“I think,” he protested, “that some one ought to remonstrate with the captain. Look, there’s another shell coming! Damned ugly things!”
There was another puff of white smoke, and this time the projectile fell within a steamer’s length of them, sending a great fountain of water into the air. “They are giving us plenty of warning,” Jocelyn Thew observed coolly. “I suppose we shall get the next one amidships.”
“I find it most upsetting,” his companion declared. “I am going down to the cabin to get my lifebelt.”
He turned away. Presently there was another line of signals, more shots, some across the bows of the steamer, some right over her, a few aft. Nevertheless, the City of Boston stood on her course, and the distance between the two steamers gradually widened. Katharine, who had come up on deck, stood by Jocelyn Thew’s side.
“Is this really the way that they shoot,” she asked, “or aren’t they trying to hit us?”
“They are not trying,” he told her. “If they were, every shot they fired at this range would be sufficient to send us to the bottom.”
“Why aren’t they trying?” she persisted.
“There’s a reason for that, which I can’t at the moment explain,” was the gloomy reply. “They want to capture us, not sink us! What I can’t understand, though, is how the captain here found that out.”
“How is it that you are so well-informed?” Katharine asked curiously.
“You had better not enquire, Miss Beverley. It’s just as well not to know too much of these things. Here’s Mr. Crawshay,” he added. “Perhaps he’ll tell you.”
Crawshay appeared, hugging his lifebelt, on which he seated himself gingerly.
“Can’t imagine what the captain’s up to,” he complained. “A chap who understands those little flags has just told me that they’ve threatened to blow us to pieces if we go on.—Here comes another shell!” he groaned. “Two to one they’ve got us this time!—Ugh!”
They all ducked to avoid a shower of spray. When they stood upright again, Katharine studied the newcomer for a minute critically. There was a certain air of strain about most of the passengers. Even Jocelyn Thew’s firm hand had trembled, a moment ago, as he had lowered his glasses. Crawshay, seated upon his lifebelt, with a mackintosh buttoned around him, his eyeglass firmly adjusted, his mouth querulous, was not exactly an impressive-looking object. Yet she wondered.
“Give me your hand,” she asked suddenly.
He obeyed at once. The fingers were cool and firm.
“Why do you pretend to be afraid?” she demanded. “You aren’t in the least.”
“Amateur theatricals,” he replied tersely, “coupled with a certain amount of self-control. I am a cool-tempered fellow at most times.—Jove, this one’s meant for us, I believe!”
They all ducked instinctively. The shell, however, fell short. Crawshay measured the distance between the two steamers with his eyes.
“Dashed if I don’t believe we’re giving them the slip!” he exclaimed. “I wonder why in thunder they’re letting us off like this! The captain must have known something.”
Jocelyn Thew turned around and looked reflectively at the speaker. For a single moment Crawshay’s muscles tingled with the apprehension of danger. There was a smouldering light in the other’s eyes, such a light as might gleam in the tiger’s eyes before his spring. Crawshay’s hand slipped to his hip pocket. So for a moment they remained. Then Jocelyn Thew shrugged his shoulders, and the tense moment was past.
“There seems to be some one on this ship,” he said quietly, “who knows more than is good for him.”
CHAPTER XIV
Table of Contents
The City of Boston passed through the danger zone in safety, and dropped anchor in the Mersey only a few hours later than the time of her expected arrival. Towards the close of a somewhat uproarious dinner, during which many bottles of champagne were emptied to various toasts, Captain Jones quite unexpectedly entered the saloon, and, waving his hand in response to the cheers which greeted him, made his way to his usual table, from which he addressed the little company.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” he said, “I have an announcement to make to which I beg you will listen with patience. Both the English and the American police, whether with reason or not, as we may presently determine, have come to the conclusion that a large number of very important documents, collected in America by the agents of a foreign power, have been smuggled across the Atlantic upon this ship, in the hope that they may eventually reach Germany. In a quarter of an hour’s time, a number of plainclothes policemen will be on board. I am going to ask you, as loyal British and American subjects, to subject yourselves, without resistance or complaint, to any search which they may choose to make. I may add that my own person, luggage and cabin will be the first object of their attention.” The captain, having delivered his address, left the saloon again amidst a little buzz of voices. There had probably never been a voyage across the Atlantic in which a matter of forty passengers had been treated to so many rumours and whispers of strange happenings. Sam West got up and spoke a few words, counselling the ready assent of every one there to submit to anything that was thought necessary. He briefly commented upon their unexplained but fortuitous escape from the raider, and heaped congratulations upon their captain. Very soon after he had resumed his seat, the shrill whistle of a tug alongside indicated the arrival of visitors. A steward passed back and forth amongst the passengers with a universal request—all were asked to repair to their staterooms. Twenty- seven exceedingly alert-looking men thereupon commenced their task.
Seated upon the couch in her room, with a cup of coffee by her side and a cigarette between her lips, Katharine listened to the conversation which passed in the opposite room, the one which had been tenanted by Phillips. For some reason, the end of the voyage, instead of bringing her the relief which she had expected, had only increased her nervous excitement. She was filled with an extraordinary prescience of some coming crisis. She found herself trembling as she listened to Doctor Gant’s harsh voice and the smooth accents of his interlocutor.
