back to my Labour battalion,' he said cheerfully. 'Like you, I\nhave an easier mind.'\n\nI shook my head. 'We'll see about that. I don't like such sinful waste.\nWe've had a bit of campaigning together and I know your quality.'\n\n'The battalion's quite good enough for me,' and he relapsed into a\nday-old _Temps_.\n\nMary had suddenly woke, and was sitting upright with her fists in her\neyes like a small child. Her hand flew to her hair, and her eyes ran\nover us as if to see that we were all there. As she counted the four of\nus she seemed relieved.\n\n'I reckon you feel refreshed, Miss Mary,' said Blenkiron. 'It's good to\nthink that now we can sleep in peace, all of us. Pretty soon you'll be\nin England and spring will be beginning, and please God it'll be the\nstart of a better world. Our work's over, anyhow.'\n\n'I wonder,' said the girl gravely. 'I don't think there's any discharge\nin this war. Dick, have you news of the battle? This was the day.'\n\n'It's begun,' I said, and told them the little I had learned from the\nFrench General. 'I've made a reputation as a prophet, for he thought\nthe attack was coming in Champagne. It's St Quentin right enough, but I\ndon't know what has happened. We'll hear in Paris.'\n\nMary had woke with a startled air as if she remembered her old instinct\nthat our work would not be finished without a sacrifice, and that\nsacrifice the best of us. The notion kept recurring to me with an\nuneasy insistence. But soon she appeared to forget her anxiety. That\nafternoon as we journeyed through the pleasant land of France she was\nin holiday mood, and she forced all our spirits up to her level. It was\ncalm, bright weather, the long curves of ploughland were beginning to\nquicken into green, the catkins made a blue mist on the willows by the\nwatercourses, and in the orchards by the red-roofed hamlets the blossom\nwas breaking. In such a scene it was hard to keep the mind sober and\ngrey, and the pall of war slid from us. Mary cosseted and fussed over\nPeter like an elder sister over a delicate little boy. She made him\nstretch his bad leg full length on the seat, and when she made tea for\nthe party of us it was a protesting Peter who had the last sugar\nbiscuit. Indeed, we were almost a merry company, for Blenkiron told\nstories of old hunting and engineering days in the West, and Peter and\nI were driven to cap them, and Mary asked provocative questions, and\nWake listened with amused interest. It was well that we had the\ncarriage to ourselves, for no queerer rigs were ever assembled. Mary,\nas always, was neat and workmanlike in her dress; Blenkiron was\nmagnificent in a suit of russet tweed with a pale-blue shirt and\ncollar, and well-polished brown shoes; but Peter and Wake were in\nuniforms which had seen far better days, and I wore still the boots and\nthe shapeless and ragged clothes of Joseph Zimmer, the porter from\nArosa.\n\nWe appeared to forget the war, but we didn't, for it was in the\nbackground of all our minds. Somewhere in the north there was raging a\ndesperate fight, and its issue was the true test of our success or\nfailure. Mary showed it by bidding me ask for news at every\nstopping-place. I asked gendarmes and _Permissionnaires_, but I learned\nnothing. Nobody had ever heard of the battle. The upshot was that for\nthe last hour we all fell silent, and when we reached Paris about seven\no'clock my first errand was to the bookstall.\n\nI bought a batch of evening papers, which we tried to read in the taxis\nthat carried us to our hotel. Sure enough there was the announcement in\nbig headlines. The enemy had attacked in great strength from south of\nArras to the Oise; but everywhere he had been repulsed and held in our\nbattle-zone. The leading articles were confident, the notes by the\nvarious military critics were almost braggart. At last the German had\nbeen driven to an offensive, and the Allies would have the opportunity\nthey had longed for of proving their superior fighting strength. It\nwas, said one and all, the opening of the last phase of the war.\n\nI confess that as I read my heart sank. If the civilians were so\nover-confident, might not the generals have fallen into the same trap?\nBlenkiron alone was unperturbed. Mary said nothing, but she sat with\nher chin in her hands, which with her was a sure sign of deep\npreoccupation.\n\nNext morning the papers could tell us little more. The main attack had\nbeen on both sides of St Quentin, and though the British had given\nground it was only the outposts line that had gone. The mist had\nfavoured the enemy, and his bombardment had been terrific, especially\nthe gas shells. Every journal added the old old comment--that he had\npaid heavily for his temerity, with losses far exceeding those of the\ndefence.\n\nWake appeared at breakfast in his private's uniform. He wanted to get\nhis railway warrant and be off at once, but when I heard that Amiens\nwas his destination I ordered him to stay and travel with me in the\nafternoon. I was in uniform myself now and had taken charge of the\noutfit. I arranged that Blenkiron, Mary, and Peter should go on to\nBoulogne and sleep the night there, while Wake and I would be dropped\nat Amiens to await instructions.\n\nI spent a busy morning. Once again I visited with Blenkiron the little\ncabinet in the Boulevard St Germain, and told in every detail our work\nof the past two months. Once again I sat in the low building beside the\nInvalides and talked to staff officers. But some of the men I had seen\non the first visit were not there. The chiefs of the French Army had\ngone north.\n\nWe arranged for the handling of the Wild Birds, now safely in France,\nand sanction was given to the course I had proposed to adopt with\nIvery. He and his guard were on their way to Amiens, and I would meet\nthem there on the morrow. The great men were very complimentary to us,\nso complimentary that my knowledge of grammatical French ebbed away and\nI could only stutter in reply. That telegram sent by Blenkiron on the\nnight of the 18th, from the information given me in the Pink Chalet,\nhad done wonders in clearing up the situation.\n\nBut when I asked them about the battle they could tell me little. It\nwas a very serious attack in tremendous force, but the British line was\nstrong and the reserves were believed to be sufficient. Petain and Foch\nhad gone north to consult with Haig. The situation in Champagne was\nstill obscure, but some French reserves were already moving thence to\nthe Somme sector. One thing they did show me, the British dispositions.\nAs I looked at the plan I saw that my old division was in the thick of\nthe fighting.\n\n'Where do you go now?' I was asked.\n\n'To Amiens, and then, please God, to the battle front,' I said.\n\n'Good fortune to you. You do not give body or mind much rest, my\ngeneral.'\n\nAfter that I went to the _Mission Anglaise_, but they had nothing\nbeyond Haig's communique and a telephone message from G.H.Q. that the\ncritical sector was likely to be that between St Quentin and the Oise.\nThe northern pillar of our defence, south of Arras, which they had been\nnervous about, had stood like a rock. That pleased me, for my old\nbattalion of the Lennox Highlanders was there.\n\nCrossing the Place de la Concorde, we fell in with a British staff\nofficer of my acquaintance, who was just starting to motor back to\nG.H.Q. from Paris leave. He had a longer face than the people at the\nInvalides.\n\n'I don't like it, I tell you,' he said. 'It's this mist that worries\nme. I went down the whole line from Arras to the Oise ten days ago. It\nwas beautifully sited, the cleverest thing you ever saw. The outpost\nline was mostly a chain of blobs--redoubts, you know, with\nmachine-guns--so arranged as to bring flanking fire to bear on the\nadvancing enemy. But mist would play the devil with that scheme, for\nthe enemy would be past the place for flanking fire before we knew\nit... Oh, I know we had good warning, and had the battle-zone manned in\ntime, but the outpost line was meant to hold out long enough to get\neverything behind in apple-pie order, and I can't see but how big\nchunks of it must have gone in the first rush.... Mind you, we've\nbanked everything on that battle-zone. It's damned good, but if it's\ngone--'He flung up his hands.\n\n'Have we good reserves?' I asked.\n\nHe shrugged his shoulders.\n\n'Have we positions prepared behind the battle-zone?'\n\n'I didn't notice any,' he said dryly, and was off before I could get\nmore out of him.\n\n'You look rattled, Dick,' said Blenkiron as we walked to the hotel.\n\n'I seem to have got the needle. It's silly, but I feel worse about this\nshow than I've ever felt since the war started. Look at this city here.\nThe papers take it easily, and the people are walking about as if\nnothing was happening. Even the soldiers aren't worried. You may call\nme a fool to take it so hard, but I've a sense in my bones that we're\nin for the bloodiest and darkest fight of our lives, and that soon\nParis will be hearing the Boche guns as she did in 1914.'\n\n'You're a cheerful old Jeremiah. Well, I'm glad Miss Mary's going to be\nin England soon. Seems to me she's right and that this game of ours\nisn't quite played out yet. I'm envying you some, for there's a place\nwaiting for you in the fighting line.'\n\n'You've got to get home and keep people's heads straight there. That's\nthe weak link in our chain and there's a mighty lot of work before you.'\n\n'Maybe,' he said abstractedly, with his eye on the top of the Vendome\ncolumn.\n\nThe train that afternoon was packed with officers recalled from leave,\nand it took all the combined purchase of Blenkiron and myself to get a\ncarriage reserved for our little party. At the last moment I opened the\ndoor to admit a warm and agitated captain of the R.F.C. in whom I\nrecognized my friend and benefactor, Archie Roylance.\n\n'Just when I was gettin' nice and clean and comfy a wire comes tellin'\nme to bundle back, all along of a new battle. It's a cruel war, Sir.'\nThe afflicted young man mopped his forehead, grinned cheerfully at\nBlenkiron, glanced critically at Peter, then caught sight of Mary and\ngrew at once acutely conscious of his appearance. He smoothed his hair,\nadjusted his tie and became desperately sedate.\n\nI introduced him to Peter and he promptly forgot Mary's existence. If\nPeter had had any vanity in him it would have been flattered by the\nfrank interest and admiration in the boy's eyes. 'I'm tremendously glad\nto see you safe back, sir. I've always hoped I might have a chance of\nmeeting you. We want you badly now on the front. Lensch is gettin' a\nbit uppish.'\n\nThen his eye fell on Peter's withered leg and he saw that he had\nblundered. He blushed scarlet and looked his apologies. But they\nweren't needed, for it cheered Peter to meet someone who talked of the\npossibility of his fighting again. Soon the two were deep in\ntechnicalities, the appalling technicalities of the airman. It was no\ngood listening to their talk, for you could make nothing of it, but it\nwas bracing up Peter like wine. Archie gave him a minute description of\nLensch's latest doings and his new methods. He, too, had heard the\nrumour that Peter had mentioned to me at St Anton, of a new Boche\nplane, with mighty engines and stumpy wings cunningly cambered, which\nwas a devil to climb; but no specimens had yet appeared over the line.\nThey talked of Bali, and Rhys Davids, and Bishop, and McCudden, and all\nthe heroes who had won their spurs since the Somme, and of the new\nBritish makes, most of which Peter had never seen and had to have\nexplained to him.\n\nOutside a haze had drawn over the meadows with the twilight. I pointed\nit out to Blenkiron.\n\n'There's the fog that's doing us. This March weather is just like\nOctober, mist morning and evening. I wish to Heaven we could have some\ngood old drenching spring rain.'\n\nArchie was discoursing of the Shark-Gladas machine.\n\n'I've always stuck to it, for it's a marvel in its way, but it has my\nheart fairly broke. The General here knows its little tricks. Don't\nyou, sir? Whenever things get really excitin', the engine's apt to quit\nwork and take a rest.'