Chambers Robert William
Who Goes There!

CHAPTER VII
THE SATCHEL

It was only a short drive to Fresh Wharf by London Bridge. A marching column of kilted Territorials checked them for a while and they looked on while the advanced guard of civilians surged by, followed by pipers and then by the long leaf-brown column at a smart swinging stride.

When the troops had passed the hansom moved on very slowly through the human flotsam still eddying in the wake of the regiment; and after a few more minutes it pulled up again and Guild sprang out, lifted the young girl to the sidewalk, and handed the fare to the driver.

The latter leaned over and as he took the coins he thrust a parcel into Guild's hands. "Your change, sir," he said genially, touched his top hat and drove off, looking right and left for another fare.

Guild's surprised eyes fell on the packet. It contained two steamer tickets strapped together by a rubber band.

Pushing through the throng where policemen, wharf officials and soldiers in khaki were as numerous as civilians, Guild finally signalled a porter to take the luggage aboard. Karen retained her satchel. A brief scrutiny of his tickets detained them for a moment, then the porter led them up the gang-plank and aboard and a steward directed them to their stateroom. At the same moment a uniformed official stepped up to Guild.

"Sorry to trouble you, sir," he said politely, "but may I have your name?"

"My name is Kervyn Guild."

The official glanced over the steamer list. "You have papers of identification, Mr. Guild?"

Guild handed him his forged passports. The official took them, glanced at Karen, at the luggage which the porter bore.

"Where do you go from Amsterdam, Mr. Guild?"

"Through Holland."

"Naturally. And then?"

"To the Grand Duchy."

"Luxembourg?"

"Yes."

"Where in Luxembourg?"

"I have been invited to visit friends."

"Where?"

"At Lesse Forest."

"Where is that?"

"Partly in the Duchy, partly in Belgium."

"Who are your friends?"

"Mrs. and Miss Courland of New York and a Mr. Darrel."

"Madam goes with you?"

"Yes."

The official began to unfold the passports, while he looked sideways at the luggage. Holding the passports partly open in one hand he pointed to Karen's satchel with the other.

"Please open that," he said, and began to examine the passports. A deadly pallour came over the girl's face; she did not stir. Guild turned to glance at her and was stricken dumb. But she found her speech. "Dear," she said, with white lips, "would you mind stepping ashore and getting me something at a chemist's?" And under her breath, pressing close to him: "Go, for God's sake. I am afraid I shall be arrested." A terrible fear struck through him.

"The satchel!" he motioned with his lips.

"Yes. Go while you can. Go – go – dear."

"I'll be back in a moment, Karen," he said, coolly took the satchel from the porter, turned with it toward the gang-plank.

The official raised his eyes from the passport he was scanning.

"One moment, sir," he said.

"I'll be back directly," returned Guild, continuing on his way.

"Where are you going, Mr. Guild?"

"To a chemist's."

"Be kind enough to leave that satchel and remain here until I have finished," said the official coldly. And to Karen: "Mrs. Guild, will you kindly open that bag?"

"Certainly. I have the key somewhere" – searching in her reticule. And as she searched she lifted her eyes to Guild. Her face was dead white.

"Dearest," she said in a steady voice, "will you go to the chemist's while I am opening my bag. I must have something for this headache."

Her agonized eyes said: "Save yourself while you can; I am caught!"

But Guild turned and came back to her, close, standing beside her.

"I'll open the luggage," he said quietly. "You had better step ashore and get what you need." And, in a whisper: "Go straight to the American Ambassador and tell him everything."

She whispered: "No; I beg of you go. I beg of you, Kervyn."

He shook his head and they stood there together; he grave and silent, assailed by a terrible premonition; she white as death, mechanically fumbling in her reticule with slim, childish fingers.

The official was deeply immersed in the passports and continued so even when Karen's tremulous fingers held the key. "Give it to me," whispered Guild.

"No – " She beckoned the porter, took the satchel, and at the same moment the official looked up at her, then holding both passports, came over to where they were standing.