“Well, that completes our search of your belongings, Doctor Gant,” the latter’s voice observed. “Now I want to ask a few questions with reference to the Mr. Phillips who I understand died the day before yesterday under your charge.” “That is so,” Doctor Gant agreed. “He had no luggage, as we only made up our minds to undertake the journey with him at the last moment. The few oddments he used on the voyage, we burned.”
“And the body, I understand,—”
“You can examine it at once, if you will,” the doctor interrupted. “We have purposely left the coffin lid only partly screwed down. I should like to say, however, that before arranging the deceased for burial, I asked the ship’s doctor to make an examination with me of the coffin and the garments which I used. He signed the certificate, and he will be ready to answer any questions.”
“That seems entirely satisfactory,” the detective confessed. “I will just have the coffin lid off for a few moments, and will see the doctor before I leave the ship.”
The men left the room together and were absent some ten minutes. Presently the detective returned to Katharine’s room, and with him came Crawshay. Katharine had discarded the nurse’s costume which she had usually worn on board ship, and was wearing the black tailor-made suit in which she had expected to land. In the dim light, her pallor and nervous condition almost startled Crawshay.
“You will forgive my intrusion,” he said. “I have just been explaining your presence here to Mr. Brightman, the detective, and I don’t think he will trouble you for more than a few minutes.”
“Please treat me exactly as the others,” she begged.
The search proceeded for a few moments in silence. Then the detective looked up from the dressing case which he was examining. In his hand he held the envelope addressed to Mrs. Phillips.
“Do you mind telling me what this is, Miss Beverley?” he asked.
“It is a roll of bills,” she replied, “that belonged to Mr. Phillips. I promised to see them handed over to his wife.”
Brightman glanced at the address and balanced the envelope on the palm of his hand.
“It is against the law,” he told her, “for a passenger to be the bearer of any sealed letter.”
Katharine shrugged her shoulders.
“I am very sorry,” she said, “but the packet which you have did not come from America at all. It was sealed up on board this ship at the time when I accepted the charge of its delivery. There is no letter or communication of any sort inside.”
“You will not object,” the detective enquired, “to my opening it?”
She frowned impatiently.
“I can assure you,” she repeated, “that I saw the notes put inside an empty envelope. Mr. Crawshay will tell you that my word is to be relied upon.”
“Implicitly, Miss Beverley,” Crawshay pronounced emphatically, “but under the circumstances I think no harm would be done if you allowed our friend just to glance inside. The notes can easily be sealed up in another envelope.”
“Just as you like,” she acquiesced coolly. “You will find nothing but bills there.”
Brightman tore open the envelope and glanced inside as though he did not intend further to disturb it. Suddenly his face changed. He shook out the contents upon the little table. They all three looked at the pile of papers with varying expressions. In Katharine’s face there was nothing but blank bewilderment, in Crawshay’s something of horror, in the detective’s a faint gleam of triumph. He pressed his finger down on the heading of the first sheet of paper.
“I am not much of a German scholar,” he observed. “How do you translate that, Mr. Crawshay?”
Crawshay was silent for several moments. Then in a perfectly mechanical tone he read out the heading:
“‘List of our agents in New York and district who may be absolutely trusted for any enterprise.’”
There was another dead silence, a silence, on Katharine’s part, of complete mental paralysis. Crawshay’s face had lost all its smooth petulance. He was like a man who had received a blow.
“But I don’t understand,” Katharine faltered at last. “That packet has not been out of my possession, and I saw the notes put into it.”
“By whom?” Crawshay demanded.
“By Mr. Phillips,” she declared steadfastly, “by Mr. Phillips and Doctor Gant together.”
The detective turned the envelope over in his hand.
“The bills seem to have disappeared,” he observed.
“They were in that envelope,” Katharine persisted. “I have never seen those papers before in my life.”
Brightman’s face remained immovable. One by one he slipped the papers back into the envelope, thrust them into his breast pocket, and, turning round, locked the door.
“You must forgive me if the rest of our investigations may seem unnecessarily severe, Miss Beverley,” he said.
Katharine sank back upon the sofa. She was utterly bewildered by the events of the last few minutes. The search of her belongings was now being conducted with ruthless persistence. Her head was buried in her hands. She did not even glance at the contents of her trunk, which were now overflowing the room. Suddenly she was conscious of another pause in the proceedings, a half-spoken exclamation from the detective. She looked up. From within the folds of an evening gown he had withdrawn a small, official-looking dispatch box of black tin, tied with red tape, and with great seals hanging from either end.
“What is this?” he asked.
Katharine stared at it with wide-open eyes.
“I have never seen it before,” she declared.
There was another painful, significant silence. Crawshay bent forward and examined the seals through his glass.
“This,” he announced presently, “is the official seal of a neutral Embassy. You see how the packet is addressed?”
