“Bush,” he said to his chauffeur, “this spy scare was ridiculed by the newspapers, but it looks to me as though it were being taken rather seriously after all.”
“It is, sir.”
“I understand that about thirty thousand German and Austrian reservists have been arrested in England since war began?”
“I hear so, sir.”
“I suppose the country really is swarming with spies. The paper yesterday said that there was still a great and serious leakage of military information out of England. One paper, yesterday afternoon, reported that a number of spies had already been shot in the Tower.”
“I have heard so, sir,” said the chauffeur smilingly.
He was a blond, good-looking young fellow. Always his lips seemed to rest in pleasant curves as though his reveries were agreeable.
A few hideously modern detached villas were passed, then hedges, walls, a wood, a modern bridge.
“How near are we to Westheath now?” asked Guild, leaning forward in his seat.
“We are there, sir.” And the smiling chauffeur slowed the car to a standstill at a cross-roads where furze and broom grew rankly over the heath and a few rather tawdry villas appeared among the trees beyond.
Guild looked at his watch. It was only a little after seven, an unearthly hour for a call upon any young girl, not to mention one to whom he was personally unknown.
A policeman still wearing his waterproof night cloak, came leisurely across to learn what was wanted.
“I am looking for the villa of Miss Girard — Miss Karen Girard,” explained Guild.
“Hyacinth Villa, Number 169. Take the road to the right. It is the only house.”
“Thank you.”
The car moved forward, swung to the right. About a quarter of a mile away stood a small, modern stucco dwelling behind its hedge of privet. Beyond that there were woods again and dewy uplands glimmering with furze and brake.
When they arrived they found the driveway closed by a gate.
“Never mind; I’ll walk to the house,” said Guild.
The smiling chauffeur leaned back and opened the tonneau door; Guild descended, looked at the iron gate between its ugly stucco posts, peered through it up the drive with its parallel rows of recently planted lime trees. Everything about the place was recent if not brand new — ugly with the ugliness of well-to-do bad taste. Red geraniums and yellow cannas had been planted in fearsome juxtaposition, salvia flanked a red brick terrace — a most unholy combination of colour. In the early morning the sun exposed the place without mercy. It was lonesome and amazingly depressing.
Glancing up at the gate again he discovered a nickel-plated label riveted to one of the stucco posts. On it was the name of the place, “Hyacinth Villa,” and its number 169.
There was no lodge, no bell, but the wicket gate was not locked. So Guild entered.
“Shall I drive up to the house, sir?” inquired the chauffeur.
“No; wait out here.”
There seemed to be no sign of life about the house when at last he arrived in front of it — nobody apparently stirring at that hour. He hesitated; he still wore the same knickerbockers and cap which he had worn in Belgium. His sack, which was now in the car, contained only fresh linen; and he began to wonder what his reception might be in such a costume and at such an hour. He doubted that the unconventionality of the daughter of a Prussian aristocrat might extend far enough to accept him, his rather shabby clothes, and his explanation of the visit.
It was all very well for this young girl to kick over the tradition, cut home traces in the sacred cause of art, call herself Girard, and live in an impossible villa for art’s sake. Few well-born Fräuleins ever did this sort of thing, but there had been instances. And anybody in Germany will always add that they invariably went to the devil.
Guild rang. After he had waited long enough he rang again. After that he resumed his ringing. Keeping his finger pressed on the electric button and laying his ear to the door. The bell was doing its duty inside the house; he could hear it.
Presently he heard a fumbling of chains and locks inside, the door opened on a crack and a sleepy voice inquired: “Is it you, Anna?”
Guild hesitated: “I wish to see Miss Girard. Is she at home?”
“Who are you?” demanded the voice no longer sleepy.
“My name is Guild. I am sorry to disturb Miss Girard at such an hour, but I cannot help it. Is Miss Girard in?”
“Yes; I am Miss Girard.”
“Are you Miss Karen Girard?”
“Yes. Why do you wish to see me?”
“I can’t tell you here. Are you dressed?”
There was a pause, then she said: “No.”
“Please dress as quickly as you can. Dress for travel.”
“What!”
“If you have a travelling dress put it on. You can pack your luggage while I am talking to you. But dress as quickly as you can and then return and let me in.”
She said after a moment’s silence: “I certainly shall not do any of those things until I know more about you and about your errand here.”
“I have a message for you from General Baron Kurt von Reiter.”
“That is possible,” she said quietly. “What is the message?”
“I was to say to you that the question which you were to decide on the first of November must be decided sooner.”
“I must have clearer proof that your message is genuine. I am sorry to distrust you but I have been annoyed lately.”
“Very well,” he said. “Open the door a little more. Don’t be afraid. I merely wish you to look at a ring which I wear. I want you to draw it from my finger and look at what is engraved inside.”
There was another silence. Then the door crack slowly widened.
“Please extend your hand,” she said.
There was just enough of space for him to slip his hand between door and frame and he did so. There came a light, soft touch on his ring-finger. The ring slipped off.