"Your papers are in order, Mr. Guild," he said. "Now, Mrs. Guild, if you will open your satchel – "

"I'll attend to that, Holden," broke in a careless voice, and the satchel was taken out of Karen's hands by a short, dark young man in uniform. "I want you to go forward and look at a gentleman for The Hague who has no papers. He's listed as Begley. Do you mind?"

"Right," said Holden. "Here, Mitchell, these papers are satisfactory. Look over Mr. Guild's luggage and come forward when you're finished. What's his name? Begley?"

"Yes, American. I'll be with you in a moment."

Holden hastened forward; Mitchell looked after him for a moment, then calmly handed back the unopened satchel to Karen and while she held it he made a mark on it with a bit of chalk.

"I pass your luggage," he said in a low voice, stooping and marking the suit-case and Guild's sack. "You have nothing to fear at Amsterdam, but there are spies on this steamer. Best go to your cabin and stay there until the boat docks."

The girl bent her little head in silence; the porter resumed the luggage and piloted them aft through an ill-lighted corridor. When he came to the door of their cabin he called a steward, took his tip from Guild, touched his cap and went away.

The steward opened the stateroom door for them, set the luggage on the lounge, asked if there was anything more he could do, was told that there was not, and took himself off.

Guild locked the door after him, turned and looked down at the girl, who had sunk trembling upon the lounge.

"What is there in that satchel?" he asked coldly.

"I don't know."

"What!" he said in a contemptuous voice.

"Kervyn – my friend – I do not know," she stammered.

"You must know! You packed it!"

"Yes. But I do not know. Can't you believe me?"

"How can I? You know what you put into that satchel, don't you?"

"I – put in toilet articles – night clothes – money."

"What else? You put in something else, didn't you? Something that has made you horribly afraid!"

"Yes."

"What is it?"

"Kervyn – I don't know what it is. I must not know. It is a matter of honour."

"If you don't know what it is you carry in that satchel you evidently suspect what it might prove to be."

"Yes."

"You have very strong suspicions?"

"Yes, I have."

"Why did you take such a thing?"

"I promised."

"Whom?"

"I can't tell you. It is a matter of honour. I – I didn't want to involve you if things turned badly. I asked you to leave me… Even at the last moment I tried to give you a chance to go ashore and escape. Kervyn, I've tried to be honourable and to be loyal to you at the same time. I've tried – I've tried – " Her childish voice faltered, almost broke, and she turned her head sharply away from him.

He dropped onto the lounge beside her, sick with anxiety, and laid his hand over hers where it lay in her lap.

"I'm afraid that you have papers in that satchel which might mean the end of the world for you," he said under his breath. "God alone knows why you carry them if you suspect their contents… Well, I won't ask you anything more at present… If your conscience acquits you, I do. I do anyway. You have given me plenty of chances to escape. You have been very plucky, very generous to me, Karen."

"I have tried to be," she said unsteadily. "You have been far too kind to me, Kervyn… I – I don't mean to tremble so. I think I am, feeling the – the reaction."

"Lie down. I am afraid I'll have to stay here – "

"Yes; don't go out on deck. Don't take any more risks… I'll lie down if I may." She rose, looked around with eyes still darkly dilated by fear:

"Oh!" she breathed – "if we were only out of British waters!"

He looked at his watch, and at the same moment a deep blast from the steamer vibrated through the cabin.

"They've cast off," he said calmly.

The girl had flung herself on the bed and buried her face in the pillow. Her brown velvet hat had fallen to the floor, her thick brown hair clustered in glossy disorder over neck and cheek. One slim hand clutched convulsively a tiny handkerchief crushed into a ball.

"We have every chance now," he said very gently, bending over the pillow – "barring a wireless to some British guard-ship. Don't give way yet, Karen." He laid a cool, firm hand over hers and tried to speak jestingly. "Wait until there's no danger at all before you go all to pieces," he whispered.

As he bent above her, he became conscious of the warm fragrance of tears. But no sound came, not a quiver. And after a while he went over to the sofa and sat down, staring at the locked satchel on the floor, vaguely aware that the boat was in steady motion.

"Karen," he said after a moment.

"Yes – dear."

