CHAPTER XXXII

The portentous day, the twenty-eighth of the month, passed at Heatherpoint Fort with no untoward incident whatever. There was a difference, however; there existed an atmosphere of tense expectancy. Something was afoot, for doubled sentries held all points of vantage along the cliff-tops, doubled sentries guarded the fort gates, and the barbed wire entanglements at certain other places. All leave had been stopped, and at midday, when Lieutenant William Parkson asked for leave for very urgent personal reasons, he was astonished to find that the Colonel had grown totally immovable.

"If you would let me go from eight o'clock till ten, sir, I should be satisfied. I assure you, sir, it is most important."

It was indeed important in Parkson's eyes. But though rebellion surged in him there was no possible means of getting out of the fort that night without the Colonel's pass. Only one person, in fact, left Heatherpoint Fort that evening. This person happened to be John Manton. General Whiston uttered final words of advice as the young man took his departure.

"If you are successful, Treves," he said, "you will be probably back here before the dust-up begins."

"I hope so," said John. He saluted and clattered down the flight of steps to the main gate.

It was still light as he cycled swiftly away along the white road. A smile curled the corner of his mouth. The work he was upon was exactly to his liking; there was something in it of danger, and something of finesse. When John had cycled for half an hour he looked at his watch.

"Parkson's appointment with her," he said, "was for seven o'clock. I wonder how she intended to handle him?"

He mused upon Parkson, and admitted that the young man would be as wax in Mrs. Beecher Monmouth's adroit fingers. He recalled Mrs. Beecher Monmouth's long, black record, her superlative daring, the manner in which she had expended her great personal gifts and keen intelligence in the service of the enemy. He thought of the _Malta_--of the two hundred fine lives sacrificed upon her information. And at the thought his lips tightened, his smile vanished, and the face that Dacent Smith always knew as good-humoured and pleasant to look upon, grew hard and forbidding.

Darkness had fallen by the time John turned off the Newport road towards Brooke. He did not light his lamp, however, but this time rode straight through the village and alighted at Dr. Voules's house. The doctor's residence was completely dark. No light shone from any of the windows. John advanced to the door and placed his fingers on the bell. He rang twice, but no answer came to him, no sound of footfall reached him from the interior of the house. Then, noticing that the door was slightly ajar, as if left purposely, he entered the hall, and in complete darkness walked along towards the room at the end of the passage, which he remembered as Voules's dining-room. He had advanced but ten paces when a door opened quietly in the darkness, and a low voice came to him.

"Is that you, Billy?"

John was silent for a moment. He had braced himself for an intensely violent scene. Now, in a flash, he realised that there were new and exciting possibilities. Nevertheless, caution animated his entire conduct.

In regard to Mrs. Beecher Monmouth he did not know that she had discovered his association with Dacent Smith; he was not aware of the lady's sentiments of bitter antagonism, of virulent hatred towards himself. He was to learn these things later. But at the moment he felt there was little danger of stepping into a trap. The beautiful woman whispering to him from the darkness awaited William Parkson, not Bernard Treves or John Manton.

"Is that you, Billy?"

Her voice came to him again in a tense whisper.

"Yes," answered John in a tone low as her own. She drew wider the door of Voules's dining-room.

"I told you to come straight in, Billy. Why did you ring the bell?" she admonished him, lifting her voice to a more ordinary tone.

"Oh, I don't know; I forgot," answered John.

"Come in----" Her hand groped forward and took his. She drew him into the heavily-curtained darkness of the dining-room and closed the door.

"We mustn't light up till eight o'clock, Billy," she whispered.

"Why not?"

"It's a fad of mine."

Then she put her face close to his; she let her smooth, firm hand glide about his shoulder as she drew his face down. She kissed him firmly on the lips.

If John had been easy to deceive, that kiss would have deceived him. He would have believed absolutely and implicitly that its fervour and passion were genuine.

"I thought," she whispered, her cheek close to his, "that you would not be afraid of the darkness."

"Oh, I won't be afraid," responded John in her ear. He could have laughed--the situation was throbbing with exhilarating possibilities.

"I was afraid you would be late, or wouldn't be able to come."

"You knew I'd come," said John.

He groped his way towards the hearth, holding her hand in his.

"Won't you sit down?" he asked.