\n\n'The whole make should be publicly burned,' I said, with gloomy\nrecollections.\n\n'I wouldn't go so far, sir. The old Gladas has surprisin' merits. On\nher day there's nothing like her for pace and climbing-power, and she\nsteers as sweet as a racin' cutter. The trouble about her is she's too\ncomplicated. She's like some breeds of car--you want to be a mechanical\ngenius to understand her ... If they'd only get her a little simpler\nand safer, there wouldn't be her match in the field. I'm about the only\nman that has patience with her and knows her merits, but she's often\nbeen nearly the death of me. All the same, if I were in for a big fight\nagainst some fellow like Lensch, where it was neck or nothing, I'm\nhanged if I wouldn't pick the Gladas.'\n\nArchie laughed apologetically. 'The subject is banned for me in our\nmess. I'm the old thing's only champion, and she's like a mare I used\nto hunt that loved me so much she was always tryin' to chew the arm off\nme. But I wish I could get her a fair trial from one of the big pilots.\nI'm only in the second class myself after all.'\n\nWe were running north of St Just when above the rattle of the train\nrose a curious dull sound. It came from the east, and was like the low\ngrowl of a veld thunderstorm, or a steady roll of muffled drums.\n\n'Hark to the guns!' cried Archie. 'My aunt, there's a tidy bombardment\ngoin' on somewhere.'\n\nI had been listening on and off to guns for three years. I had been\npresent at the big preparations before Loos and the Somme and Arras,\nand I had come to accept the racket of artillery as something natural\nand inevitable like rain or sunshine. But this sound chilled me with\nits eeriness, I don't know why. Perhaps it was its unexpectedness, for\nI was sure that the guns had not been heard in this area since before\nthe Marne. The noise must be travelling down the Oise valley, and I\njudged there was big fighting somewhere about Chauny or La Fere. That\nmeant that the enemy was pressing hard on a huge front, for here was\nclearly a great effort on his extreme left wing. Unless it was our\ncounter-attack. But somehow I didn't think so.\n\nI let down the window and stuck my head into the night. The fog had\ncrept to the edge of the track, a gossamer mist through which houses\nand trees and cattle could be seen dim in the moonlight. The noise\ncontinued--not a mutter, but a steady rumbling flow as solid as the\nblare of a trumpet. Presently, as we drew nearer Amiens, we left it\nbehind us, for in all the Somme valley there is some curious\nconfiguration which blankets sound. The countryfolk call it the 'Silent\nLand', and during the first phase of the Somme battle a man in Amiens\ncould not hear the guns twenty miles off at Albert.\n\nAs I sat down again I found that the company had fallen silent, even\nthe garrulous Archie. Mary's eyes met mine, and in the indifferent\nlight of the French railway-carriage I could see excitement in them--I\nknew it was excitement, not fear. She had never heard the noise of a\ngreat barrage before. Blenkiron was restless, and Peter was sunk in his\nown thoughts. I was growing very depressed, for in a little I would\nhave to part from my best friends and the girl I loved. But with the\ndepression was mixed an odd expectation, which was almost pleasant. The\nguns had brought back my profession to me, I was moving towards their\nthunder, and God only knew the end of it. The happy dream I had dreamed\nof the Cotswolds and a home with Mary beside me seemed suddenly to have\nfallen away to an infinite distance. I felt once again that I was on\nthe razor-edge of life.\n\nThe last part of the journey I was casting back to rake up my knowledge\nof the countryside. I saw again the stricken belt from Serre to Combles\nwhere we had fought in the summer of '17. I had not been present in the\nadvance of the following spring, but I had been at Cambrai and I knew\nall the down country from Lagnicourt to St Quentin. I shut my eyes and\ntried to picture it, and to see the roads running up to the line, and\nwondered just at what points the big pressure had come. They had told\nme in Paris that the British were as far south as the Oise, so the\nbombardment we had heard must be directed to our address. With\nPasschendaele and Cambrai in my mind, and some notion of the\ndifficulties we had always had in getting drafts, I was puzzled to\nthink where we could have found the troops to man the new front. We\nmust be unholily thin on that long line. And against that awesome\nbombardment! And the masses and the new tactics that Ivery had bragged\nof!\n\nWhen we ran into the dingy cavern which is Amiens station I seemed to\nnote a new excitement. I felt it in the air rather than deduced it from\nany special incident, except that the platform was very crowded with\ncivilians, most of them with an extra amount of baggage. I wondered if\nthe place had been bombed the night before.\n\n'We won't say goodbye yet,' I told the others. 'The train doesn't leave\nfor half an hour. I'm off to try and get news.'\n\nAccompanied by Archie, I hunted out an R.T.O. of my acquaintance. To my\nquestions he responded cheerfully.\n\n'Oh, we're doing famously, sir. I heard this afternoon from a man in\nOperations that G.H.Q. was perfectly satisfied. We've killed a lot of\nHuns and only lost a few kilometres of ground ... You're going to your\ndivision? Well, it's up Peronne way, or was last night. Cheyne and\nDunthorpe came back from leave and tried to steal a car to get up to it\n... Oh, I'm having the deuce of a time. These blighted civilians have\ngot the wind up, and a lot are trying to clear out. The idiots say the\nHuns will be in Amiens in a week. What's the phrase? \"_Pourvu que les\ncivils tiennent._\" 'Fraid I must push on, Sir.'\n\nI sent Archie back with these scraps of news and was about to make a\nrush for the house of one of the Press officers, who would, I thought,\nbe in the way of knowing things, when at the station entrance I ran\nacross Laidlaw. He had been B.G.G.S. in the corps to which my old\nbrigade belonged, and was now on the staff of some army. He was\nstriding towards a car when I grabbed his arm, and he turned on me a\nvery sick face.\n\n'Good Lord, Hannay! Where did you spring from? The news, you say?' He\nsank his voice, and drew me into a quiet corner. 'The news is hellish.'\n\n'They told me we were holding,' I observed.\n\n'Holding be damned! The Boche is clean through on a broad front. He\nbroke us today at Maissemy and Essigny. Yes, the battle-zone. He's\nflinging in division after division like the blows of a hammer. What\nelse could you expect?' And he clutched my arm fiercely. 'How in God's\nname could eleven divisions hold a front of forty miles? And against\nfour to one in numbers? It isn't war, it's naked lunacy.'\n\nI knew the worst now, and it didn't shock me, for I had known it was\ncoming. Laidlaw's nerves were pretty bad, for his face was pale and his\neyes bright like a man with a fever.\n\n'Reserves!' and he laughed bitterly. 'We have three infantry divisions\nand two cavalry. They're into the mill long ago. The French are coming\nup on our right, but they've the devil of a way to go. That's what I'm\ndown here about. And we're getting help from Horne and Plumer. But all\nthat takes days, and meantime we're walking back like we did at Mons.\nAnd at this time of day, too ... Oh, yes, the whole line's retreating.\nParts of it were pretty comfortable, but they had to get back or be put\nin the bag. I wish to Heaven I knew where our right divisions have got\nto. For all I know they're at Compiegne by now. The Boche was over the\ncanal this morning, and by this time most likely he's across the Somme.'\n\nAt that I exclaimed. 'D'you mean to tell me we're going to lose\nPeronne?'\n\n'Peronne!' he cried. 'We'll be lucky not to lose Amiens! ... And on the\ntop of it all I've got some kind of blasted fever. I'll be raving in an\nhour.'\n\nHe was rushing off, but I held him.\n\n'What about my old lot?' I asked.\n\n'Oh, damned good, but they're shot all to bits. Every division did\nwell. It's a marvel they weren't all scuppered, and it'll be a flaming\nmiracle if they find a line they can stand on. Westwater's got a leg\nsmashed. He was brought down this evening, and you'll find him in the\nhospital. Fraser's killed and Lefroy's a prisoner--at least, that was\nmy last news. I don't know who's got the brigades, but Masterton's\ncarrying on with the division ... You'd better get up the line as fast\nas you can and take over from him. See the Army Commander. He'll be in\nAmiens tomorrow morning for a pow-wow.'\n\nLaidlaw lay wearily back in his car and disappeared into the night,\nwhile I hurried to the train.\n\nThe others had descended to the platform and were grouped round Archie,\nwho was discoursing optimistic nonsense. I got them into the carriage\nand shut the door.\n\n'It's pretty bad,' I said. 'The front's pierced in several places and\nwe're back to the Upper Somme. I'm afraid it isn't going to stop there.\nI'm off up the line as soon as I can get my orders. Wake, you'll come\nwith me, for every man will be wanted. Blenkiron, you'll see Mary and\nPeter safe to England. We're just in time, for tomorrow it mightn't be\neasy to get out of Amiens.'\n\nI can see yet the anxious faces in that ill-lit compartment. We said\ngoodbye after the British style without much to-do. I remember that old\nPeter gripped my hand as if he would never release it, and that Mary's\nface had grown very pale. If I delayed another second I should have\nhowled, for Mary's lips were trembling and Peter had eyes like a\nwounded stag. 'God bless you,' I said hoarsely, and as I went off I\nheard Peter's voice, a little cracked, saying 'God bless you, my old\nfriend.'\n\n            *       *       *       *       *\n\nI spent some weary hours looking for Westwater. He was not in the big\nclearing station, but I ran him to earth at last in the new hospital\nwhich had just been got going in the Ursuline convent. He was the most\nsterling little man, in ordinary life rather dry and dogmatic, with a\ntrick of taking you up sharply which didn't make him popular. Now he\nwas lying very stiff and quiet in the hospital bed, and his blue eyes\nwere solemn and pathetic like a sick dog's.\n\n'There's nothing much wrong with me,' he said, in reply to my question.\n'A shell dropped beside me and damaged my foot. They say they'll have\nto cut it off ... I've an easier mind now you're here, Hannay. Of\ncourse you'll take over from Masterton. He's a good man but not quite\nup to his job. Poor Fraser--you've heard about Fraser. He was done in\nat the very start. Yes, a shell. And Lefroy. If he's alive and not too\nbadly smashed the Hun has got a troublesome prisoner.'\n\nHe was too sick to talk, but he wouldn't let me go.\n\n'The division was all right. Don't you believe anyone who says we\ndidn't fight like heroes. Our outpost line held up the Hun for six\nhours, and only about a dozen men came back. We could have stuck it out\nin the battle-zone if both flanks hadn't been turned. They got through\nCrabbe's left and came down the Verey ravine, and a big wave rushed\nShropshire Wood ... We fought it out yard by yard and didn't budge till\nwe saw the Plessis dump blazing in our rear. Then it was about time to\ngo ... We haven't many battalion commanders left. Watson, Endicot,\nCrawshay ...' He stammered out a list of gallant fellows who had gone.\n\n'Get back double quick, Hannay. They want you. I'm not happy about\nMasterton. He's too young for the job.' And then a nurse drove me out,\nand I left him speaking in the strange forced voice of great weakness.\n\nAt the foot of the staircase stood Mary.\n\n'I saw you go in,' she said, 'so I waited for you.'\n\n'Oh, my dear,' I cried, 'you should have been in Boulogne by now. What\nmadness brought you here?'\n\n'They know me here and they've taken me on. You couldn't expect me to\nstay behind. You said yourself everybody was wanted, and I'm in a\nService like you. Please don't be angry, Dick.'