CHAPTER XXX

Almost as John closed the door of the south room Gates began to strike, in rising and rhythmic cadences, the great dinner-gong that stood in the hall. The elderly butler turned as John halted at his side.

"Is that the dressing-bell, Gates?" he asked.

"No, Mr. Bernard, the dressing-bell went at the usual time, sir."

John looked at him in surprise. He had heard nothing. During that scene in the room upstairs, when he had lost possession of himself, the sound of the bell had passed unheard. John felt no wonder at that; even now his thoughts whirled through his brain. His temperament was naturally cool, equable, and determined. Never in his life could he recollect having completely forgotten himself, as he had forgotten himself with Elaine a few minutes earlier. The power of love, indeed, had reduced him to the common standard. His nerve, his self-possession, his swift power of decision--all the gifts, in fact, that commended him to Dacent Smith, had deserted him in a flash. For a brief moment--for a space of a moment--he had forgotten everything, save the fact that he loved a woman.

He stood now thinking of these things, and was amazed at the blind passion that had seized him. He began to condemn himself bitterly and savagely. His deception of Elaine stood before him as a monstrous thing. The thought that he occupied another's man shoes, and had thus led her to pour out a love which she would have otherwise concealed, struck him as a criminal proceeding upon his part. He was obliged to confess to himself that he had dallied with the situation, that he had not acted firmly enough. On the other hand--a small voice whispered this--his deception of Elaine was not his fault; he had not wittingly deceived her. He had, indeed, acted all through as an honourable man. This last thought gave him a certain amount of comfort as he crossed the great hall and entered the drawing-room. Colonel Treves was the sole occupant of the room, and was standing with his back to the white marble fire-place, his hand resting on the stick he used as support. John noticed that in evening clothes the old man looked more imposing and distinguished than ever. The Colonel drew out his watch.

"Where's Elaine?"

John explained that he had left Elaine upstairs a few moments ago, and presently Elaine, a little pale, came into the drawing-room. No glance passed between her and John. With a courtly air, Colonel Treves advanced towards her and crooked his elbow.

"May I have the honour?" he said.

Elaine slipped her arm into his. In her pale primrose dress, with her well-coiffeured dark hair emphasising the whiteness of her neck, she looked scarcely more than a child. John noticed with admiration that her head was held erect. She smiled and talked graciously to the Colonel as he led her into the dining-room and placed her upon his right hand. For John there was no smile.

Just as the south room and the drawing-room were strange to John, so also was the dining-room. He seated himself opposite Elaine at the head of a long gleaming white table. Gates moved from place to place softly and noiselessly. Colonel Treves, who was happier than he had been for years, made a perfect host. His happiness intensified John's own loneliness. A sensation of being a pariah came upon him; he felt that he would have given ten years of his life to be actually sitting there in the flesh as the real son of the fine old man who headed the table.

As to Elaine, and his relations with Elaine, he dared not let his mind dwell upon that subject. He was attempting to indicate by his attitude his complete contrition for what had occurred. He tried to catch Elaine's eye. She looked at him, but there was something enigmatical in her expression that he was unable to understand. Her good breeding was such that to the outward eye--to the Colonel's eye, in fact--their relationship was exactly as it had been before, and yet John knew that a barrier had risen between them.

Elaine maintained her air of stately reserve during the rest of the evening, and at ten o'clock, when she rose to go to her room, the Colonel politely conducted her to the door. As he closed it upon her he turned and looked towards John.

"You are a lucky man, Bernard!" he exclaimed.

He came slowly across the room, using his stick, as was his general habit.

"I hope some day, my boy," he said, "when this place is yours, Elaine will reign here as graciously and be as well beloved as your dear mother was."

"I am sure she will, sir," answered John quietly.

The old man slid his arm through his.

"You shall take me up to the library. We can smoke there, and make ourselves comfortable."

In the library that night John heard much of Colonel Treves's past history, much of the family history, of the man whose identity he was wearing, and the more he heard of Bernard Treves the more he realised what a complete and utter waster that young man was. Often of late he had thought of Treves in the nursing home, and wondered what were the conditions of his detention there. Dacent Smith was always reticent upon that point. The sinking of the _Polidor_ through the agency of Treves had been a black and irredeemable crime. A time was bound to come when the young man must answer for that piece of black treachery against his country. Looking at the matter in the most charitable light, John regarded Treves, as evidently Dacent Smith regarded him, that is, as a feeble, will-less creature, whose reason had been unseated, at any rate temporarily, by the drugs which were a mania with him.