"You know," he said, forcing a laugh, "you needn't say it when we're alone – except for practice."

"Yes, dear, I know."

"May I ask you something?"

"Yes, please."

"Did you know that official named Mitchell?"

"Yes."

"Who was he?"

"Mr. Grätz."

CHAPTER VIII
AT SEA

The funnel smoke blew low, burying the afterdecks, and a hurricane of scud and spindrift swept everything forward, drenching the plunging steamer to the bridge. Stanchions, davits, hatches were all a-dip, decks a-wash, and the Dutch ensign whipping aloft in a thick grey sky that seemed to speed astern as though in chase of the heaving grey waste of waters that fled away beneath.

Here and there a trawler tossed and rocked; lean, melancholy wanderers on the face of the waters; twice the raking stacks of destroyers, smothered in foam, dashed eastward running full speed on some occult trail twixt sky and sea.

The grey world grew duller, duller; one by one the blinding searchlights on coast-guard ships broke out, sweeping sky and ocean as though in desperate appeal to the God above and in menacing warning to the devils that lurked below.

For they said the North Sea was full of them; legions of them tossed broadcast from the black hell of some human mind. And beneath them, deeper, lying as still as death on the Channel's floor, waited the human submarines in unseen watery depths – motionless, patient, awaiting the moment to strike.

Night came; the white level glare of searchlights flooded the steamer, lingered, shifted, tossed their dazzling arms heavenward as though imploring the Most High, then swept unseen horizons where the outermost waters curve with the curving globe.

Only one light burned in the stateroom, but the port was not covered.

Karen lay on the bed, unstirring save for a slight tremor of her shoulders now and then. Her brown hair, half loosened, had fallen in thick burnished curls on the pillow; one hand covered her eyes, palm outward. Under it the vivid lips, scarcely parted, rested on each other in a troubled curve.

Guild brooded silently on the lounge under the port. Sometimes his sombre gaze rested on her, sometimes on the locked satchel which had rolled to the side of the bed.

Every time the arrowy beam of light from a warship flooded the cabin with swift white splendour his heart seemed to stop, for the menace of the wireless was always a living dread; and the stopping of a neutral ship and the taking from it of suspects had become a practice too common even to excite comment, let alone protest.

Twice they were stopped; twice Ardoise signals twinkled; but no cutter came alongside, and no officer boarded them. It was an eternity of suspense to Guild, and he stood by the open port, listening, the satchel in his hand ready to fling it out into the turmoil of heaving waters.

The steward came, and Guild ordered something served for them both in the stateroom. Karen had not awakened, but her hand had slipped from her eyes and it lay across the edge of the bed.

On the bridal finger glimmered the plain gold band – his credentials to her from her father.

He went over and looked down into the white, childish face. Faultless, serene, wonderful as a flower it seemed to him. Where the black lashes rested the curve of the cheek was faintly tinted with colour. All else was snowy save for the vivid rose of the scarcely parted lips.

Nineteen! – and all those accomplishments which her dim living-room at Westheath had partly revealed – where books in many languages had silently exposed the mind that required them – where pictures, music – all the unstudied and charming disorder of this young girl's intimate habitation had delicately revealed its tenant.

And what her living-room had foreshadowed was only, after all, but a tinted phantom of the girl he had come to know in the flesh – the real mistress of that dim room quickened to life – a warm, living, breathing reality, low-voiced, blue-eyed, winsome and sweet with the vague fragrance of youth incarnate clinging to her, to every gesture, every movement, every turn of her head – to her very skirts it seemed – youth, freshness, purity unblemished.

As he stood there he tried to realize that she was German – this young girl with her low and charming English voice and her accentless English speech.

He had listened in vain for any flaw, any indication of alien birth. Nothing betrayed her as a foreigner, except, possibly, a delightfully quaint formality in accepting any service offered. For when he asked her whether she desired this or that, or if he might do this or that for her, always her answer in the affirmative was, "Yes, please," like a little girl who had been carefully taught to respect age. It amused him; for modern English young women are less punctilious with modern youth.