\n\nI wasn't angry, I wasn't even extra anxious. The whole thing seemed to\nhave been planned by fate since the creation of the world. The game we\nhad been engaged in wasn't finished and it was right that we should\nplay it out together. With that feeling came a conviction, too, of\nultimate victory. Somehow or sometime we should get to the end of our\npilgrimage. But I remembered Mary's forebodings about the sacrifice\nrequired. The best of us. That ruled me out, but what about her?\n\nI caught her to my arms. 'Goodbye, my very dearest. Don't worry about\nme, for mine's a soft job and I can look after my skin. But oh! take\ncare of yourself, for you are all the world to me.'\n\nShe kissed me gravely like a wise child.\n\n'I am not afraid for you,' she said. 'You are going to stand in the\nbreach, and I know--I know you will win. Remember that there is someone\nhere whose heart is so full of pride of her man that it hasn't room for\nfear.'\n\nAs I went out of the convent door I felt that once again I had been\ngiven my orders.\n\n            *       *       *       *       *\n\nIt did not surprise me that, when I sought out my room on an upper\nfloor of the Hotel de France, I found Blenkiron in the corridor. He was\nin the best of spirits.\n\n'You can't keep me out of the show, Dick,' he said, 'so you needn't\nstart arguing. Why, this is the one original chance of a lifetime for\nJohn S. Blenkiron. Our little fight at Erzerum was only a side-show,\nbut this is a real high-class Armageddon. I guess I'll find a way to\nmake myself useful.'\n\nI had no doubt he would, and I was glad he had stayed behind. But I\nfelt it was hard on Peter to have the job of returning to England alone\nat such a time, like useless flotsam washed up by a flood.\n\n'You needn't worry,' said Blenkiron. 'Peter's not making England this\ntrip. To the best of my knowledge he has beat it out of this township\nby the eastern postern. He had some talk with Sir Archibald Roylance,\nand presently other gentlemen of the Royal Flying Corps appeared, and\nthe upshot was that Sir Archibald hitched on to Peter's grip and\ndeparted without saying farewell. My notion is that he's gone to have a\nfew words with his old friends at some flying station. Or he might have\nthe idea of going back to England by aeroplane, and so having one last\nflutter before he folds his wings. Anyhow, Peter looked a mighty happy\nman. The last I saw he was smoking his pipe with a batch of young lads\nin a Flying Corps waggon and heading straight for Germany.'\n\n\n\nCHAPTER TWENTY-ONE\n\nHow an Exile Returned to His Own People\n\nNext morning I found the Army Commander on his way to Doullens.\n\n'Take over the division?' he said. 'Certainly. I'm afraid there isn't\nmuch left of it. I'll tell Carr to get through to the Corps\nHeadquarters, when he can find them. You'll have to nurse the remnants,\nfor they can't be pulled out yet--not for a day or two. Bless me,\nHannay, there are parts of our line which we're holding with a man and\na boy. You've got to stick it out till the French take over. We're not\nhanging on by our eyelids--it's our eyelashes now.'\n\n'What about positions to fall back on, sir?' I asked.\n\n'We're doing our best, but we haven't enough men to prepare them.' He\nplucked open a map. 'There we're digging a line--and there. If we can\nhold that bit for two days we shall have a fair line resting on the\nriver. But we mayn't have time.'\n\nThen I told him about Blenkiron, whom of course he had heard of. 'He\nwas one of the biggest engineers in the States, and he's got a nailing\nfine eye for country. He'll make good somehow if you let him help in\nthe job.'\n\n'The very fellow,' he said, and he wrote an order. 'Take this to Jacks\nand he'll fix up a temporary commission. Your man can find a uniform\nsomewhere in Amiens.'\n\nAfter that I went to the detail camp and found that Ivery had duly\narrived.\n\n'The prisoner has given no trouble, sirr,' Hamilton reported. 'But he's\na wee thing peevish. They're saying that the Gairmans is gettin' on\nfine, and I was tellin' him that he should be proud of his ain folk.\nBut he wasn't verra weel pleased.'\n\nThree days had wrought a transformation in Ivery. That face, once so\ncool and capable, was now sharpened like a hunted beast's. His\nimagination was preying on him and I could picture its torture. He, who\nhad been always at the top directing the machine, was now only a cog in\nit. He had never in his life been anything but powerful; now he was\nimpotent. He was in a hard, unfamiliar world, in the grip of something\nwhich he feared and didn't understand, in the charge of men who were in\nno way amenable to his persuasiveness. It was like a proud and bullying\nmanager suddenly forced to labour in a squad of navvies, and worse, for\nthere was the gnawing physical fear of what was coming.\n\nHe made an appeal to me.\n\n'Do the English torture their prisoners?' he asked. 'You have beaten\nme. I own it, and I plead for mercy. I will go on my knees if you like.\nI am not afraid of death--in my own way.'\n\n'Few people are afraid of death--in their own way.'\n\n'Why do you degrade me? I am a gentleman.'\n\n'Not as we define the thing,' I said.\n\nHis jaw dropped. 'What are you going to do with me?' he quavered.\n\n'You have been a soldier,' I said. 'You are going to see a little\nfighting--from the ranks. There will be no brutality, you will be armed\nif you want to defend yourself, you will have the same chance of\nsurvival as the men around you. You may have heard that your countrymen\nare doing well. It is even possible that they may win the battle. What\nwas your forecast to me? Amiens in two days, Abbeville in three. Well,\nyou are a little behind scheduled time, but still you are prospering.\nYou told me that you were the chief architect of all this, and you are\ngoing to be given the chance of seeing it, perhaps of sharing in\nit--from the other side. Does it not appeal to your sense of justice?'\n\nHe groaned and turned away. I had no more pity for him than I would\nhave had for a black mamba that had killed my friend and was now caught\nto a cleft tree. Nor, oddly enough, had Wake. If we had shot Ivery\noutright at St Anton, I am certain that Wake would have called us\nmurderers. Now he was in complete agreement. His passionate hatred of\nwar made him rejoice that a chief contriver of war should be made to\nshare in its terrors.\n\n'He tried to talk me over this morning,' he told me. 'Claimed he was on\nmy side and said the kind of thing I used to say last year. It made me\nrather ashamed of some of my past performances to hear that scoundrel\nimitating them ... By the way, Hannay, what are you going to do with\nme?'\n\n'You're coming on my staff. You're a stout fellow and I can't do\nwithout you.'\n\n'Remember I won't fight.'\n\n'You won't be asked to. We're trying to stem the tide which wants to\nroll to the sea. You know how the Boche behaves in occupied country,\nand Mary's in Amiens.'\n\nAt that news he shut his lips.\n\n'Still--' he began.\n\n'Still,' I said. 'I don't ask you to forfeit one of your blessed\nprinciples. You needn't fire a shot. But I want a man to carry orders\nfor me, for we haven't a line any more, only a lot of blobs like\nquicksilver. I want a clever man for the job and a brave one, and I\nknow that you're not afraid.'\n\n'No,' he said. 'I don't think I am--much. Well. I'm content!'\n\nI started Blenkiron off in a car for Corps Headquarters, and in the\nafternoon took the road myself. I knew every inch of the country--the\nlift of the hill east of Amiens, the Roman highway that ran straight as\nan arrow to St Quentin, the marshy lagoons of the Somme, and that broad\nstrip of land wasted by battle between Dompierre and Peronne. I had\ncome to Amiens through it in January, for I had been up to the line\nbefore I left for Paris, and then it had been a peaceful place, with\npeasants tilling their fields, and new buildings going up on the old\nbattle-field, and carpenters busy at cottage roofs, and scarcely a\ntransport waggon on the road to remind one of war. Now the main route\nwas choked like the Albert road when the Somme battle first\nbegan--troops going up and troops coming down, the latter in the last\nstage of weariness; a ceaseless traffic of ambulances one way and\nammunition waggons the other; busy staff cars trying to worm a way\nthrough the mass; strings of gun horses, oddments of cavalry, and here\nand there blue French uniforms. All that I had seen before; but one\nthing was new to me. Little country carts with sad-faced women and\nmystified children in them and piles of household plenishing were\ncreeping westward, or stood waiting at village doors. Beside these\ntramped old men and boys, mostly in their Sunday best as if they were\ngoing to church. I had never seen the sight before, for I had never\nseen the British Army falling back. The dam which held up the waters\nhad broken and the dwellers in the valley were trying to save their\npitiful little treasures. And over everything, horse and man, cart and\nwheelbarrow, road and tillage, lay the white March dust, the sky was\nblue as June, small birds were busy in the copses, and in the corners\nof abandoned gardens I had a glimpse of the first violets.\n\nPresently as we topped a rise we came within full noise of the guns.\nThat, too, was new to me, for it was no ordinary bombardment. There was\na special quality in the sound, something ragged, straggling,\nintermittent, which I had never heard before. It was the sign of open\nwarfare and a moving battle.\n\nAt Peronne, from which the newly returned inhabitants had a second time\nfled, the battle seemed to be at the doors. There I had news of my\ndivision. It was farther south towards St Christ. We groped our way\namong bad roads to where its headquarters were believed to be, while\nthe voice of the guns grew louder. They turned out to be those of\nanother division, which was busy getting ready to cross the river. Then\nthe dark fell, and while airplanes flew west into the sunset there was\na redder sunset in the east, where the unceasing flashes of gunfire\nwere pale against the angry glow of burning dumps. The sight of the\nbonnet-badge of a Scots Fusilier made me halt, and the man turned out\nto belong to my division. Half an hour later I was taking over from the\nmuch-relieved Masterton in the ruins of what had once been a sugar-beet\nfactory.\n\nThere to my surprise I found Lefroy. The Boche had held him prisoner\nfor precisely eight hours. During that time he had been so interested\nin watching the way the enemy handled an attack that he had forgotten\nthe miseries of his position. He described with blasphemous admiration\nthe endless wheel by which supplies and reserve troops move up, the\nsilence, the smoothness, the perfect discipline. Then he had realized\nthat he was a captive and unwounded, and had gone mad. Being a\nheavy-weight boxer of note, he had sent his two guards spinning into a\nditch, dodged the ensuing shots, and found shelter in the lee of a\nblazing ammunition dump where his pursuers hesitated to follow. Then he\nhad spent an anxious hour trying to get through an outpost line, which\nhe thought was Boche. Only by overhearing an exchange of oaths in the\naccents of Dundee did he realize that it was our own ... It was a\ncomfort to have Lefroy back, for he was both stout-hearted and\nresourceful. But I found that I had a division only on paper. It was\nabout the strength of a brigade, the brigades battalions, and the\nbattalions companies.\n\n            *       *       *       *       *\n\nThis is not the place to write the story of the week that followed. I\ncould not write it even if I wanted to, for I don't know it. There was\na plan somewhere, which you will find in the history books, but with me\nit was blank chaos. Orders came, but long before they arrived the\nsituation had changed, and I could no more obey them than fly to the\nmoon. Often I had lost touch with the divisions on both flanks.