CHAPTER XXIII

One evening, a week later, when darkness had fallen, John found himself in Grosvenor Place, pacing unobtrusively in the shadow of the russet-brown brick wall which surrounds the royal garden of Buckingham Palace. He was watching a taxi which was waiting before the broad door of Mr. Beecher Monmouth's residence. Some minutes passed before John, from his discreet vantage ground, observed Mrs. Beecher Monmouth herself, a vague, befurred, silk-clad figure in the distance, descend from her house and enter the vehicle.

The lady's taxi sped away, and John lifted his attention from the door of the house to the first floor. Here a chink of light from two windows showed him that Mrs. Beecher Monmouth's maid, having attired her mistress for the evening, was still busy, either in the bedroom or Mrs. Beecher Monmouth's boudoir.

"When Mademoiselle Cecily puts out the light and goes downstairs, I'll make a dash for it," thought John.

For a quarter of an hour after that he waited patiently in the shadow of the royal wall. Then first one light, and then another, vanished behind the first floor curtains of the house across the road. John gave Cecily sufficient time to descend to the housekeeper's room, where she usually spent the evening. At last, however, with something of alacrity and a quickened pulse-beat, he crossed the road. He was the veriest amateur as a burglar, but his cause was the best in the world, and in less than a minute he had slipped a small Yale key into the hall door. He had possessed himself of that key from Mrs. Beecher Monmouth's handbag earlier in the evening, and he knew she would not miss it until her return from her dinner-party at the Savoy.

The key moved noiselessly in the lock. No drama at all accompanied his entry into the lofty, deeply-carpeted hall. The light was dim, the hall deserted, and when John had soundlessly closed the front door behind him, he hurried forward and ascended the carpeted stairs, two steps at a time.

From the servants' quarters in the lower regions he could hear voices faintly. No other sounds came to him, and in less than a minute after he passed the front door he found himself in Mrs. Beecher Monmouth's intimate boudoir. Here he cautiously closed the door behind him, turned the key in the lock and switched on the light. Everything was as usual, save only that on every previous visit to that room Mrs. Beecher Monmouth, brilliantly gowned, brilliantly beautiful, and always amiable to himself, had been his chief centre of interest. To-night, however, it was not Mrs. Beecher Monmouth he desired to cultivate, but that lady's belongings.

He was there under Dacent Smith's instructions to search for clues which would enable John's chief of department to check her flow of information to the enemy. For not yet had John been able to discover in what manner, within eight hours, she had been able to communicate with the submarine which sank the _Malta_.

John, standing with his back to the gold and white boudoir door, surveyed the room with a slight sense of bewilderment. It was difficult to know where to begin. Nevertheless, he did begin, and during the quiet minutes that followed he made a close search for documents in every possible hiding-place he could discover. His care and patience, however, met with no reward; he found nothing of the slightest significance.

When John had thoroughly exhausted the possibilities of the boudoir and had found nothing, he opened the door which communicated from that room directly into Mrs. Beecher Monmouth's spacious bedroom. He had never viewed this apartment before, and he was much impressed by its gorgeous furnishings, its shining brass twin bedsteads, its white French furniture and deep carpet of pale grey and rose colour.

Having quietly locked the second door of the room which opened into the passage, he began a rapid search, taking care to replace everything as he found it. Mrs. Beecher Monmouth would probably not return until half-past nine, and he felt that if he could complete his business quickly he would be able to slip downstairs and out of the house before being observed.

Cecily was the only person likely to disturb him, and he had already thought of a plan which might secure his safety in this event. In regard to Mr. Beecher Monmouth, John felt completely at ease about him. The "Ogre" had, a fortnight ago, been neatly transhipped to Ireland as a member of a Government commission of inquiry. Dacent Smith, with the aid of the Home Secretary, had brought this about without arousing Monmouth's suspicions. The fact that Beecher Monmouth adored his wife, and had desired to take her with him, had created something of a difficulty, but Dacent Smith had overcome this point in his habitual neat manner.

"No; I don't think I need worry," thought John, glancing at an expensive clock of ivory and silver which adorned the dressing-table. "I shall be safe for another half an hour at least."