“There came a light, soft touch on his ring-finger”
When she spoke again her voice was altered: “I shall dress immediately,” she said. “I shall not keep you waiting long. You will find the door open. Please come in when I have gone upstairs.”
“Thank you.”
He could hear her light, flying feet on the stairs; he waited a little longer, then opened the door.
The hallway was dark, and he left the door open, then entered the room to the left which seemed to be a library, music-room and living-room combined. Books, piano, easy chairs and sofas loomed in the dim light of drawn curtains. An easel on which stood a water-colour drawing occupied the end of the room, and beside it was a table on which were porcelain dishes, tubes of colour and scattered badger brushes.
It was evident that Miss Girard’s talents were multiple, for he noticed also a violin and music stand near the piano, and on the violin score as well as on the score spread across the piano the same hand had written “Karen Girard.”
He stood by the table, mechanically picking up, one after another, the books lying there. Some of the books were printed in French, some in German, in Italian, in Danish, in Swedish, in English. Miss Girard’s name was written in all of them. Miss Girard appeared to be accomplished.
In the dim light Guild began to saunter around the room encountering various evidences of Miss Girard’s taste and mode of living — one or two Braun photographs of Velasquez, Boucher, and Gainsborough on the walls — certainly a catholicism of taste entirely admirable; — one or two graceful bits of ancient Chinese art — blue and gold marvels of Pekin enamel; a mille-fleur tapestry panel, a bundle of golf clubs, a tennis bat, and a pair of spurs.
He thought for himself that when a girl goes in for all of these accomplishments it is because the gods have been otherwise unkind, and that she has to.
At the same time he remembered the voice he had heard through the scarcely opened door — the lovely voice of a young English girl — th
an which in all the world there is nothing half so lovely.
And it suddenly occurred to him that there had not been in it the faintest kind or trace of a German accent — that only its childish and sleepy sweetness had struck him first, and then its purity and its youthful and cultivated charm.
Yes, truly, the gods had been kind to this young German girl of nineteen, but it would be a little too much to ask of these same gods that they endow her with figure and features commensurate with her other charms and talents.
Then he suddenly remembered her profession, and that she was studying still for the dramatic profession. And he knew that this profession naturally required exterior charm of any woman who desired to embrace it.
While these ideas and speculations were occupying his mind he heard her on the stairs, and he turned and came forward as she entered the room.
She was a slender, straight girl of medium height; and her face was one of those fresh young faces which looked fragrant. And instantly the thought occurred to him that she was the vivid, living incarnation of her own voice, with her lilac-blue eyes and soft white neck, and the full scarlet lips of one of those goddesses who was not very austere.
She wore a loosely-belted jacket of tan-coloured covert-cloth, and narrow skirts of the same, and a wide golden-brown hat, and tan spats. The gods had been very, very kind to Miss Girard, for she even adorned her clothes, and that phenomenon is not usual in Great Britain or among German Fräuleins however accomplished and however well born.
She said: “I beg your pardon for detaining you so long on the outside door-step. Since the war began my maid and I have been annoyed by strangers telephoning and even coming here to ask silly and impertinent questions. I suppose,” she added, disdainfully, “it is because there is so much suspicion of foreigners in England.”
“I quite understand,” he said. “Being German, your neighbors gossip.”
She shrugged her indifference.
“Shall we talk here?” she asked gravely, resting one very white hand on the back of a chair. “You come from General Baron Kurt von Reiter. The ring is a credential beyond dispute.”
“We can talk anywhere you wish,” he said, “but there is little time, and somebody must pack a traveller’s satchel for you. Have you a maid?”
“She went to London yesterday evening. She was to have returned on the eleven o’clock train last night. I can’t understand it.”
“Are you alone in the house?”
“Yes. My cook sleeps out. She does not come until half-past nine. My maid serves my breakfast.”
“You haven’t had any, then?”
“No.”
“Can you fix something for yourself?”
“Yes, of course. Shall I do so now?”
“Yes. I’ll go to the kitchen with you while you are doing it. There are several things to say and the time is short.”
She led the way; he opened the kitchen shutters and let in the sunshine, then stood a moment watching her as she moved about the place with graceful celerity, preparing cocoa over an alcohol lamp, buttering a roll or two and fetching cup, plate, spoon and marmalade.
“Have you breakfasted?” she asked, looking at him over her shoulder.
“Yes — it is very good of you — —”
“There will be plenty of cocoa and rolls — if you care for them. The rolls are yesterday’s and not fresh.”
She poured the cocoa in two cups and looked at him again in grave invitation.
“You are sure there is plenty?” he asked, smilingly.
“Plenty.”
“Then — I do seem to be rather hungry.”
He drew a chair for her; she seated herself and ate with a youthful appetite. He drank his cocoa, ate his rolls, and tried not to look at her too often.
“This is why I am here,” he said. “I saw General Baron von Reiter four days ago under somewhat extraordinary circumstances.
“He told me that since the war broke out he had not been able to communicate directly with you or to get you out of England, and he asked me to find you and bring you to his estate at Trois Fontaines in Luxembourg.”