\nIntelligence arrived erratically out of the void, and for the most part\nwe worried along without it. I heard we were under the French--first it\nwas said to be Foch, and then Fayolle, whom I had met in Paris. But the\nhigher command seemed a million miles away, and we were left to use our\nmother wits. My problem was to give ground as slowly as possible and at\nthe same time not to delay too long, for retreat we must, with the\nBoche sending in brand-new divisions each morning. It was a kind of war\nworlds distant from the old trench battles, and since I had been taught\nno other I had to invent rules as I went along. Looking back, it seems\na miracle that any of us came out of it. Only the grace of God and the\nuncommon toughness of the British soldier bluffed the Hun and prevented\nhim pouring through the breach to Abbeville and the sea. We were no\nbetter than a mosquito curtain stuck in a doorway to stop the advance\nof an angry bull.\n\nThe Army Commander was right; we were hanging on with our eyelashes. We\nmust have been easily the weakest part of the whole front, for we were\nholding a line which was never less than two miles and was often, as I\njudged, nearer five, and there was nothing in reserve to us except some\noddments of cavalry who chased about the whole battle-field under vague\norders. Mercifully for us the Boche blundered. Perhaps he did not know\nour condition, for our airmen were magnificent and you never saw a\nBoche plane over our line by day, though they bombed us merrily by\nnight. If he had called our bluff we should have been done, but he put\nhis main strength to the north and the south of us. North he pressed\nhard on the Third Army, but he got well hammered by the Guards north of\nBapaume and he could make no headway at Arras. South he drove at the\nParis railway and down the Oise valley, but there Petain's reserves had\narrived, and the French made a noble stand.\n\nNot that he didn't fight hard in the centre where we were, but he\nhadn't his best troops, and after we got west of the bend of the Somme\nhe was outrunning his heavy guns. Still, it was a desperate enough\nbusiness, for our flanks were all the time falling back, and we had to\nconform to movements we could only guess at. After all, we were on the\ndirect route to Amiens, and it was up to us to yield slowly so as to\ngive Haig and Petain time to get up supports. I was a miser about every\nyard of ground, for every yard and every minute were precious. We alone\nstood between the enemy and the city, and in the city was Mary.\n\nIf you ask me about our plans I can't tell you. I had a new one every\nhour. I got instructions from the Corps, but, as I have said, they were\nusually out of date before they arrived, and most of my tactics I had\nto invent myself. I had a plain task, and to fulfil it I had to use\nwhat methods the Almighty allowed me. I hardly slept, I ate little, I\nwas on the move day and night, but I never felt so strong in my life.\nIt seemed as if I couldn't tire, and, oddly enough, I was happy. If a\nman's whole being is focused on one aim, he has no time to worry ... I\nremember we were all very gentle and soft-spoken those days. Lefroy,\nwhose tongue was famous for its edge, now cooed like a dove. The troops\nwere on their uppers, but as steady as rocks. We were against the end\nof the world, and that stiffens a man ...\n\nDay after day saw the same performance. I held my wavering front with\nan outpost line which delayed each new attack till I could take its\nbearings. I had special companies for counter-attack at selected\npoints, when I wanted time to retire the rest of the division. I think\nwe must have fought more than a dozen of such little battles. We lost\nmen all the time, but the enemy made no big scoop, though he was always\non the edge of one. Looking back, it seems like a succession of\nmiracles. Often I was in one end of a village when the Boche was in the\nother. Our batteries were always on the move, and the work of the\ngunners was past praising. Sometimes we faced east, sometimes north,\nand once at a most critical moment due south, for our front waved and\nblew like a flag at a masthead ... Thank God, the enemy was getting\naway from his big engine, and his ordinary troops were fagged and poor\nin quality. It was when his fresh shock battalions came on that I held\nmy breath ... He had a heathenish amount of machine-guns and he used\nthem beautifully. Oh, I take my hat off to the Boche performance. He\nwas doing what we had tried to do at the Somme and the Aisne and Arras\nand Ypres, and he was more or less succeeding. And the reason was that\nhe was going bald-headed for victory.\n\nThe men, as I have said, were wonderfully steady and patient under the\nfiercest trial that soldiers can endure. I had all kinds in the\ndivision--old army, new army, Territorials--and you couldn't pick and\nchoose between them. They fought like Trojans, and, dirty, weary, and\nhungry, found still some salt of humour in their sufferings. It was a\nproof of the rock-bottom sanity of human nature. But we had one man\nwith us who was hardly sane....\n\nIn the hustle of those days I now and then caught sight of Ivery. I had\nto be everywhere at all hours, and often visited that remnant of Scots\nFusiliers into which the subtlest brain in Europe had been drafted. He\nand his keepers were never on outpost duty or in any counter-attack.\nThey were part of the mass whose only business was to retire\ndiscreetly. This was child's play to Hamilton, who had been out since\nMons; and Amos, after taking a day to get used to it, wrapped himself\nin his grim philosophy and rather enjoyed it. You couldn't surprise\nAmos any more than a Turk. But the man with them, whom they never\nleft--that was another matter.\n\n'For the first wee bit,' Hamilton reported, 'we thocht he was gaun\ndaft. Every shell that came near he jumped like a young horse. And the\ngas! We had to tie on his mask for him, for his hands were fushionless.\nThere was whiles when he wadna be hindered from standin' up and talkin'\nto hisself, though the bullets was spittin'. He was what ye call\ndemoralized ... Syne he got as though he didna hear or see onything. He\ndid what we tell't him, and when we let him be he sat down and grat.\nHe's aye greetin' ... Queer thing, sirr, but the Gairmans canna hit\nhim. I'm aye shakin' bullets out o' my claes, and I've got a hole in my\nshoulder, and Andra took a bash on his tin that wad hae felled onybody\nthat hadna a heid like a stot. But, sirr, the prisoner taks no scaith.\nOur boys are feared of him. There was an Irishman says to me that he\nhad the evil eye, and ye can see for yerself that he's no canny.'\n\nI saw that his skin had become like parchment and that his eyes were\nglassy. I don't think he recognized me.\n\n'Does he take his meals?' I asked.\n\n'He doesna eat muckle. But he has an unco thirst. Ye canna keep him off\nthe men's water-bottles.'\n\nHe was learning very fast the meaning of that war he had so confidently\nplayed with. I believe I am a merciful man, but as I looked at him I\nfelt no vestige of pity. He was dreeing the weird he had prepared for\nothers. I thought of Scudder, of the thousand friends I had lost, of\nthe great seas of blood and the mountains of sorrow this man and his\nlike had made for the world. Out of the corner of my eye I could see\nthe long ridges above Combles and Longueval which the salt of the earth\nhad fallen to win, and which were again under the hoof of the Boche. I\nthought of the distracted city behind us and what it meant to me, and\nthe weak, the pitifully weak screen which was all its defence. I\nthought of the foul deeds which had made the German name to stink by\nland and sea, foulness of which he was the arch-begetter. And then I\nwas amazed at our forbearance. He would go mad, and madness for him was\nmore decent than sanity.\n\nI had another man who wasn't what you might call normal, and that was\nWake. He was the opposite of shell-shocked, if you understand me. He\nhad never been properly under fire before, but he didn't give a straw\nfor it. I had known the same thing with other men, and they generally\nended by crumpling up, for it isn't natural that five or six feet of\nhuman flesh shouldn't be afraid of what can torture and destroy it. The\nnatural thing is to be always a little scared, like me, but by an\neffort of the will and attention to work to contrive to forget it. But\nWake apparently never gave it a thought. He wasn't foolhardy, only\nindifferent. He used to go about with a smile on his face, a smile of\ncontentment. Even the horrors--and we had plenty of them--didn't affect\nhim. His eyes, which used to be hot, had now a curious open innocence\nlike Peter's. I would have been happier if he had been a little rattled.\n\nOne night, after we had had a bad day of anxiety, I talked to him as we\nsmoked in what had once been a French dug-out. He was an extra right\narm to me, and I told him so. 'This must be a queer experience for\nyou,' I said.\n\n'Yes,' he replied, 'it is very wonderful. I did not think a man could\ngo through it and keep his reason. But I know many things I did not\nknow before. I know that the soul can be reborn without leaving the\nbody.'\n\nI stared at him, and he went on without looking at me.\n\n'You're not a classical scholar, Hannay? There was a strange cult in\nthe ancient world, the worship of Magna Mater--the Great Mother. To\nenter into her mysteries the votary passed through a bath of\nblood----I think I am passing through that bath. I think that like the\ninitiate I shall be _renatus in aeternum_--reborn into the eternal.'\n\nI advised him to have a drink, for that talk frightened me. It looked\nas if he were becoming what the Scots call 'fey'. Lefroy noticed the\nsame thing and was always speaking about it. He was as brave as a bull\nhimself, and with very much the same kind of courage; but Wake's\ngallantry perturbed him. 'I can't make the chap out,' he told me. 'He\nbehaves as if his mind was too full of better things to give a damn for\nBoche guns. He doesn't take foolish risks--I don't mean that, but he\nbehaves as if risks didn't signify. It's positively eerie to see him\nmaking notes with a steady hand when shells are dropping like\nhailstones and we're all thinking every minute's our last. You've got\nto be careful with him, sir. He's a long sight too valuable for us to\nspare.'\n\nLefroy was right about that, for I don't know what I should have done\nwithout him. The worst part of our job was to keep touch with our\nflanks, and that was what I used Wake for. He covered country like a\nmoss-trooper, sometimes on a rusty bicycle, oftener on foot, and you\ncouldn't tire him. I wonder what other divisions thought of the grimy\nprivate who was our chief means of communication. He knew nothing of\nmilitary affairs before, but he got the hang of this rough-and-tumble\nfighting as if he had been born for it. He never fired a shot; he\ncarried no arms; the only weapons he used were his brains. And they\nwere the best conceivable. I never met a staff officer who was so quick\nat getting a point or at sizing up a situation. He had put his back\ninto the business, and first-class talent is not common anywhere. One\nday a G. S. O. from a neighbouring division came to see me.\n\n'Where on earth did you pick up that man Wake?' he asked.\n\n'He's a conscientious objector and a non-combatant,' I said.\n\n'Then I wish to Heaven we had a few more conscientious objectors in\nthis show. He's the only fellow who seems to know anything about this\nblessed battle. My general's sending you a chit about him.'\n\n'No need,' I said, laughing. 'I know his value. He's an old friend of\nmine.'\n\nI used Wake as my link with Corps Headquarters, and especially with\nBlenkiron. For about the sixth day of the show I was beginning to get\nrather desperate. This kind of thing couldn't go on for ever. We were\nmiles back now, behind the old line of '17, and, as we rested one flank\non the river, the immediate situation was a little easier. But I had\nlost a lot of men, and those that were left were blind with fatigue.\nThe big bulges of the enemy to north and south had added to the length\nof the total front, and I found I had to fan out my thin ranks. The\nBoche was still pressing on, though his impetus was slacker. If he knew\nhow little there was to stop him in my section he might make a push\nwhich would carry him to Amiens. Only the magnificent work of our\nairmen had prevented him getting that knowledge, but we couldn't keep\nthe secrecy up for ever. Some day an enemy plane would get over, and it\nonly needed the drive of a fresh storm-battalion or two to scatter us.