“I see,” the detective admitted, “but, considering the way in which we have found it, you are not suggesting, I hope, that we should not open it?”
“Opened it certainly must be,” Crawshay admitted, “but not by us in this manner. When you have finished your search, I should be glad if you will bring both packets with you to the captain’s room.”
Brightman silently resumed his labours. Nothing further, however, was found. The two men stood up together.
“Miss Beverley,” Brightman began gravely,—
Crawshay laid his hand upon the man’s arm.
“Wait for a moment,” he begged. “I wish to have a few words with you outside. We shall be back before long, Miss Beverley.”
The two men disappeared. Katharine, with a sinking of the heart, heard the key turn on the outside of her stateroom. She watched the lock slip into its place with an indescribable sense of humiliation. She had been guilty—of what?
She lost count of time, but it was certain that only a few minutes could have passed before a strange thing happened. The sight of that lock, which seemed somehow to shut her off from the world of reasonable, honest men and women, had fascinated her. She was sitting watching it, her chin resting upon her hands, something of the horror still in her eyes, when without sound, or any visible explanation, she saw it glide back to its place. The door was opened and closed. Jocelyn Thew was standing in her stateroom.
“You?” she exclaimed.
“I am not disappointed in you, I am sure,” he said softly. “You will keep still. You will not say a word. I have risked the whole success of a great enterprise to come and say these few words to you. I am ashamed and sorry for what you are suffering, but I want to tell you this. Nothing serious will happen—nothing serious can happen to you. Everything is not as it seems. Will you believe that? Look at me. Will you believe that?”
She raised her eyes. Once more there was that change in his face which had seemed so wonderful to her. The blue of his eyes was soft, his mouth almost tremulous. She answered him almost as though mesmerised.
“I will believe it,” she promised.
As silently and mysteriously as he had come, he turned and left her. She watched the latch. She saw the lock creep silently once more into its place. She heard no movement outside, but Jocelyn Thew had gone.
During the few remaining minutes of her solitude, Katharine felt a curious change in the atmosphere of the little disordered stateroom, in her own dazed and bruised feelings. She seemed somehow to be playing a part in a little drama which had nothing to do with real life. All her fears had vanished. She rose from her place, smoothed her disordered hair carefully, bathed her temples with eau-de-cologne, adjusted her hat and veil, and, turning on the reading lamp, opened a novel. She actually managed to read a couple of pages before there was a knock at the door and the two men reappeared. She laid down her book and greeted them quite coolly.
“Well, have you come to pronounce sentence upon me?” she asked.
“Our authority scarcely goes so far,” Brightman replied. “I am going on shore now, Miss Beverley, to fetch the consul of the country to which this packet is addressed. It will be opened in his presence. In the meantime, Mr. Crawshay has given his parole for you. You will therefore be free of the ship, but it will be, I am afraid, my duty to ask you to come with me to the police station for a further examination, on my return.”
“I am sure I shall like to come very much,” she said sweetly, “but if you go on asking me questions forever, I am afraid you won’t come any nearer solving the problem of how that box got into my trunk, or how those bills got changed into those queer-looking little slips of papers. However, that of course is your affair.”
The detective departed with a stiff bow. Crawshay, however, lingered.
“Aren’t you going with your friend?” she asked him.
He ignored the question.
“Miss Beverley,” he said, “you will forgive me saying that I find the present position exceedingly painful.”
“Why?�
�� she demanded. “I don’t see how you are suffering by it.”
“It was at my instigation,” he went on, “that suspicion was first directed against your travelling companions. I am convinced that the first idea was to get these documents off the ship upon the person of Phillips, if alive, or in his coffin if dead. The instigators of this abominable conspiracy have taken fright and have made you their victim. Certainly,” he went on, “it was a shrewd idea. I myself suggested to Brightman that your things might remain undisturbed. But for the finding of that envelope, your trunk would certainly not have been opened. You see the position I have placed myself in. I am driven to ask you a question. Did you know of the presence of those papers and dispatch box amongst your belongings?”
“I had no idea of it,” she answered fervently.
He drew a little breath of relief.
“You realise, of course,” he went on, “that there is only one man who could have placed them there?”
“And who is that?” she enquired.
“Jocelyn Thew.”
“And why do you single him out?”
“Because,” Crawshay told her patiently, “we had evidence in America to show that he was working with our enemies. It is true that he has not been associated to any extent with the German espionage system in America, but he has been well-known always as a reckless adventurer, ready to sell his life in any doubtful cause, so long as it promised excitement and profit. It was known to us that he had come into touch with a certain man in Washington who has been looking after the interests of his country in America. It was to shadow Jocelyn Thew that I came on this steamer. His friends cleverly fooled Hobson and me, and landed us in Chicago too late, as they thought, to catch the boat. That is why I made that somewhat melodramatic journey after you on the seaplane. Do please consider this matter reasonably, Miss Beverley. It was perfectly easy for him to slip across and place these things in your luggage as soon as he found that his original scheme was likely to go wrong. You were the one person on the steamer whom he reckoned would be safe from suspicion. You were part of his plot from the very first, and no more than that.”
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