"You sit down." She forced him into Dr. Voules's comfortable chair, then seated herself on its arm, and slowly smoothed his hair with her hand. She lowered her face and pressed it to his. Her rounded cheek was firm, cool and satin smooth.

"You can stay with me quite, quite a long time," she whispered.

"Thanks," mumbled John; "that's awfully good of you." He squeezed her hand. He could understand what would have happened to Parkson at that moment--Parkson already enamoured, flattered to think of a woman of her social position and extraordinary beauty flinging herself at his head.

"Will they miss you at the fort to-night, little Billy?"

"I don't know that they'll miss me particularly," said John.

"Oh, but you're so--so important there. Did you find it difficult to get away, Billy mine?"

"Not so very," John answered; "all the same, I haven't much time--I've only managed to get two hours' leave."

She drew in her breath sharply, then suddenly flung out both arms and drew him towards her.

"Oh, Billy, Billy!" she protested.

John instantly made mental note that she had in her mind a certain time during which she intended to detain him there.

"Then you can't love me," she breathed ardently. "You said you'd stay--a long time."

"Three-quarters of an hour is every minute I can stay," John said.

"Oh, but it won't matter if you're just a tiny, tiny bit late--just once in a lifetime! You don't know how difficult it is for me, Billy. I have risked everything for you! I should be ruined utterly if it was discovered that I gave you this _tete-a-tete_ here at this time of night.... You must stay, Billy, until I'm ready to let you go; it will make it easier for me."

"I don't see that," protested John. "You can slip away----"

"No, no; don't ask questions--don't say that! If you only knew how difficult it was. You won't bother me with questions, will you dear, dear Billy? And you'll be nice to me and let me get you something to drink. You bad boy," she said, after a moment's pause, "I don't believe you realise the honour I am conferring on you!"

"Oh I do--I am fully aware of it," answered John. She had risen from the arm of the chair, and had gone to the window. John heard the creak of the window blind as she drew it up upon the semi-darkness of the garden. For an instant he was startled, wondering if her movement portended some sort of signal.

As the blind ascended the complete darkness of the room sped away. He could now make out the rich shadows of her hair, and something of the outline of her fine features. Her hands in contrast with the black widow's weeds, looked unusually white.

"I thought you were fond of the darkness?" questioned John.

"I am, silly Billy." John guessed that she was wasting a coquettish smile upon the encumbering gloom.

She had gone to the sideboard, which was in shadow at the far end of the room and returning now to the middle table, placed upon it glasses, a soda syphon, and a whisky bottle.

"I must give you just a little peg!"

John heard the gurgle of liquid, and the "squirt" of a syphon. A moment later Mrs. Beecher Monmouth came across the room, put a glass in his hand, and lightly kissed his ear.

"I wish it was a little lighter," she whispered in a cooing fashion that was peculiar with her, "then I could see my pretty boy's face."

"If you did see your pretty boy's face," thought John, "you'd get the shock of your life!"

He took the whisky glass from her fingers. Silence lay between them for a moment, then Mrs. Beecher Monmouth spoke again.

"Drink," she whispered urgently.

John, who had been holding his glass in his left hand, shifted it to his right.

"Well, here's to you," he said, lifting the glass.

"Have you drunk it?"

"What else do you think?" inquired John, and laughed.

As a matter of fact he had not drunk it, for before raising the glass he had dexterously poured its contents upon the carpet. Her trick was too obvious. Parkson, blinded, enamoured by love, might have fallen into the trap, but he, John, knew his antagonist in this singular duel which was taking place in the semi-darkness. He came well armed with a knowledge of her character.

Minutes passed, during which Mrs. Beecher Monmouth held him enchained, as she believed, by her finished coquetry.

John, who had been probing about in his mind, hoping that she might divulge something useful, rose at last and stretched his legs.

Mrs. Beecher Monmouth was again at the window. He noticed that several times during the last quarter of an hour she had drifted there, as if with some intent and watchful purpose.

"Why do you keep going to the window?" he asked, suddenly and abruptly.

"I like to look out at the night."

"There's nothing much to see," returned John. "It's clouded over again, and the air is close enough to stifle one!"

"Yes," answered she.

In the gloom John saw her put up her hands to her throat. "It is enough to stifle one," she breathed, slowly and intensely.