\nI wanted a good prepared position, with sound trenches and decent\nwiring. Above all I wanted reserves--reserves. The word was on my lips\nall day and it haunted my dreams. I was told that the French were to\nrelieve us, but when--when? My reports to Corps Headquarters were one\nlong wail for more troops. I knew there was a position prepared behind\nus, but I needed men to hold it.\n\nWake brought in a message from Blenkiron. 'We're waiting for you,\nDick,' he wrote, 'and we've gotten quite a nice little home ready for\nyou. This old man hasn't hustled so hard since he struck copper in\nMontana in '92. We've dug three lines of trenches and made a heap of\npretty redoubts, and I guess they're well laid out, for the Army staff\nhas supervised them and they're no slouches at this brand of\nengineering. You would have laughed to see the labour we employed. We\nhad all breeds of Dago and Chinaman, and some of your own South African\nblacks, and they got so busy on the job they forgot about bedtime. I\nused to be reckoned a bit of a slave driver, but my special talents\nweren't needed with this push. I'm going to put a lot of money into\nforeign missions henceforward.'\n\nI wrote back: 'Your trenches are no good without men. For God's sake\nget something that can hold a rifle. My lot are done to the world.'\n\nThen I left Lefroy with the division and went down on the back of an\nambulance to see for myself. I found Blenkiron, some of the Army\nengineers, and a staff officer from Corps Headquarters, and I found\nArchie Roylance.\n\nThey had dug a mighty good line and wired it nobly. It ran from the\nriver to the wood of La Bruyere on the little hill above the Ablain\nstream. It was desperately long, but I saw at once it couldn't well be\nshorter, for the division on the south of us had its hands full with\nthe fringe of the big thrust against the French.\n\n'It's no good blinking the facts,' I told them. 'I haven't a thousand\nmen, and what I have are at the end of their tether. If you put 'em in\nthese trenches they'll go to sleep on their feet. When can the French\ntake over?'\n\nI was told that it had been arranged for next morning, but that it had\nnow been put off twenty-four hours. It was only a temporary measure,\npending the arrival of British divisions from the north.\n\nArchie looked grave. 'The Boche is pushin' up new troops in this\nsector. We got the news before I left squadron headquarters. It looks\nas if it would be a near thing, sir.'\n\n'It won't be a near thing. It's an absolute black certainty. My fellows\ncan't carry on as they are another day. Great God, they've had a\nfortnight in hell! Find me more men or we buckle up at the next push.'\nMy temper was coming very near its limits.\n\n'We've raked the country with a small-tooth comb, sir,' said one of the\nstaff officers. 'And we've raised a scratch pack. Best part of two\nthousand. Good men, but most of them know nothing about infantry\nfighting. We've put them into platoons, and done our best to give them\nsome kind of training. There's one thing may cheer you. We've plenty of\nmachine-guns. There's a machine-gun school near by and we got all the\nmen who were taking the course and all the plant.'\n\nI don't suppose there was ever such a force put into the field before.\nIt was a wilder medley than Moussy's camp-followers at First Ypres.\nThere was every kind of detail in the shape of men returning from\nleave, representing most of the regiments in the army. There were the\nmen from the machine-gun school. There were Corps troops--sappers and\nA.S.C., and a handful of Corps cavalry. Above all, there was a batch of\nAmerican engineers, fathered by Blenkiron. I inspected them where they\nwere drilling and liked the look of them. 'Forty-eight hours,' I said\nto myself. 'With luck we may just pull it off.'\n\nThen I borrowed a bicycle and went back to the division. But before I\nleft I had a word with Archie. 'This is one big game of bluff, and it's\nyou fellows alone that enable us to play it. Tell your people that\neverything depends on them. They mustn't stint the planes in this\nsector, for if the Boche once suspicions how little he's got before him\nthe game's up. He's not a fool and he knows that this is the short road\nto Amiens, but he imagines we're holding it in strength. If we keep up\nthe fiction for another two days the thing's done. You say he's pushing\nup troops?'\n\n'Yes, and he's sendin' forward his tanks.'\n\n'Well, that'll take time. He's slower now than a week ago and he's got\na deuce of a country to march over. There's still an outside chance we\nmay win through. You go home and tell the R.F.C. what I've told you.'\n\nHe nodded. 'By the way, sir, Pienaar's with the squadron. He would like\nto come up and see you.'\n\n'Archie,' I said solemnly, 'be a good chap and do me a favour. If I\nthink Peter's anywhere near the line I'll go off my head with worry.\nThis is no place for a man with a bad leg. He should have been in\nEngland days ago. Can't you get him off--to Amiens, anyhow?'\n\n'We scarcely like to. You see, we're all desperately sorry for him, his\nfun gone and his career over and all that. He likes bein' with us and\nlistenin' to our yarns. He has been up once or twice too. The\nShark-Gladas. He swears it's a great make, and certainly he knows how\nto handle the little devil.'\n\n'Then for Heaven's sake don't let him do it again. I look to you,\nArchie, remember. Promise.'\n\n'Funny thing, but he's always worryin' about you. He has a map on which\nhe marks every day the changes in the position, and he'd hobble a mile\nto pump any of our fellows who have been up your way.'\n\nThat night under cover of darkness I drew back the division to the\nnewly prepared lines. We got away easily, for the enemy was busy with\nhis own affairs. I suspected a relief by fresh troops.\n\nThere was no time to lose, and I can tell you I toiled to get things\nstraight before dawn. I would have liked to send my own fellows back to\nrest, but I couldn't spare them yet. I wanted them to stiffen the fresh\nlot, for they were veterans. The new position was arranged on the same\nprinciples as the old front which had been broken on March 21st. There\nwas our forward zone, consisting of an outpost line and redoubts, very\ncleverly sited, and a line of resistance. Well behind it were the\ntrenches which formed the battle-zone. Both zones were heavily wired,\nand we had plenty of machine-guns; I wish I could say we had plenty of\nmen who knew how to use them. The outposts were merely to give the\nalarm and fall back to the line of resistance which was to hold out to\nthe last. In the forward zone I put the freshest of my own men, the\nunits being brought up to something like strength by the details\nreturning from leave that the Corps had commandeered. With them I put\nthe American engineers, partly in the redoubts and partly in companies\nfor counter-attack. Blenkiron had reported that they could shoot like\nDan'l Boone, and were simply spoiling for a fight. The rest of the\nforce was in the battle-zone, which was our last hope. If that went the\nBoche had a clear walk to Amiens. Some additional field batteries had\nbeen brought up to support our very weak divisional artillery. The\nfront was so long that I had to put all three of my emaciated brigades\nin the line, so I had nothing to speak of in reserve. It was a most\nalmighty gamble.\n\nWe had found shelter just in time. At 6.30 next day--for a change it\nwas a clear morning with clouds beginning to bank up from the west--the\nBoche let us know he was alive. He gave us a good drenching with gas\nshells which didn't do much harm, and then messed up our forward zone\nwith his trench mortars. At 7.20 his men began to come on, first little\nbunches with machine-guns and then the infantry in waves. It was clear\nthey were fresh troops, and we learned afterwards from prisoners that\nthey were Bavarians--6th or 7th, I forget which, but the division that\nhung us up at Monchy. At the same time there was the sound of a\ntremendous bombardment across the river. It looked as if the main\nbattle had swung from Albert and Montdidier to a direct push for\nAmiens. I have often tried to write down the events of that day. I\ntried it in my report to the Corps; I tried it in my own diary; I tried\nit because Mary wanted it; but I have never been able to make any story\nthat hung together. Perhaps I was too tired for my mind to retain clear\nimpressions, though at the time I was not conscious of special fatigue.\nMore likely it is because the fight itself was so confused, for nothing\nhappened according to the books and the orderly soul of the Boche must\nhave been scarified ... At first it went as I expected. The outpost\nline was pushed in, but the fire from the redoubts broke up the\nadvance, and enabled the line of resistance in the forward zone to give\na good account of itself. There was a check, and then another big wave,\nassisted by a barrage from field-guns brought far forward. This time\nthe line of resistance gave at several points, and Lefroy flung in the\nAmericans in a counter-attack. That was a mighty performance. The\nengineers, yelling like dervishes, went at it with the bayonet, and\nthose that preferred swung their rifles as clubs. It was terribly\ncostly fighting and all wrong, but it succeeded. They cleared the Boche\nout of a ruined farm he had rushed, and a little wood, and\nre-established our front. Blenkiron, who saw it all, for he went with\nthem and got the tip of an ear picked off by a machine-gun bullet,\nhadn't any words wherewith to speak of it. 'And I once said those boys\nlooked puffy,' he moaned.\n\nThe next phase, which came about midday, was the tanks. I had never\nseen the German variety, but had heard that it was speedier and heavier\nthan ours, but unwieldy. We did not see much of their speed, but we\nfound out all about their clumsiness. Had the things been properly\nhandled they should have gone through us like rotten wood. But the\nwhole outfit was bungled. It looked good enough country for the use of\nthem, but the men who made our position had had an eye to this\npossibility. The great monsters, mounting a field-gun besides other\ncontrivances, wanted something like a highroad to be happy in. They\nwere useless over anything like difficult ground. The ones that came\ndown the main road got on well enough at the start, but Blenkiron very\nsensibly had mined the highway, and we blew a hole like a diamond pit.\nOne lay helpless at the foot of it, and we took the crew prisoner;\nanother stuck its nose over and remained there till our field-guns got\nthe range and knocked it silly. As for the rest--there is a marshy\nlagoon called the Patte d'Oie beside the farm of Gavrelle, which runs\nall the way north to the river, though in most places it only seems\nlike a soft patch in the meadows. This the tanks had to cross to reach\nour line, and they never made it. Most got bogged, and made pretty\ntargets for our gunners; one or two returned; and one the Americans,\ncreeping forward under cover of a little stream, blew up with a time\nfuse.\n\nBy the middle of the afternoon I was feeling happier. I knew the big\nattack was still to come, but I had my forward zone intact and I hoped\nfor the best. I remember I was talking to Wake, who had been going\nbetween the two zones, when I got the first warning of a new and\nunexpected peril. A dud shell plumped down a few yards from me.\n\n'Those fools across the river are firing short and badly off the\nstraight,' I said.\n\nWake examined the shell. 'No, it's a German one,' he said.\n\nThen came others, and there could be no mistake about the\ndirection--followed by a burst of machine-gun fire from the same\nquarter. We ran in cover to a point from which we could see the north\nbank of the river, and I got my glass on it. There was a lift of land\nfrom behind which the fire was coming. We looked at each other, and the\nsame conviction stood in both faces. The Boche had pushed down the\nnorthern bank, and we were no longer in line with our neighbours. The\nenemy was in a situation to catch us with his fire on our flank and\nleft rear. We couldn't retire to conform, for to retire meant giving up\nour prepared position.