“To Quellenheim?” she asked, surprised and disturbed. “Is he there?”
“No, he is with a field army, and he does not know where orders from staff headquarters may send him.”
“Still,” she said, hesitating, “I should think that he might wish me to go to Silesia — —”
“Silesia is threatened by the Russian army.”
“Silesia!” she repeated, incredulously. “Cossacks in Silesia?” She sat, her cup of cocoa half raised to her lips, her surprised and disconcerted eyes on his. Then she set the cup aside.
“He wishes me to go to Quellenheim? With you?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“Travelling on the continent is precarious.”
Her eyes rested on his; she said with a candour which he began to understand was characteristic of her: “He seems to have confidence in you. I never heard him speak of you. You are American?”
“Yes.”
“That is odd. He never cared for Americans.”
Guild said: “He could not send a German into England.”
“That is true. Nor an Englishman either. No Englishman would be likely to do anything to oblige a German.”
She rose: “I don’t understand why Anna, my maid, is still absent,” she added uneasily. “My maid often goes to London, but never before has she remained over night. I don’t know why she remained. She knew I was alone in the house.”
She lifted her serious blue eyes to Guild, then gazed out of the window, evidently perplexed to the point of apprehension.
“I am worried,” she said, “very much worried. But that doesn’t help, does it?”
“What was her errand in London?” asked Guild.
“She has a brother there. I suppose it’s all right or she would have telephoned me.”
He said: “No doubt it is all right. And, may I ask you to hasten?”
She rose: “Where am I to go with you?”
“To London and then to the steamer.”
“Today?”
“Today is Wednesday. No other Holland Line boat sails for Amsterdam before Sunday, and I have yet our passage to secure and I must also go to the War Office for a few moments. You see we have very little time.”
“But I can’t pack my boxes then?”
“You will have to leave them.”
“You mean I may take only a satchel?”
“A suit-case and satchel if you wish. Leave a note for your maid instructing her to send by express whatever else you wish sent after you.”
“Is this haste necessary, Mr. Guild?”
“Yes, it is. I want to get out of England. I am not sure that I can get out if we wait until Sunday.”
“Why not?”
“I may be detained. I may not be permitted to leave with you. All foreigners are under more or less suspicion. I am rather sure that I have been under surveillance already at the Berkeley Hotel.”
They had moved out into the hall together while he was speaking, and now, together, they went up the stairs.
“If you don’t mind,” she said, “my room is in disorder, but I’ll have to pack there and you will have to sit there if you wish to talk to me.”
It was a white and chintz room in dainty disorder.
She went away and returned in a moment or two with a satchel and suit-case. These she placed on the bed, opened, and then, dragging out various drawers of chiffonier and chest, began to transfer her apparel to the two bags.
“I am extremely sorry,” he said, “to hurry you so inconveniently.”
“I don’t mind,” she replied, busy with her packing. “You see I am an actress and I have travelled with a company in the provinces. That was an experience!” She turned her pretty head and looked at Guild. “I had no maid then, except at the theatres where we played, and I had to share her with three other girls. Really, Mr. Guild
, it taught me how to pack things rather rapidly.”
Her white hands were flying as she folded and placed garment after garment in the suit-case, serene, self-possessed, quite undisturbed by his presence at the rather intimate display of her apparel.
The garments were bewilderingly frail to him; she tucked and packed them into place; a faint fresh scent seemed to freshen the place.
He said: “I don’t think we are going to have any trouble about leaving England. But, if any trouble does arise, would you have sufficient confidence in me to do what I say?”
She continued her packing for a few moments without replying, then turned and looked at him.
And at the same moment the telephone on the table beside her bed tinkled.
“There is Anna now!” she exclaimed with the emphasis of relief. “Will you pardon me? No, I don’t mean you are to leave the room — —”
She lifted the receiver: “Yes, I am here.... Yes, this is Miss Girard. Yes, Miss Karen Girard.... Mr. Louis Grätz? Oh, good morning!”
At the name of the man with whom she was speaking Guild turned around surprised. At the same instant the girl’s face flushed brightly as she sat listening to what the distant Mr. Grätz was saying to her.
Guild watched her; perplexity, surprise, a deeper flush of consternation, all were successively visible on her youthful face.
“Yes,” she said to Mr. Grätz. “Yes, I will do whatever he wishes.... Yes, he is here — here in my room with me. We were talking while I packed. Yes, I will do so.” And, turning her head a little she said to the young man behind her: “The Edmeston Agency desires to speak to you.”
He rose and took the receiver from her hand and bent over beside her listening.
“Are you there?” inquired a pleasant voice.
“Yes.”
“I am Grätz of the Edmeston Agency. Get that young lady out of the house at once. Do you understand?”
“Yes.”
“Her maid is in trouble. This agency may be in trouble at any moment. She must not wait to pack. Get her into the car and take her to the wharf and on board at once. Do you understand?”
“Yes.”
Works of Robert W Chambers Page 753