Then John knew that big things were afoot, that she was waiting, strung up tensely to more than concert pitch. He put up his hand, pushed up the catch of the window, and opened it quietly upon the sultry night. A faint wind stirred, rustling the leaves. There was silence for a minute, then Mrs. Beecher Monmouth seemed to remember the role she was playing, slid her fingers into his and looked up into his face.

"Billy," she whispered.

And at that moment a sudden thunderous and heavily-resonant boom rent the stillness of the night.

John knew it in an instant as the detonation of a heavy gun. The door of the room creaked under the heavy vibration, the casements of the window rattled, and a red smear of light blazed against the low clouds and vanished.

Mrs. Beecher Monmouth had turned her face to the window. For an instant John saw it, tense and ecstatic in the glare of light--then darkness fell again.

And suddenly Mrs. Beecher Monmouth stood away in the dark room. The passionate sibilance of her whisper smote John's ears, like that of a snake.

"At last! At last! ... Oh, you can go now, Billy, Mr. Parkson. Yes--go, or stay! It matters not!"

"But it does matter," said John, "a deuce of a lot!"

And as he spoke the room was shaken with the detonation of a heavy gun--was again lit up with a red light. A second and a third gun was fired--one sound mingling with the other in tremendous crashing reverberation. And at each report a red glow filled the room, searching out the darkness in its most distant corners.

Mrs. Beecher Monmouth had turned towards John--in the leaping red light, amid the roar of artillery, her eyes pinioned themselves upon his. She drew nearer--peering, as it were, with all her senses, her hands clenched.

Their faces were close together when a red glare revealed his features in every lineament. He was smiling, looking down upon her with easy nonchalance. Even in the fleeting light John caught the swift distortion of her features. She made a movement in the darkness----

In Mrs. Beecher Monmouth's entire life of daring adventure, in all her vicissitudinous career, never had such a blow stricken her as that moment. She had expected to see the good-humoured and somewhat stupid countenance of Parkson, and instead, she had seen John. She had been outwitted by the enemy whom of all others she hated most. From the very first this pleasant looking, resourceful, cool young man had outmanoeuvred her. What had happened to Parkson, and how John had managed to substitute himself for that enmeshed young man, she could not guess. She was conscious only that in the darkness her mortal enemy had received her caresses, and laughed in his sleeve.

Her tryst had been with Lieutenant Parkson, and by a manoeuvre that was a mystery to her this other had substituted himself....

John heard her move softly in the darkness, and draw in a low, sibilant breath. He was taking no chances, however, and had already stepped cautiously behind the big dining table. Here he paused for a moment, listening, then swiftly struck a match. In the orange glow of the light he saw Mrs. Monmouth's face of undeniable beauty contorted with fury. As the match flared and John put out his hand to light the lamp which was on the table, she made a strong effort to control her features. She was a woman who seldom remained long at a disadvantage. Every move in the whole gamut of feminine emotion seemed to be at her command. There had been a momentary stillness; now the roar of heavy artillery thundered again and again. The red glow from the window filled the room.

A false expression of smiling irony crossed Mrs. Monmouth's features.

"So, Mr. Treves, you have been exercising your cleverness again!"

"What I did was all in the day's work," John began; then he stepped swiftly towards the end of the table and barred the way to a certain chair upon which her long black coat had been thrown.

"No, don't go to your coat," he politely admonished her. "I am afraid I don't trust you!" He knew that ladies of Mrs. Beecher Monmouth's temperament and activities are apt to carry lethal weapons, and are not scrupulous in the use of the same. She had already made an attempt upon him with what he shrewdly and correctly guessed to be drugged whisky.

"How subtle and resourceful you are!" laughed Mrs. Monmouth. She turned and strolled with an air of indifference towards the window.

John was wondering what her next move would be. He had already made up his mind as to his own next move, when Mrs. Beecher Monmouth strode to the table, and, in a flashing change of mood, smote it sharply.

"You think yourself extraordinarily clever, Mr. Treves!"

"Oh! not at all!" protested John. He really did not think himself clever, but he was satisfied with the present position as he found it. He had taken her coat, and was holding it over his arm. There was no weapon in its pockets.

A roar of artillery again filled the room. Mrs. Beecher Monmouth's eyes blazed in exaltation and excitement.

"Do you hear those guns?"

"I can hear scarcely anything else!"

Beecher Monmouth's widow paused, looking him over, excoriating him with her fine eyes; then went on slowly and intensely.