\n\nIt was the last straw to all our anxieties, and for a moment I was at\nthe end of my wits. I turned to Wake, and his calm eyes pulled me\ntogether.\n\n'If they can't retake that ground, we're fairly carted,' I said.\n\n'We are. Therefore they must retake it.'\n\n'I must get on to Mitchinson.' But as I spoke I realized the futility\nof a telephone message to a man who was pretty hard up against it\nhimself. Only an urgent appeal could effect anything ... I must go\nmyself ... No, that was impossible. I must send Lefroy ... But he\ncouldn't be spared. And all my staff officers were up to their necks in\nthe battle. Besides, none of them knew the position as I knew it ...\nAnd how to get there? It was a long way round by the bridge at Loisy.\n\nSuddenly I was aware of Wake's voice. 'You had better send me,' he was\nsaying. 'There's only one way--to swim the river a little lower down.'\n\n'That's too damnably dangerous. I won't send any man to certain death.'\n\n'But I volunteer,' he said. 'That, I believe, is always allowed in war.'\n\n'But you'll be killed before you can cross.'\n\n'Send a man with me to watch. If I get over, you may be sure I'll get\nto General Mitchinson. If not, send somebody else by Loisy. There's\ndesperate need for hurry, and you see yourself it's the only way.'\n\nThe time was past for argument. I scribbled a line to Mitchinson as his\ncredentials. No more was needed, for Wake knew the position as well as\nI did. I sent an orderly to accompany him to his starting-place on the\nbank.\n\n'Goodbye,' he said, as we shook hands. 'You'll see, I'll come back all\nright.' His face, I remember, looked singularly happy. Five minutes\nlater the Boche guns opened for the final attack.\n\nI believe I kept a cool head; at least so Lefroy and the others\nreported. They said I went about all afternoon grinning as if I liked\nit, and that I never raised my voice once. (It's rather a fault of mine\nthat I bellow in a scrap.) But I know I was feeling anything but calm,\nfor the problem was ghastly. It all depended on Wake and Mitchinson.\nThe flanking fire was so bad that I had to give up the left of the\nforward zone, which caught it fairly, and retire the men there to the\nbattle-zone. The latter was better protected, for between it and the\nriver was a small wood and the bank rose into a bluff which sloped\ninwards towards us. This withdrawal meant a switch, and a switch isn't\na pretty thing when it has to be improvised in the middle of a battle.\n\nThe Boche had counted on that flanking fire. His plan was to break our\ntwo wings--the old Boche plan which crops up in every fight. He left\nour centre at first pretty well alone, and thrust along the river bank\nand to the wood of La Bruyere, where we linked up with the division on\nour right. Lefroy was in the first area, and Masterton in the second,\nand for three hours it was as desperate a business as I have ever faced\n... The improvised switch went, and more and more of the forward zone\ndisappeared. It was a hot, clear spring afternoon, and in the open\nfighting the enemy came on like troops at manoeuvres. On the left they\ngot into the battle-zone, and I can see yet Lefroy's great figure\nleading a counter-attack in person, his face all puddled with blood\nfrom a scalp wound ...\n\nI would have given my soul to be in two places at once, but I had to\nrisk our left and keep close to Masterton, who needed me most. The wood\nof La Bruyere was the maddest sight. Again and again the Boche was\nalmost through it. You never knew where he was, and most of the\nfighting there was duels between machine-gun parties. Some of the enemy\ngot round behind us, and only a fine performance of a company of\nCheshires saved a complete breakthrough.\n\nAs for Lefroy, I don't know how he stuck it out, and he doesn't know\nhimself, for he was galled all the time by that accursed flanking fire.\nI got a note about half past four saying that Wake had crossed the\nriver, but it was some weary hours after that before the fire\nslackened. I tore back and forward between my wings, and every time I\nwent north I expected to find that Lefroy had broken. But by some\nmiracle he held. The Boches were in his battle-zone time and again, but\nhe always flung them out. I have a recollection of Blenkiron, stark\nmad, encouraging his Americans with strange tongues. Once as I passed\nhim I saw that he had his left arm tied up. His blackened face grinned\nat me. 'This bit of landscape's mighty unsafe for democracy,' he\ncroaked. 'For the love of Mike get your guns on to those devils across\nthe river. They're plaguing my boys too bad.'\n\nIt was about seven o'clock, I think, when the flanking fire slacked\noff, but it was not because of our divisional guns. There was a short\nand very furious burst of artillery fire on the north bank, and I knew\nit was British. Then things began to happen. One of our planes--they\nhad been marvels all day, swinging down like hawks for machine-gun\nbouts with the Boche infantry--reported that Mitchinson was attacking\nhard and getting on well. That eased my mind, and I started off for\nMasterton, who was in greater straits than ever, for the enemy seemed\nto be weakening on the river bank and putting his main strength in\nagainst our right ... But my G.S.O.2 stopped me on the road. 'Wake,' he\nsaid. 'He wants to see you.'\n\n'Not now,' I cried.\n\n'He can't live many minutes.'\n\nI turned and followed him to the ruinous cowshed which was my\ndivisional headquarters. Wake, as I heard later, had swum the river\nopposite to Mitchinson's right, and reached the other shore safely,\nthough the current was whipped with bullets. But he had scarcely landed\nbefore he was badly hit by shrapnel in the groin. Walking at first with\nsupport and then carried on a stretcher, he managed to struggle on to\nthe divisional headquarters, where he gave my message and explained the\nsituation. He would not let his wound be looked to till his job was\ndone. Mitchinson told me afterwards that with a face grey from pain he\ndrew for him a sketch of our position and told him exactly how near we\nwere to our end ... After that he asked to be sent back to me, and they\ngot him down to Loisy in a crowded ambulance, and then up to us in a\nreturning empty. The M.O. who looked at his wound saw that the thing\nwas hopeless, and did not expect him to live beyond Loisy. He was\nbleeding internally and no surgeon on earth could have saved him.\n\nWhen he reached us he was almost pulseless, but he recovered for a\nmoment and asked for me.\n\nI found him, with blue lips and a face drained of blood, lying on my\ncamp bed. His voice was very small and far away.\n\n'How goes it?' he asked.\n\n'Please God, we'll pull through ... thanks to you, old man.'\n\n'Good,' he said and his eyes shut.\n\nHe opened them once again.\n\n'Funny thing life. A year ago I was preaching peace ... I'm still\npreaching it ... I'm not sorry.'\n\nI held his hand till two minutes later he died.\n\n            *       *       *       *       *\n\nIn the press of a fight one scarcely realizes death, even the death of\na friend. It was up to me to make good my assurance to Wake, and\npresently I was off to Masterton. There in that shambles of La Bruyere,\nwhile the light faded, there was a desperate and most bloody struggle.\nIt was the last lap of the contest. Twelve hours now, I kept telling\nmyself, and the French will be here and we'll have done our task. Alas!\nhow many of us would go back to rest? ... Hardly able to totter, our\ncounter-attacking companies went in again. They had gone far beyond the\nlimits of mortal endurance, but the human spirit can defy all natural\nlaws. The balance trembled, hung, and then dropped the right way. The\nenemy impetus weakened, stopped, and the ebb began.\n\nI wanted to complete the job. Our artillery put up a sharp barrage, and\nthe little I had left comparatively fresh I sent in for a\ncounter-stroke. Most of the men were untrained, but there was that in\nour ranks which dispensed with training, and we had caught the enemy at\nthe moment of lowest vitality. We pushed him out of La Bruyere, we\npushed him back to our old forward zone, we pushed him out of that zone\nto the position from which he had begun the day.\n\nBut there was no rest for the weary. We had lost at least a third of\nour strength, and we had to man the same long line. We consolidated it\nas best we could, started to replace the wiring that had been\ndestroyed, found touch with the division on our right, and established\noutposts. Then, after a conference with my brigadiers, I went back to\nmy headquarters, too tired to feel either satisfaction or anxiety. In\neight hours the French would be here. The words made a kind of litany\nin my ears.\n\nIn the cowshed where Wake had lain, two figures awaited me. The\ntalc-enclosed candle revealed Hamilton and Amos, dirty beyond words,\nsmoke-blackened, blood-stained, and intricately bandaged. They stood\nstiffly to attention.\n\n'Sirr, the prisoner,' said Hamilton. 'I have to report that the\nprisoner is deid.'\n\nI stared at them, for I had forgotten Ivery. He seemed a creature of a\nworld that had passed away.\n\n'Sirr, it was like this. Ever sin' this mornin', the prisoner seemed to\nwake up. Ye'll mind that he was in a kind of dream all week. But he got\nsome new notion in his heid, and when the battle began he exheebited\nsigns of restlessness. Whiles he wad lie doun in the trench, and whiles\nhe was wantin' back to the dug-out. Accordin' to instructions I\nprovided him wi' a rifle, but he didna seem to ken how to handle it. It\nwas your orders, sirr, that he was to have means to defend hisself if\nthe enemy cam on, so Amos gie'd him a trench knife. But verra soon he\nlooked as if he was ettlin' to cut his throat, so I deprived him of it.'\n\nHamilton stopped for breath. He spoke as if he were reciting a lesson,\nwith no stops between the sentences.\n\n'I jaloused, sirr, that he wadna last oot the day, and Amos here was of\nthe same opinion. The end came at twenty minutes past three--I ken the\ntime, for I had just compared my watch with Amos. Ye'll mind that the\nGairmans were beginning a big attack. We were in the front trench of\nwhat they ca' the battle-zone, and Amos and me was keepin' oor eyes on\nthe enemy, who could be obsairved dribblin' ower the open. Just then\nthe prisoner catches sight of the enemy and jumps up on the top. Amos\ntried to hold him, but he kicked him in the face. The next we kenned he\nwas runnin' verra fast towards the enemy, holdin' his hands ower his\nheid and crying out loud in a foreign langwidge.'\n\n'It was German,' said the scholarly Amos through his broken teeth.\n\n'It was Gairman,' continued Hamilton. 'It seemed as if he was appealin'\nto the enemy to help him. But they paid no attention, and he cam under\nthe fire of their machine-guns. We watched him spin round like a\nteetotum and kenned that he was bye with it.'\n\n'You are sure he was killed?' I asked.\n\n'Yes, sirr. When we counter-attacked we fund his body.'\n\n            *       *       *       *       *\n\nThere is a grave close by the farm of Gavrelle, and a wooden cross at\nits head bears the name of the Graf von Schwabing and the date of his\ndeath. The Germans took Gavrelle a little later. I am glad to think\nthat they read that inscription.\n\n\n\nCHAPTER TWENTY-TWO\n\nThe Summons Comes for Mr Standfast\n\nI slept for one and three-quarter hours that night, and when I awoke I\nseemed to emerge from deeps of slumber which had lasted for days. That\nhappens sometimes after heavy fatigue and great mental strain. Even a\nshort sleep sets up a barrier between past and present which has to be\nelaborately broken down before you can link on with what has happened\nbefore. As my wits groped at the job some drops of rain splashed on my\nface through the broken roof. That hurried me out-of-doors. It was just\nafter dawn and the sky was piled with thick clouds, while a wet wind\nblew up from the southwest. The long-prayed-for break in the weather\nseemed to have come at last. A deluge of rain was what I wanted,\nsomething to soak the earth and turn the roads into water-courses and\nclog the enemy transport, something above all to blind the enemy's eyes\n... For I remembered what a preposterous bluff it all had been, and\nwhat a piteous broken handful stood between the Germans and their goal.