The fact that Manwitz and Cherriton had plied him with these drugs showed only the bold unscrupulousness of the German methods. The German Intelligence Department had used Bernard Treves, and had moulded him to its purpose as though he had been of wax. And had not Dacent Smith brilliantly substituted John for Treves, untold disasters would have ensued.

"Bernard!" The Colonel's voice startled John out of his thought. "Bernard, I have seen Gosport lately."

John wondered who Gosport might be.

"Yes," went on the Colonel. "I was hasty with you, but I have made everything right. I have made up my mind to leave everything to you after all. What do you say to that?"

"It is very generous of you, sir," John answered. He knew that it was utterly impossible that a penny of the Colonel's possessions should ever be his.

"No, no, it is only right," responded the Colonel. "You have married well. You have rehabilitated yourself in every way, and I find you more what a Treves should be every time we meet." He suddenly gripped John's hand in his. "You have given me great happiness, Bernard, and one of the reasons I made haste to change my will is that the doctor has given me rather a bad report of myself. I don't think you'll have to put up with me for very long, Bernard!"

"Don't say that, sir!" answered John, quickly and impulsively.

"I fear it is the truth," said the Colonel; "but I can face the next world with a far better grace than I could have done a year ago."

He was thinking of the fine old house and the properties which a year ago might have fallen into the hands of a worthless son. Now, as by a miracle, that son had become a man--a man of honour--and a Treves. The two things were synonymous in the Colonel's eyes, and the future, whatever it might be, however soon darkness might come, held for him no terrors.

It was after eleven that night when the Colonel went to his room.

"I'll sit up and write a few letters at your desk, if I may, father," said John, after escorting the elder man to the door of his bedroom.

He went back to the library, shut himself in, and dropped into a chair at the hearth. What Elaine was doing, what were her thoughts, he could not guess. He wondered if she was waiting for him, expecting him to come and ask for forgiveness. Perhaps some time in the dim future, when the whole truth was told, she might forgive; but for the present he knew that nothing he could do would right him in her eyes.

He sat in the arm-chair, dozing and thinking, until dawn came.

When the breakfast gong rang next morning Elaine descended and found the Colonel alone at the table. The old man looked disturbed, but in no way depressed.

"You will have to content yourself with me, Elaine," he said, "now that Bernard has deserted us again. He left me a note saying that important business has arisen, and ran away before I was down. But of course," added the old man as an afterthought, "you know all about it."

Elaine inclined her head, and said nothing. Colonel Treves put out his hand and laid it on her slender fingers.

"When the war is over, you and my boy Bernard will live here together, and be as happy as crickets."

"It is very, very dear of you to say so, father." Sudden tears glistened in her eyes. She clasped the Colonel's old, frail fingers in hers. In that moment it seemed to her that he was the only friend she possessed in the world.

So far as John was concerned, Elaine dared not let herself think. The strange scene in the south room had burnt itself into her brain. John's tremendous anxiety to get away from her, together with the undoubted fact that he loved her, was bewildering beyond solution. The thought that her husband had reverted to the drug habit had long been discarded. None of the symptoms that had marked him in the early days of their marriage were present--he was as another man in her eyes. She loved him--she was afraid, and she was bewildered. Every post that came found her anxiously awaiting a letter from John. But none came; two eventless days passed. But upon the evening of the second day after John's departure a dramatic mischance that had been impending--that had, indeed, been inevitable from the beginning--occurred.

Elaine had made her way alone into the grounds. Her mood was one that called for solitude, and in the quiet of the long, fir-treed avenue, the drive which led from the mansion to the road, she found the seclusion she needed. The evening was clear, and through tree-stems the ocean, glassily blue and empty of shipping, spread to the far horizon. The scene was calm, reposeful--everything, in fact, a troubled spirit could require.

Presently, however, the entrance gate at the end of the drive was pushed open. A young man in a green felt hat and wearing stiff Sunday clothes came into the drive and walked slowly forward. Elaine, as the stranger drew near, noticed that he was a youth, little more than twenty, wearing a service-rendered badge. The young man wore his green hat slightly on one side--his complexion was fresh, his cheeks ruddy, and his general expression one of amiable stupidity.