Mrs. Beecher Monmouth's bed was covered with a rich eiderdown covered in purple satin. John seated himself upon this sumptuous covering and rubbed his chin thoughtfully. He had been twenty minutes in the bedroom of Mrs. Beecher Monmouth, and had discovered nothing.

He noticed now a door, with a crystal knob, which opened into a wardrobe, which was a small room in itself. Here Mrs. Beecher Monmouth's numerous costumes hung in rows. John caught a glimpse of a shelf containing a score of pairs of boots, shoes and slippers. Beneath this shelf was a big tin box, a black japanned box, which immediately engaged John's attention.

The lock was a simple one, and John had it open in a moment. Then the disappointment that had been growing on him intensified, for in the box was nothing but Mrs. Beecher Monmouth's costly sables laid away for the summer. A reek of camphor assailed his nostrils from the folded furs. He was about to close the box, when the idea occurred to him to run his hand down the sides. A moment later he was glad of this impulse, for from the bottom of the tin he drew up a small, strong-looking cash-box.

He rattled the box, and was able to detect a faint rustle from within. Carrying the dispatch case, which was something under a foot in length, he went into the bedroom. Once again he seated himself on the purple eiderdown and tried all his keys. None of them fitted the dispatch box, which was protected by an unassailable Chubb lock.

John contemplated this lock for some minutes with an unfavourable eye, then he took out a heavy steel tool he had brought with him. It took him less than two minutes to wrench open the lid. Within the box, completely filling its interior, were neatly folded and tightly packed letters and papers.

John's interest quickened mightily as, opening one of the letters, he discovered it to be in German.

The note-paper was of the flimsy description, almost tissue paper, in fact. John, examining it closely, observed with a certain degree of interest that the paper had been folded very small indeed, evidently for facility in transmission.

As he sat on the edge of the bed, with the open box on his knee, and this letter in his hand, he swept Mrs. Beecher Monmouth's large and expensively furnished room with his glance. There was a deep silence in the room, and between the rise and the fall of the traffic noises outside, John could hear the light ticking of the little ivory and silver clock on the dressing-table. He was not occupied with the silence, however, but with the contents of the letter, which he read rapidly, eagerly, and with swiftly augmented interest. Written purposely small in a firm, foreign hand, the missive, which was to Mrs. Beecher Monmouth, ran, in German:

"DARLING ALICE,

"_Your loving letter reached me only yesterday, and I am hastening to answer it by the usual channels. I am still jealous. You tell me your husband is very old, but one of the solaces to my captivity here is the English newspapers, which we are allowed to read, and yesterday, in one of the picture papers, I observed Mr. Beecher Monmouth's photograph. He is not so old as you pretend, and though his face assures me that he will never win your heart, yet still I am jealous. It makes me laugh to think of you as the wife of an English politician, a member of their stupid Parliament! I wonder if in society you ever meet the Duke of Thule and Lord Harrisgrove. I recall our beautiful happiness in Washington together. You loved me then, I believe, more than you do now._"

The letter ended with expressions of endearment, and was signed "Kurt von Morgen."

As John read the signature his lips tightened. In great haste he ran his eye over the handwriting of at least a score of other letters, each one of them in the same handwriting, that of Kurt von Morgen, a German Cuirassier officer, a young aristocrat who had been captured on the Western Front six months earlier. He knew that Count Kurt von Morgen was a prisoner in the ---- camp for officers. And as he handled the flimsy sheets of paper he wondered consumedly how the young man had managed to convey these letters to Mrs. Beecher Monmouth.

A word in another letter by von Morgen caught his eye:

"_I am glad you have met General von Kuhne,_" said the writer. "_Kindly convey to him my compliments, and tell him his nephew, who is a prisoner here, is well and happy. His Excellency's presence in England means much. I throb with interest to know what will happen. But perhaps, Alice, meine herzliebste, I shall soon be free, and shall soon see you! Preparations for my escape are going better than ever. I have for my servant a very intelligent fellow from the Black Forest. Do not let your English 'Ogre' love you too much. Think of me always and the little week when you were my wife at Palm Beach. I kiss you behind the ear._--KURT."