There came a dull clatter of crockery from the passageway; Guild turned and opened the door. The waiter produced a folding table, spread it, and arranged the dishes.

"That will be all," whispered Guild. "Don't knock again; I'll set the tray outside."

So the waiter went away and Guild closed the door again and turned back to the bed where Karen lay. Her delicate brows were now slightly knitted and the troubled curve of her lips hinted again of a slumber not wholly undisturbed by subconscious apprehension.

"Karen," he said in a low voice.

The girl opened her eyes. They had that starry freshness that one sees in the eyes of waking children. For a moment her confused gaze met his without expression, then a hot flush stained her face and she sat up hurriedly. Down tumbled the thick, burnished locks and her hands flew instinctively to twist them up.

"I didn't realize that I had been asleep. Please, will you turn your back" – her glance fell on the table – "I shall be ready in a moment – Kervyn."

"Had I not better give you the place to yourself?"

"Yes, please."

"I'll do a sentry-go in the corridor," he said. "Open the door when you're quite ready."

So he went out and walked up and down until the stateroom door opened and her low voice summoned him.

"I can't eat," she said.

"Do you feel the sea?"

"No" – she smiled faintly – "but the excitement of the day – the anxiety – "

"We'll have some tea, anyway," he said.

They ate a little after all, and the hot and rather vile tea stimulated her. Presently he set tray and table outside in the corridor and came slowly back to where she had gathered herself in a corner of the sofa.

"The sea is rather rough," he said. "You seem to be a good sailor."

"Yes, I am. My father had a yacht and my mother and I always went when he cruised."

This slightest glimpse of personal history – the first she had vouchsafed – the first slight lifting of the curtain which hung between them, aroused his latent curiosity.

What else lay behind that delicate, opaque veil which covered the nineteen years of her? What had been the childhood, the earlier life of this young girl whom he had found living alone with a maid and a single servant at an obscure heath outside of London?

Gently born, gently bred young girls of aristocratic precedents, don't do that sort of thing. Even if they desire to try it, they are not permitted. Also they don't go on the stage, as a rule.

Neither the sign manual, the sign visible of the theatre, nor yet that occult indefinable something characteristic of the footlights appeared to taint her personality.

Talented as she was undoubtedly, cultured and gently nurtured, the sum total of all her experience, her schooling, her development, and her art had resulted only in a charming harmony, not a personality aggressively accented in any single particular. Any drawing-room in any country might have contained this young girl. Homes which possess drawing-rooms breed the self-possession, the serenity, the soft voice, the winsome candour and directness of such girls as she.

She was curled up in the corner of the sofa where he had placed behind her the two pillows from the bed, and her winning blue eyes rested every few minutes upon this young man whom she had known only a few hours and whom she already, in her heart and in her mind, was calling a friend.

She had never had any among young men – never even among older men had she experienced the quiet security, the untroubled certainty of such a friendship as had begun now – as had suddenly stepped into her life, new, yet strangely familiar – a friendship that seemed instantly fully developed and satisfactory.

There appeared to be no room for doubt about it, no occasion for waiting, no uncertainty in her mind, no inclination and no thought of the lesser conventionalities which must strew elaborately the path of first acquaintance with the old, old-fashioned garlands – those prim, stiff blossoms of discretion, of propriety, of self-conscious concession to formula and tradition.

No; when her eyes first fell on him her mind and heart seemed to recognize what neither had ever before beheld – a friend. And from that moment the girl had accepted the matter as settled, as far as she herself was concerned. And she had lost very little time in acquainting herself with his views upon the subject.

That he had responded to the friendship she had so naïvely offered did not surprise her. She seemed to have expected it – perhaps in the peril of the moments when they were nearing London and doubt and suspicion in her mind concerning the contents of her satchel were becoming an agony to her as they grew more definite – perhaps even then the sudden and deep sense of gratitude for his response had made courage a new necessity and had armoured her against panic – for friendship's sake.

All she realized in that moment was that this friendship, so sudden, so vital, was already so strong in her, so real, that even in the terror of that instant she thought of the danger to him, and asked him to let her go on alone.