Elaine glanced at him and was about to pass, thinking he carried a message to the house, when the visitor halted in his walk and sheepishly lifted his hat. As he halted he drew from his pocket a crumpled, rather grimy-looking envelope.

"Is that Colonel Treves's house, miss?"

"Yes," said Elaine.

"I've got a letter for there, miss," went on the young man; "it's addressed to Mrs. Treves."

"There is no Mrs. Treves," Elaine answered; then quickly remembering, she smiled the gracious smile that was always so attractive to John. "I'm Mrs. Bernard Treves."

The young man handed her the letter, and instantly Elaine's casual air vanished, for the address was in her husband's handwriting, and had been scrawled hurriedly in pencil.

She tore open the envelope and read the single sheet of notepaper within.

DEAR ELAINE, ran the note, _I want you to give the bearer of this ten shillings. Then, if you can, and as soon as you can, you must raise ten pounds and let him bring it here to me. General Whiston and a person called Dacent Smith have been keeping me prisoner here. The suggestion is that I am_ non compos mentis. _I don't know whether my father's in it or not, so on no account mention this letter to him. Whatever you do, don't fail me; I have been suffering the tortures of the damned here. The young man who brings this can get to me, and there is a nurse here who can help me to get away if I can get hold of ten pounds. Remember this, Elaine, you are my wife, and I hope you aren't siding with my father against me. I can't stand the torture of being here any longer, so I look to you to act quickly. You can act quickly enough when you want to. I am nearly off my head with being deprived of the medicine I used to take. The bearer of this would get into trouble if found out, so don't forget to treat him well._

_Your affectionate husband,_ BERNARD TREVES.

As Elaine slowly read this letter for a second time the colour fled from her cheeks. Her heart-beat quickened almost to suffocation--she could make nothing of it.

Her eyes travelled to the head of the missive and read:

"St. Neot's Nursing Home, Ambleside Road, Ryde."

"St. Neot's Nursing Home--St. Neot's Nursing Home." Under her breath she uttered the words in a dazed, stupefied fashion.

It seemed impossible that her husband, who had been with her only forty-eight hours before, could be incarcerated there. Then the strangeness of the letter! ... She read it again, shrinking instinctively from its tone. Here was her husband as she had known him from the beginning--querulous and domineering.

For a minute she wondered if there had been some extraordinary and unexplainable mistake, but she knew his handwriting. Nevertheless, with a great effort to steady herself, she looked into the face of the messenger.

"If you will come to the house," she said, "I shall be pleased to give you something for being so kind as to bring this to me."

"Thank you, miss."

"Are you one of the servants at St. Neot's Home?"

"No, miss. I work for the dairy that supplies them."

Again Elaine glanced at the crumpled letter in her fingers. There was no possibility of forgery--and yet how came it that Dacent Smith should wish to detain her husband? She recalled that the brilliant Chief of the secret service had had nothing but praise for Bernard.

Again she looked quickly into the young man's face.

"Have you seen Mr. Treves lately?"

"I saw him this morning, miss."

It seemed ridiculous to put the question, to dally still with the idea of forgery. Nevertheless, she put it.

"Could you describe Mr. Treves to me?"

"Yes, miss. He's a good-looking gentleman. Tall, dark hair----"

"Thank you," said Elaine, interrupting him--and her last doubt vanished.

Something had happened to Bernard since yesterday morning, since his departure from the house without saying good-bye to her. He had evidently been seized and incarcerated in the nursing home against his will. Yet, even now, as she strove to accept the fact, her instinct rebelled against it. The thing seemed so motiveless, so utterly outside the natural order of events; and Bernard must have been seized almost immediately after he left his father's house, for she noted that his letter was dated the day before.

She again questioned the young man.

"How long has Mr. Bernard Treves been at St. Neot's Nursing Home?"

"The first time I saw him there, miss, was about two months ago, when he asked me to get him something at a chemist's; but he must have been there more than a month before that. I should think, miss, he's been there going on for three months or thereabouts."

"Three months!"

"About that, miss."

Elaine looked at him with widened eyes. The thing was impossible and incredible. Nevertheless, she dared not let the matter rest where it was. She decided to act, and to act instantly. As yet no suspicion of the truth had dawned upon her.