A smile crossed John's face as he finished reading this amorous missive.

"Here," thought he, "we get a pretty complete clue to Mrs. Beecher Monmouth's earlier history before she came from America. It shows also where Mrs. Beecher Monmouth's affections are really centred."

John had already read enough to know that these letters must be delivered as swiftly as possible into Dacent Smith's hands. One or two had slipped to the floor as he scanned them hurriedly. He bent down to pick them up, and saw very neatly written on a slip of paper the key of the code which Mrs. Monmouth had used in her newspaper advertisements. As Smith's department already knew this code, the discovery was not of much importance, but on another sheet of paper which also lay on the rich rose and grey carpet he discovered a second code with its accompanying key. His attention fixed upon this with swift intensity. He had at last made a discovery of importance, and he became suddenly animated by the hope that his department had hit upon the manner of Mrs. Beecher Monmouth's swift communication with the enemy. He reached out, took up the slip of paper--and then suddenly became still. For an instant he remained motionless, his mind working with lightning rapidity. A sound had come to him from Mrs. Beecher Monmouth's boudoir, a soft impact of footsteps upon the thick carpet.

John could scarcely believe his ears. He had carefully locked the door of the corridor boudoir when he entered the room. As a further protection, he had left the key in the lock. And now this sound! He was still on his hands and knees, and very slowly he turned his head. At that instant the boudoir door opened towards him, and a man enveloped in a heavy tweed overcoat and wearing a soft grey hat stood in the aperture. At sight of John on his knees near the bed, the new-comer stopped dead and stared with wide-amazed eyes.

John leapt to his feet. Mechanically, at the same moment the figure at the door removed his grey hat, and the thin hair, the parchment-like face, and the thin, sharp nose of Mr. Beecher Monmouth stood revealed. Moved by his passionate desire to be with his wife, the elderly politician had unexpectedly hurried from Ireland to spend the week-end in London. Beecher Monmouth's expression was one of simple and complete amazement. He blinked two or three times; then, suddenly recovering himself, drew shut the door behind him, and stood with his back to it. His sallow face grew pale with swift kindled hate and rage.

"Mr. Treves," he demanded, drawing in a sharp breath, "what are you doing here? Are you here with my wife's knowledge?"

"No," answered John frankly. "Your wife hasn't the faintest idea that I am here."

"You mean you came to the house in her absence?"

John felt it was necessary to tell him something near the truth.

"I suppose you have a right to know that I came here in her absence. I came without her knowledge--let myself in with a key and locked the doors outside there, so that I should not be disturbed. How you got in I don't know."

"I got in through my own bedroom which is beyond the boudoir," retorted Beecher Monmouth icily, amazed and further enraged at his calmness.

"Oh!" said John. "There must have been a door I didn't lock. Well, to get along with my explanation--"

Beecher Monmouth drew away from him; mechanically he drew off his overcoat and threw it to the floor.

"Young man," he shouted, his face suddenly turning from white to scarlet, "what are those letters there?" His eyes fell upon the opened cash-box lying on the bed. He rushed to it and took it up. "What were you doing with this?"

"I was breaking it open," answered John.

Beecher Monmouth fixed upon him bewildered and stupefied eyes. Then he hurried across the room and put out his hand for the bell. John, however, was too quick for him; he leapt forward and flung his arms powerfully about the lean, elderly figure.

"You mustn't ring that bell," he said in a low, tense voice. "I am here on very particular business, and there must be no disturbance whatever."

"Will you let me go?" shouted Beecher Monmouth, his face contorted with rage. "Let me go!"

"Certainly," said John, stepping with his back towards the bell. Beecher Monmouth eased his collar, which had been disturbed. He put his hand to his thin, neatly-ordered hair. He was breathing heavily.

"You'll drive me mad. Have you come here to rob me, or----"

Then his mood suddenly changed. The one passion of his life welled to the surface. If John was there intending to rob him he cared little. There was one thing only that could really strike at him deeply, and that was his wife's love and fidelity.

"Look here," he said, suddenly pulling himself together, "tell me that it is not an assignation; that you are not waiting for my wife."