"Well, Mr. Treves, perhaps it will surprise you and your friends to know that we have outwitted you from the beginning."

"I don't quite get your meaning," said John.

She lifted her head and laughed aloud in his face. Her mask was off. She let herself go. She swept her arm toward the darkness of the night, then looked at him with the eyes of a fiend. "Those guns you hear now mean that we are making our great attack." Her voice rose shrilly; her scarlet lips writhed. She was truly possessed at that moment. "For all your espionage and cunning we shall be able to make our way into Portsmouth. We shall deliver a blow from which you will not easily recover. Your ships----"

John moved to the end of the table and motioned towards the door.

"Thank you," said he, "that is very interesting, no doubt, but I think it is time we were going."

The fury beyond the table paid no heed. With both hands on its surface she thrust her chin towards him and spat out her words.

"Every fort on this coast has been silenced by our finesse!"

John, listening to the roar of the guns, was unperturbed.

"That was a pretty heavy one," he remarked, as the room reverberated again to the renewed crash of artillery.

"Our guns, you fool!" Mrs. Beecher Monmouth lifted her voice to a scream. "Our guns--German guns!"

John stared at her. He had never seen anything like the tornado of passion that was sweeping through her. He listened, enthralled, against his will. Nevertheless, he was master of the scene. She hated him--loathed him--because he had tricked her. She had expended charm, she had enveloped him in the sunshine of her beauty to no end. Her vanity was outraged. He had enjoyed her caresses and laughed in his sleeve.

"The boom----"

"What about the boom?" John asked.

"From Ponsonby Lighthouse to Windsor Fort the boom is not down to-night. Think of that. Your searchlights--where are they? Dark--dark--every one of them." She dropped her voice suddenly in a measured, triumphant whisper, "and our Unter-see boats are creeping in."

Even now she was beautiful, but there was something animal-like in the distortion of her mouth.

"Where, precisely, are your U-boats creeping into?" inquired John calmly.

"Into--into Portsmouth." She mouthed the name of the great harbour.

"You thought to outwit us, and we outwit you!"

John bowed. "I have only your word for it."

She paid no heed and went on. "So you see, Mr. Treves, what you get in wasting your time on me--a woman!"

His obstinate coolness maddened her, and in a wild gust of rage she crashed her fist on the table.

"You fool! You fool! You sheep's head!" she announced, elegantly. She paused a moment, breathing heavily, then sweeping round the table, snatched her coat from his arm and strode towards the door.

"There is no hurry, Mrs. Beecher Monmouth----"

She halted and gave him a glance that would have turned Parkson to stone.

"What do you mean?" she demanded.

"I mean that our interview is not at an end!"

The menace of her eyes glittered upon him. If her strength of body had been equal to it at that moment, she would have leapt forward and strangled him with her bare hands. Knowledge of her own peril, of the Nemesis that was sweeping upon her, had not yet entered her disordered mind.

John made--in pursuance of his prearranged plan of action--no effort to stay her as she went towards the door. But as Mrs. Beecher Monmouth paused and cast a final look at him, a sudden doubt crept into her eyes. For John had gone to the window. He appeared no longer to be occupied with her. His back was towards her, and presently he lifted a whistle to his lips and blew two short, shrill blasts.

A transformation passed over Mrs. Beecher Monmouth's face that was startling. The colour flowed from her cheeks. Her lips seemed suddenly to become bloodless.

"Why do you do that?"

John turned upon her slowly. There was no pity in his eyes.

"When I did it," he answered, grimly, "I was thinking of the _Malta_, and two hundred fine fellows who died at your hands. I am thinking now of other things--of the _Polidor_ and her scores of non-combatant passengers who were drowned by your machinations.... You have had a long run for your money, but at last----"

He stopped--a sound came to him, a tramp of heavy booted men advancing in the passage. Some one pushed open the door, and a corporal--a tall, grim-looking fellow--appeared on the threshold.

"Is that you, Davis?"

"Yes, sir!"

John spoke over Mrs. Beecher Monmouth's head to the man beyond.

"This is the lady, Davis!"

"Very good, sir!"

"You will take her at once. Put her in a car and drive her to Newport to-night. I have already communicated with the Chief Constable, who has made arrangements to receive her."

He turned his eyes once more, and for the last time in life, on the beautiful woman in the doorway.