\nIf they knew, if they only knew, they would brush us aside like flies.\n\nAs I shaved I looked back on the events of yesterday as on something\nthat had happened long ago. I seemed to judge them impersonally, and I\nconcluded that it had been a pretty good fight. A scratch force, half\nof it dog-tired and half of it untrained, had held up at least a couple\nof fresh divisions ... But we couldn't do it again, and there were\nstill some hours before us of desperate peril. When had the Corps said\nthat the French would arrive? ... I was on the point of shouting for\nHamilton to get Wake to ring up Corps Headquarters, when I remembered\nthat Wake was dead. I had liked him and greatly admired him, but the\nrecollection gave me scarcely a pang. We were all dying, and he had\nonly gone on a stage ahead.\n\nThere was no morning strafe, such as had been our usual fortune in the\npast week. I went out-of-doors and found a noiseless world under the\nlowering sky. The rain had stopped falling, the wind of dawn had\nlessened, and I feared that the storm would be delayed. I wanted it at\nonce to help us through the next hours of tension. Was it in six hours\nthat the French were coming? No, it must be four. It couldn't be more\nthan four, unless somebody had made an infernal muddle. I wondered why\neverything was so quiet. It would be breakfast time on both sides, but\nthere seemed no stir of man's presence in that ugly strip half a mile\noff. Only far back in the German hinterland I seemed to hear the rumour\nof traffic.\n\nAn unslept and unshaven figure stood beside me which revealed itself as\nArchie Roylance.\n\n'Been up all night,' he said cheerfully, lighting a cigarette. 'No, I\nhaven't had breakfast. The skipper thought we'd better get another\nanti-aircraft battery up this way, and I was superintendin' the job.\nHe's afraid of the Hun gettin' over your lines and spying out the\nnakedness of the land. For, you know, we're uncommon naked, sir. Also,'\nand Archie's face became grave, 'the Hun's pourin' divisions down on\nthis sector. As I judge, he's blowin' up for a thunderin' big drive on\nboth sides of the river. Our lads yesterday said all the country back\nof Peronne was lousy with new troops. And he's gettin' his big guns\nforward, too. You haven't been troubled with them yet, but he has got\nthe roads mended and the devil of a lot of new light railways, and any\nmoment we'll have the five-point-nines sayin' Good-mornin' ... Pray\nHeaven you get relieved in time, sir. I take it there's not much risk\nof another push this mornin'?'\n\n'I don't think so. The Boche took a nasty knock yesterday, and he must\nfancy we're pretty strong after that counter-attack. I don't think\nhe'll strike till he can work both sides of the river, and that'll take\ntime to prepare. That's what his fresh divisions are for ... But\nremember, he can attack now, if he likes. If he knew how weak we were\nhe's strong enough to send us all to glory in the next three hours.\nIt's just that knowledge that you fellows have got to prevent his\ngetting. If a single Hun plane crosses our lines and returns, we're\nwholly and utterly done. You've given us splendid help since the show\nbegan, Archie. For God's sake keep it up to the finish and put every\nmachine you can spare in this sector.'\n\n'We're doin' our best,' he said. 'We got some more fightin' scouts down\nfrom the north, and we're keepin' our eyes skinned. But you know as\nwell as I do, sir, that it's never an ab-so-lute certainty. If the Hun\nsent over a squadron we might beat 'em all down but one, and that one\nmight do the trick. It's a matter of luck. The Hun's got the wind up\nall right in the air just now and I don't blame the poor devil. I'm\ninclined to think we haven't had the pick of his push here. Jennings\nsays he's doin' good work in Flanders, and they reckon there's the\ndeuce of a thrust comin' there pretty soon. I think we can manage the\nkind of footler he's been sendin' over here lately, but if Lensch or\nsome lad like that were to choose to turn up I wouldn't say what might\nhappen. The air's a big lottery,' and Archie turned a dirty face\nskyward where two of our planes were moving very high towards the east.\n\nThe mention of Lensch brought Peter to mind, and I asked if he had gone\nback.\n\n'He won't go,' said Archie, 'and we haven't the heart to make him. He's\nvery happy, and plays about with the Gladas single-seater. He's always\nspeakin' about you, sir, and it'd break his heart if we shifted him.'\n\nI asked about his health, and was told that he didn't seem to have much\npain.\n\n'But he's a bit queer,' and Archie shook a sage head. 'One of the\nreasons why he won't budge is because he says God has some work for him\nto do. He's quite serious about it, and ever since he got the notion he\nhas perked up amazin'. He's always askin' about Lensch, too--not\nvindictive like, you understand, but quite friendly. Seems to take a\nsort of proprietary interest in him. I told him Lensch had had a far\nlonger spell of first-class fightin' than anybody else and was bound by\nthe law of averages to be downed soon, and he was quite sad about it.'\n\nI had no time to worry about Peter. Archie and I swallowed breakfast\nand I had a pow-wow with my brigadiers. By this time I had got through\nto Corps H.Q. and got news of the French. It was worse than I expected.\nGeneral Peguy would arrive about ten o'clock, but his men couldn't take\nover till well after midday. The Corps gave me their whereabouts and I\nfound it on the map. They had a long way to cover yet, and then there\nwould be the slow business of relieving. I looked at my watch. There\nwere still six hours before us when the Boche might knock us to blazes,\nsix hours of maddening anxiety ... Lefroy announced that all was quiet\non the front, and that the new wiring at the Bois de la Bruyere had\nbeen completed. Patrols had reported that during the night a fresh\nGerman division seemed to have relieved that which we had punished so\nstoutly yesterday. I asked him if he could stick it out against another\nattack. 'No,' he said without hesitation. 'We're too few and too shaky\non our pins to stand any more. I've only a man to every three yards.'\nThat impressed me, for Lefroy was usually the most devil-may-care\noptimist.\n\n'Curse it, there's the sun,' I heard Archie cry. It was true, for the\nclouds were rolling back and the centre of the heavens was a patch of\nblue. The storm was coming--I could smell it in the air--but probably\nit wouldn't break till the evening. Where, I wondered, would we be by\nthat time?\n\nIt was now nine o'clock, and I was keeping tight hold on myself, for I\nsaw that I was going to have hell for the next hours. I am a pretty\nstolid fellow in some ways, but I have always found patience and\nstanding still the most difficult job to tackle, and my nerves were all\ntattered from the long strain of the retreat. I went up to the line and\nsaw the battalion commanders. Everything was unwholesomely quiet there.\nThen I came back to my headquarters to study the reports that were\ncoming in from the air patrols. They all said the same thing--abnormal\nactivity in the German back areas. Things seemed shaping for a new 21st\nof March, and, if our luck were out, my poor little remnant would have\nto take the shock. I telephoned to the Corps and found them as nervous\nas me. I gave them the details of my strength and heard an agonized\nwhistle at the other end of the line. I was rather glad I had\ncompanions in the same purgatory.\n\nI found I couldn't sit still. If there had been any work to do I would\nhave buried myself in it, but there was none. Only this fearsome job of\nwaiting. I hardly ever feel cold, but now my blood seemed to be getting\nthin, and I astonished my staff by putting on a British warm and\nbuttoning up the collar. Round that derelict farm I ranged like a\nhungry wolf, cold at the feet, queasy in the stomach, and mortally edgy\nin the mind.\n\nThen suddenly the cloud lifted from me, and the blood seemed to run\nnaturally in my veins. I experienced the change of mood which a man\nfeels sometimes when his whole being is fined down and clarified by\nlong endurance. The fight of yesterday revealed itself as something\nrather splendid. What risks we had run and how gallantly we had met\nthem! My heart warmed as I thought of that old division of mine, those\nragged veterans that were never beaten as long as breath was left them.\nAnd the Americans and the boys from the machine-gun school and all the\noddments we had commandeered! And old Blenkiron raging like a\ngood-tempered lion! It was against reason that such fortitude shouldn't\nwin out. We had snarled round and bitten the Boche so badly that he\nwanted no more for a little. He would come again, but presently we\nshould be relieved and the gallant blue-coats, fresh as paint and\nburning for revenge, would be there to worry him.\n\nI had no new facts on which to base my optimism, only a changed point\nof view. And with it came a recollection of other things. Wake's death\nhad left me numb before, but now the thought of it gave me a sharp\npang. He was the first of our little confederacy to go. But what an\nending he had made, and how happy he had been in that mad time when he\nhad come down from his pedestal and become one of the crowd! He had\nfound himself at the last, and who could grudge him such happiness? If\nthe best were to be taken, he would be chosen first, for he was a big\nman, before whom I uncovered my head. The thought of him made me very\nhumble. I had never had his troubles to face, but he had come clean\nthrough them, and reached a courage which was for ever beyond me. He\nwas the Faithful among us pilgrims, who had finished his journey before\nthe rest. Mary had foreseen it. 'There is a price to be paid,' she had\nsaid--'the best of us.'\n\nAnd at the thought of Mary a flight of warm and happy hopes seemed to\nsettle on my mind. I was looking again beyond the war to that peace\nwhich she and I would some day inherit. I had a vision of a green\nEnglish landscape, with its far-flung scents of wood and meadow and\ngarden ... And that face of all my dreams, with the eyes so childlike\nand brave and honest, as if they, too, saw beyond the dark to a radiant\ncountry. A line of an old song, which had been a favourite of my\nfather's, sang itself in my ears:\n\n   _There's an eye that ever weeps and a fair face will be fain\n   When I ride through Annan Water wi' my bonny bands again!_\n\nWe were standing by the crumbling rails of what had once been the farm\nsheepfold. I looked at Archie and he smiled back at me, for he saw that\nmy face had changed. Then he turned his eyes to the billowing clouds.\n\nI felt my arm clutched.\n\n'Look there!' said a fierce voice, and his glasses were turned upward.\n\nI looked, and far up in the sky saw a thing like a wedge of wild geese\nflying towards us from the enemy's country. I made out the small dots\nwhich composed it, and my glass told me they were planes. But only\nArchie's practised eye knew that they were enemy.\n\n'Boche?' I asked.\n\n'Boche,' he said. 'My God, we're for it now.'\n\nMy heart had sunk like a stone, but I was fairly cool. I looked at my\nwatch and saw that it was ten minutes to eleven.\n\n'How many?'\n\n'Five,' said Archie. 'Or there may be six--not more.'\n\n'Listen!' I said. 'Get on to your headquarters. Tell them that it's all\nup with us if a single plane gets back. Let them get well over the\nline, the deeper in the better, and tell them to send up every machine\nthey possess and down them all. Tell them it's life or death. Not one\nsingle plane goes back. Quick!'\n\nArchie disappeared, and as he went our anti-aircraft guns broke out.\nThe formation above opened and zigzagged, but they were too high to be\nin much danger. But they were not too high to see that which we must\nkeep hidden or perish.