John looked at him and was silent for a surprised moment; then he said, quietly and solemnly:

"I swear I am not waiting for your wife. I am here on far more serious business, and, as for your wife, I neither care, nor have I ever cared, anything about her."

Beecher Monmouth's eyes took on a visible expression of relief; his gaze travelled away from John and looked about the room. Once again his glance fell upon the disorder of letters upon the bed. He made a step forward and, before John could stop him, picked up one. John saw his head jerk curiously as the first words smote his eyes. "Liebste Alice." His gaze went to the date of the letter. It was scarcely a fortnight old! He read a few lines of the German missive, which he understood, then he lifted his eyes to John.

Never in his life had John seen a man alter so in a moment as Beecher Monmouth altered in that moment.

"Do you know what these letters are?" he asked in a jerking voice. "Do you understand German?"

John nodded.

"Yes," he said. "I have read several of them."

Beecher Monmouth took out a silk handkerchief and wiped his brow. Then he bent down and slowly gathered a handful of the letters. But before he could read another, John placed a friendly hand on his shoulder. He was moved by the tragedy that was about to strike this elderly man, who seemed so ill able to bear it.

"Mr. Monmouth," he said, "it is only fair that you should know all the truth. I can see no other way out."

"What is the truth?" asked Monmouth in a dazed voice.

"I am here," John answered, "on behalf of our Intelligence Department, to make a search of your wife's belongings."

"Intelligence Department!" echoed Beecher Monmouth.

"Yes," John said; "and I am afraid it will be my duty to take away all the letters in this room. In the meantime, however, I am prepared for you to study them at your leisure."

"What do you mean?" asked Monmouth. "Intelligence Department----"

"You will learn everything from the letters, which you can read if you wish--on condition, of course, that you give me your word of honour as a gentleman to destroy nothing. Also you will remain indoors, within call, until I have communicated with my chief of department."

Beecher Monmouth put a shaking hand over his brow.

"Yes," he said, "I suppose I understand what you say. I feel very much bewildered."

"Would you like to read the letters?"

"I have read one; I must face the others."

"You will give me your word of honour to destroy nothing?"

"Yes." His voice was low, almost inaudible.

John, pitying his utter desolation, stepped quietly out of the room, and, leaving the door open, seated himself in the boudoir. He had been there perhaps three minutes, when Beecher Monmouth looked in at him. His expression was utterly tragic.

"I should like to close the door, Mr. Treves, if you don't mind."

"Certainly," said John. He was something of a judge of men; he had accepted the elder man's word, and for ten further minutes he remained seated.

During that time Beecher Monmouth stood alone in his wife's brilliantly decorated bedchamber, and strewn about the rose-grey carpet lay the letters which meant the end of all happiness, which for him meant tragedy and darkness unutterable. He went down on his knees, and, with shaking hands, gathered up the strewn sheets. Then, dropping into a low chair near the dressing-table, he read, one after another, Kurt von Morgen's amorous letters to his wife. And in reading he pieced together, bit by bit, his wife's dark past. For the first time her utter shamelessness became known to him. And then, gradually, through the tragedy of his own wrecked life, he saw something that filled him with horror. He learnt, bit by bit, that his wife was not only faithless to him, but was faithless to his country as well. The woman he had adored and had sold his happiness to was a traitor--either that, or a spy in the enemy's pay.

As these things swept over him in great waves he clasped his hands to his head and swayed back and forth in a very agony of horrified shame. Presently, like a man in a dream, he rose and walked unsteadily across the floor. Quite neatly, and with a sort of mechanical carefulness, he had replaced all the letters and documents back in the box, and now, carrying the box under his arm, he went unsteadily over the carpet. He drew open a drawer of the little cabinet near his bed, and took out a beautiful plated ivory-handled Colt pistol. Then he took in a deep breath, assured himself that the pistol was loaded and clicked it shut again. He moistened his lips with his tongue, looked at the weapon for a moment with dazed eyes, and slipped it into his pocket. This done, he turned, and with steps that were steady and resolute, crossed the room and drew open the door of the boudoir.