Perhaps they both were thinking of these things – she, curled up in her corner, looking thoughtfully at him; he, knees crossed, gazing restlessly from object to object in the unsteady stateroom, but his eyes always reverting to her.

Then the duet of silence ended for a while. He said: "You must not suppose that I am not keenly alive to the kindness, the fearless generosity you have shown me all through this affair. What you suffered is lodged forever in my mind – and in my heart."

"What you have done for me is in my – heart," she said in her sweetly modulated voice.

"I have done very little – "

"You would not leave me!"

"My own life was forfeit if I did – "

"No! You did not reason that way! Besides, had I managed to get through alone, you should have had your life back again to do with as you pleased. No; you did not reason that way. You stood by a friend in peril – at your own peril."

She drew a deep, tremulous breath. "More than that," she said, "you stood by me when you almost believed I had lied to you – lied shamefully."

"I had my plans ready – in that event," he said, forcing a laugh.

"You did doubt me?"

"Yes."

She bent her head, looked thoughtfully at her hands, which clasped one knee, then, lifting her eyes: "I forgive you," she said gravely.

He flushed: "I did not know you – did not realize – what you are – "

"You were slower than I."

"What?"

"I trusted you– from the first."

He was silent; she watched him for a few moments, then:

"When you concluded that I had lied to you, what plans had you ready?"

"I had rather not say – "

"Please do."

He bit his lip: "I had decided to take your satchel from you."

"Against my wishes?" she asked, amazed.

"Yes."

There was no resentment, only a childish surprise: "Why?"

"I told you that I am an enemy to your country."

"Yes, I know – "

"I told you that I would not knowingly permit you to take out of England anything which might be detrimental to England's interests. And I made up my mind that if you had deceived me – and although I stood by you – because you are only a young girl – and were in danger from those who make no allowance for youth and sex – nevertheless, as soon as you were in personal safety, I meant to take from you whatever you had concealed from me and which might have been of service to England's enemies."

"Would you have done that?"

"Yes, if you had been untruthful to me."

She bent her head, thoughtfully; then looking up at him: "Yes; that would have been just… But I have not been untruthful."

His perplexed and slightly careworn eyes met hers.

"I can't doubt you," he said. "I know you have been truthful. But – what is in that satchel? Forgive me, I must ask you. Because there is evidently enough there to terrify you at the thought of British eyes inspecting it."

"Kervyn – can't you believe me when I tell you that I don't know what is in that satchel?"

"I do believe you. But tell me what you are afraid it might be."

"I can't – truly I can't tell you. Don't you understand? Don't you realize that I must have promised?"

"Promised?"

"Yes – not to unlock or open the satchel. I did promise."

"To whom did you make that promise?" And, as she did not reply: "Was the promise made to anybody I ever met?"

She looked at him in a distressed way, but his face darkened and his determination increased.

"Did you make that promise to a German? An officer? Did you make it to General von Reiter?"

"Yes."

"I see. And there are papers in that satchel!"

"Yes."

"Where did you get them?"

"From – Mr. Grätz."

"You were accustomed to receive papers from Mr. Grätz?"

"Sometimes."

"At certain intervals?"

"I don't know. Whenever Mr. Grätz telephoned, Anna, my maid, went to London and usually brought back the – the plans."

"Plans!"

"Yes. I understood that they were plans of a new automobile which was being designed by the Edmeston Agency for their Berlin branch. Mr. Grätz mentioned it as the Bauer-Schroeder car."

"To whom were these plans to go, ultimately?"

"I sent them to New York."

"To whom?"

"To Schimmel and Company, Broadway."

"Have you any idea where Schimmel and Company sent those plans?"

"Yes. I never thought much about it then, but today I realized that sooner or later the plans were sent to General von Reiter – in Berlin."

"You are sure?"

"Yes. I saw them when I was there last April. He said that those were the plans which I had sent to Schimmel and Company."

"You saw the plans?"

"Yes."

"Were they plans of an automobile?"

"I – thought so then. They were on very thin paper. I supposed them to be drawings of detached machinery in sections. They looked to me like fragments of something."