\n\nThe roar of our batteries died down as the invaders passed westward. As\nI watched their progress they seemed to be dropping lower. Then they\nrose again and a bank of cloud concealed them.\n\nI had a horrid certainty that they must beat us, that some at any rate\nwould get back. They had seen thin lines and the roads behind us empty\nof supports. They would see, as they advanced, the blue columns of the\nFrench coming up from the south-west, and they would return and tell\nthe enemy that a blow now would open the road to Amiens and the sea. He\nhad plenty of strength for it, and presently he would have overwhelming\nstrength. It only needed a spear-point to burst the jerry-built dam and\nlet the flood through ... They would return in twenty minutes, and by\nnoon we would be broken. Unless--unless the miracle of miracles\nhappened, and they never returned.\n\nArchie reported that his skipper would do his damnedest and that our\nmachines were now going up. 'We've a chance, sir,' he said, 'a good\nsportin' chance.' It was a new Archie, with a hard voice, a lean face,\nand very old eyes.\n\nBehind the jagged walls of the farm buildings was a knoll which had\nonce formed part of the high-road. I went up there alone, for I didn't\nwant anybody near me. I wanted a viewpoint, and I wanted quiet, for I\nhad a grim time before me. From that knoll I had a big prospect of\ncountry. I looked east to our lines on which an occasional shell was\nfalling, and where I could hear the chatter of machine-guns. West there\nwas peace for the woods closed down on the landscape. Up to the north,\nI remember, there was a big glare as from a burning dump, and heavy\nguns seemed to be at work in the Ancre valley. Down in the south there\nwas the dull murmur of a great battle. But just around me, in the gap,\nthe deadliest place of all, there was an odd quiet. I could pick out\nclearly the different sounds. Somebody down at the farm had made a joke\nand there was a short burst of laughter. I envied the humorist his\ncomposure. There was a clatter and jingle from a battery changing\nposition. On the road a tractor was jolting along--I could hear its\ndriver shout and the screech of its unoiled axle.\n\nMy eyes were glued to my glasses, but they shook in my hands so that I\ncould scarcely see. I bit my lip to steady myself, but they still\nwavered. From time to time I glanced at my watch. Eight minutes\ngone--ten--seventeen. If only the planes would come into sight! Even\nthe certainty of failure would be better than this harrowing doubt.\nThey should be back by now unless they had swung north across the\nsalient, or unless the miracle of miracles--\n\nThen came the distant yapping of an anti-aircraft gun, caught up the\nnext second by others, while smoke patches studded the distant blue\nsky. The clouds were banking in mid-heaven, but to the west there was a\nbig clear space now woolly with shrapnel bursts. I counted them\nmechanically--one--three--five--nine--with despair beginning to take\nthe place of my anxiety. My hands were steady now, and through the\nglasses I saw the enemy.\n\nFive attenuated shapes rode high above the bombardment, now sharp\nagainst the blue, now lost in a film of vapour. They were coming back,\nserenely, contemptuously, having seen all they wanted.\n\nThe quiet was gone now and the din was monstrous. Anti-aircraft guns,\nsingly and in groups, were firing from every side. As I watched it\nseemed a futile waste of ammunition. The enemy didn't give a tinker's\ncurse for it ... But surely there was one down. I could only count four\nnow. No, there was the fifth coming out of a cloud. In ten minutes they\nwould be all over the line. I fairly stamped in my vexation. Those guns\nwere no more use than a sick headache. Oh, where in God's name were our\nown planes?\n\nAt that moment they came, streaking down into sight, four\nfighting-scouts with the sun glinting on their wings and burnishing\ntheir metal cowls. I saw clearly the rings of red, white, and blue.\nBefore their downward drive the enemy instantly spread out.\n\nI was watching with bare eyes now, and I wanted companionship, for the\ntime of waiting was over. Automatically I must have run down the knoll,\nfor the next I knew I was staring at the heavens with Archie by my\nside. The combatants seemed to couple instinctively. Diving, wheeling,\nclimbing, a pair would drop out of the melee or disappear behind a\ncloud. Even at that height I could hear the methodical rat-tat-tat of\nthe machine-guns. Then there was a sudden flare and wisp of smoke. A\nplane sank, turning and twisting, to earth.\n\n'Hun!' said Archie, who had his glasses on it.\n\nAlmost immediately another followed. This time the pilot recovered\nhimself, while still a thousand feet from the ground, and started\ngliding for the enemy lines. Then he wavered, plunged sickeningly, and\nfell headlong into the wood behind La Bruyere.\n\nFarther east, almost over the front trenches, a two-seater Albatross\nand a British pilot were having a desperate tussle. The bombardment had\nstopped, and from where we stood every movement could be followed.\nFirst one, then another, climbed uppermost and dived back, swooped out\nand wheeled in again, so that the two planes seemed to clear each other\nonly by inches. Then it looked as if they closed and interlocked. I\nexpected to see both go crashing, when suddenly the wings of one seemed\nto shrivel up, and the machine dropped like a stone.\n\n'Hun,' said Archie. 'That makes three. Oh, good lads! Good lads!'\n\nThen I saw something which took away my breath. Sloping down in wide\ncircles came a German machine, and, following, a little behind and a\nlittle above, a British. It was the first surrender in mid-air I had\nseen. In my amazement I watched the couple right down to the ground,\ntill the enemy landed in a big meadow across the high-road and our own\nman in a field nearer the river.\n\nWhen I looked back into the sky, it was bare. North, south, east, and\nwest, there was not a sign of aircraft, British or German.\n\nA violent trembling took me. Archie was sweeping the heavens with his\nglasses and muttering to himself. Where was the fifth man? He must have\nfought his way through, and it was too late.\n\nBut was it? From the toe of a great rolling cloud-bank a flame shot\nearthwards, followed by a V-shaped trail of smoke. British or Boche?\nBritish or Boche? I didn't wait long for an answer. For, riding over\nthe far end of the cloud, came two of our fighting scouts.\n\nI tried to be cool, and snapped my glasses into their case, though the\nreaction made me want to shout. Archie turned to me with a nervous\nsmile and a quivering mouth. 'I think we have won on the post,' he said.\n\nHe reached out a hand for mine, his eyes still on the sky, and I was\ngrasping it when it was torn away. He was staring upwards with a white\nface.\n\nWe were looking at the sixth enemy plane.\n\nIt had been behind the others and much lower, and was making straight\nat a great speed for the east. The glasses showed me a different type\nof machine--a big machine with short wings, which looked menacing as a\nhawk in a covey of grouse. It was under the cloud-bank, and above,\nsatisfied, easing down after their fight, and unwitting of this enemy,\nrode the two British craft.\n\nA neighbouring anti-aircraft gun broke out into a sudden burst, and I\nthanked Heaven for its inspiration. Curious as to this new development,\nthe two British turned, caught sight of the Boche, and dived for him.\n\nWhat happened in the next minutes I cannot tell. The three seemed to be\nmixed up in a dog fight, so that I could not distinguish friend from\nfoe. My hands no longer trembled; I was too desperate. The patter of\nmachine-guns came down to us, and then one of the three broke clear and\nbegan to climb. The others strained to follow, but in a second he had\nrisen beyond their fire, for he had easily the pace of them. Was it the\nHun?\n\nArchie's dry lips were talking.\n\n'It's Lensch,' he said.\n\n'How d'you know?' I gasped angrily.\n\n'Can't mistake him. Look at the way he slipped out as he banked. That's\nhis patent trick.'\n\nIn that agonizing moment hope died in me. I was perfectly calm now, for\nthe time for anxiety had gone. Farther and farther drifted the British\npilots behind, while Lensch in the completeness of his triumph looped\nmore than once as if to cry an insulting farewell. In less than three\nminutes he would be safe inside his own lines, and he carried the\nknowledge which for us was death.\n\n            *       *       *       *       *\n\nSomeone was bawling in my ear, and pointing upward. It was Archie and\nhis face was wild. I looked and gasped--seized my glasses and looked\nagain.\n\nA second before Lensch had been alone; now there were two machines.\n\nI heard Archie's voice. 'My God, it's the Gladas--the little Gladas.'\nHis fingers were digging into my arm and his face was against my\nshoulder. And then his excitement sobered into an awe which choked his\nspeech, as he stammered--'It's old--'\n\nBut I did not need him to tell me the name, for I had divined it when I\nfirst saw the new plane drop from the clouds. I had that queer sense\nthat comes sometimes to a man that a friend is present when he cannot\nsee him. Somewhere up in the void two heroes were fighting their last\nbattle--and one of them had a crippled leg.\n\nI had never any doubt about the result, though Archie told me later\nthat he went crazy with suspense. Lensch was not aware of his opponent\ntill he was almost upon him, and I wonder if by any freak of instinct\nhe recognized his greatest antagonist. He never fired a shot, nor did\nPeter ... I saw the German twist and side-slip as if to baffle the fate\ndescending upon him. I saw Peter veer over vertically and I knew that\nthe end had come. He was there to make certain of victory and he took\nthe only way. The machines closed, there was a crash which I felt\nthough I could not hear it, and next second both were hurtling down,\nover and over, to the earth.\n\nThey fell in the river just short of the enemy lines, but I did not see\nthem, for my eyes were blinded and I was on my knees.\n\n            *       *       *       *       *\n\nAfter that it was all a dream. I found myself being embraced by a\nFrench General of Division, and saw the first companies of the cheerful\nbluecoats whom I had longed for. With them came the rain, and it was\nunder a weeping April sky that early in the night I marched what was\nleft of my division away from the battle-field. The enemy guns were\nstarting to speak behind us, but I did not heed them. I knew that now\nthere were warders at the gate, and I believed that by the grace of God\nthat gate was barred for ever.\n\n            *       *       *       *       *\n\nThey took Peter from the wreckage with scarcely a scar except his\ntwisted leg. Death had smoothed out some of the age in him, and left\nhis face much as I remembered it long ago in the Mashonaland hills. In\nhis pocket was his old battered _Pilgrim's Progress_. It lies before me\nas I write, and beside it--for I was his only legatee--the little case\nwhich came to him weeks later, containing the highest honour that can\nbe bestowed upon a soldier of Britain.\n\nIt was from the _Pilgrim's Progress_ that I read next morning, when in\nthe lee of an apple-orchard Mary and Blenkiron and I stood in the soft\nspring rain beside his grave. And what I read was the tale in the end\nnot of Mr Standfast, whom he had singled out for his counterpart, but\nof Mr Valiant-for-Truth whom he had not hoped to emulate. I set down\nthe words as a salute and a farewell:\n\n   _Then said he, 'I am going to my Father's; and though with great\n   difficulty I am got hither, yet now I do not repent me of all the\n   trouble I have been at to arrive where I am. My sword I give to\n   him that shall succeed me in my pilgrimage, and my courage and\n   skill to him that can get it. My marks and scars I carry with me,\n   to be a witness for me that I have fought His battles who now will\n   be my rewarder._'\n\n   _So he passed over, and all the trumpets sounded for him on\n   the other side._"