"And now – in the light of what happened today – what do you believe those drawings represented?"

"I have no idea – really I haven't. Only – " She hesitated, troubled, twisting her fingers on her knees.

"Only – " he prompted her.

She said, with a tremulous intake of breath: "I think I had better tell you, Kervyn. This is what frightened me – what the experience of today seemed to suddenly make plain to me – I mean your coming to Westheath, Mr. Grätz telephoning about obeying you, and informing me of the arrest of my maid – these things, and the war, and what I have read about German spies in England – all this flashed up in my mind at the same time when you turned from the telephone and asked me such terrible questions.

"It made clear to me, or seemed to, something else that I had not understood at the time – " She hesitated, her gaze concentrated as though in an effort to recollect and visualize some scene —

"It was last April, in Berlin… General Baron von Reiter said something to me as I was waiting for his car to take me to the station – I was departing for England again – and he said – he said – "

"Yes, Karen?"

"He said something about war – the possibility of it. And he said that in case war ever came while I was in England, and if, when it came, I had in my possession any automobile plans from the Edmeston Agency – from Mr. Grätz – that I was to bring them with me to Germany – not to show them to anybody, not to send them by mail, but to bring them back and deliver them to him."

"Yes, Karen."

"I promised… He made me promise again. He was very serious. He said that on my obedience in this matter might depend the lives of many people. I had no idea what he meant by that – until today… And what I fear has happened is that Anna, who went yesterday to London because Mr. Grätz telephoned, was arrested while in possession of papers delivered to her by Mr. Grätz… And that these papers were not what I had always supposed. And that is why I was suddenly afraid – afraid – Oh, Kervyn! – I cannot describe the fear that leaped up and seized me when you asked me those dreadful questions! Suddenly everything, every detail in the entire matter seemed to grow clear and terrible to me… I – I went into my dressing-room – and steadied myself against the wall – feeling faint for a moment.

"Then I took from my dressing-table the papers which I had from Anna's last visit to Mr. Grätz. They had remained there in the drawer because I had been told not to mail them, and no word had come for me to go back to Berlin. So I had them on my hands. But until you came I gave them no thought – merely conscious that I had promised to take them back with me.

"But – in that terrible moment when I stood there leaning against the wall, I remembered what was said to me about the lives of many people depending upon my keeping my promise. It was a hideous thing to remember at such a time… But I could not break my word – for the sake of these imperilled people also – could I, Kervyn?.. So I took the papers and locked them in my satchel. And afterward I – I asked you to leave – " Her voice quivered; she bent her head and sat twisting her slim fingers on her lap.

"That is all I know," she faltered – "all I know about it. I have tried to be true to my word, and loyal to – you."

Her emotion was reflected in his own face; he bent forward, laid his hand over her restless fingers.

"Karen," he said, "you are the pluckiest, straightest, whitest woman I ever knew."

"I'm only – honest," she whispered… "And I want you to think me so."

"I do! – Karen, dearest, sincerest, most fearless of women!"

"Do you believe me – that?"

"Karen, I – "

A sharp knocking at the door cut him short. They looked at each other, startled. At the same moment he realized that the ship had stopped.

"Could it be the stewardess?" she whispered.

"I don't know."

He rose, picked up the satchel and went to the open port.

"If a British guard-ship has stopped us to search us, we can't have this thing found," he said.

She stared at him in frightened silence.

"They may have found those men we tied up and left in your house at Westheath!" he whispered. "A wireless would set a score of warships ready to intercept us. If they board us they must not find that satchel."

The sharp, loud rapping came again.

Guild went to the open port, pushed the satchel through it, leaned out himself. As he did so something brushed his head, and, looking up, he saw a rope's end dangling there.

In an instant he had tied it to the handle of the satchel, stepped back, screwed the heavy glass fast, and then, motioning Karen to fling herself on the bed, he went to the door, opened it, and stood yawning in the face of a ship's officer.

"Don't wake my wife," he said drowsily. "What is the trouble?"

"The trouble is," replied the officer coldly, "that a British cruiser has signalled us to stop, and has asked whether an American named Guild is aboard."