He hurried towards her. "Am I speaking to Mrs. Bauer?" he asked, in a sharp, quick tone. And then, as she said "Yes," and dropped a little curtsey, he went on: "I had a breakdown—a most tiresome thing! But I suppose it makes no difference? You have the house to yourself?"

She hesitated—was she bound to tell him of the two gentlemen who were having their luncheon in the dining-room which overlooked the garden, and of Miss Forsyth in the drawing-room? She decided that no—she was not obliged to tell him anything of the sort. If she did, he might want to go away and come back another time. Then everything would have to be begun over again.

"The parcels all ready are," she said. "Shall I them bring?"

"No, no! I will come with you. We will make two journeys, each taking one. That will make the business less long."

He followed her through the kitchen, the scullery, and so into her bedroom.

There were two corded tin boxes, as well as a number of other packages, standing ready for removal.

"Surely I have not to take all this away?" he exclaimed. "I thought there were only four small parcels!"

Anna smiled. "Most of it my luggage is," she said. "These yours are——" she pointed to four peculiar-shaped packages, which might have been old-fashioned bandboxes. They were done up in grey paper, the kind grocers use, and stoutly corded. Through each cord was fixed a small strong, iron handle. "They very heavy are," observed Anna thoughtfully.

And the man muttered something—it sounded like an oath. "I think you had better leave the moving of them to me," he said. "Stand aside, will you?"

He took up two of them; then once more uttered an exclamation, and let them gently down again. "I shall have to take one at a time," he said. "I'm not an over-strong man, Mrs. Bauer, and as you seem to have managed to move them, no doubt you can help me with this one."

Anna, perhaps because her nerves were somewhat on edge to-day, resented the stranger's manner. It was so short, so rude, and he had such a funny accent. Yet she felt sure, in spite of the excellent German she had overheard him speak to Mr. Head, that he was not a fellow-countryman of hers. Then, suddenly, looking at his queerly trimmed beard, she told herself that he might be an American. Alfred Head had lived for a long time in America, and this probably was one of his American friends.

After they had taken out two of the parcels and placed them at the back of the motor, Anna suddenly bethought herself of what Alfred Head had said to her. "Give me, please," she said, "the money which to me since January 1st owing has been. Fifty shillings—two pound ten it is."

"I know nothing of that," said the man curtly. "I have had no instructions to pay you any money, Mrs. Bauer."

Anna felt a rush of anger come over her. She was not afraid of this weasel-faced little man. "Then the other two parcels take away you will not," she exclaimed. "To that money a right I have!"

They were facing each other in the low-ceilinged, dim, badly-lit bedroom. The stranger grew very red.

"Look here!" he said conciliatingly; he was really in a great hurry to get away. "I promise to send you this money to-night, Mrs. Bauer. You can trust me. I have not got it on me, truly. You may search me if you like." He smiled a little nervously, and advancing towards her opened his big motor coat.

Anna shrank back. "You truly send it will?" she asked doubtfully.

"I will send it to Hegner for you. Nay, more—— I will give you a piece of paper, and then Hegner will pay you at once." He tore a page out of his pocket-book, and scribbled on it a few words.

She took the bit of paper, folded it, and put it in her purse.

As they were conveying the third oddly-shaped parcel through the kitchen, she said conciliatingly, "Curious it is to have charge of luggage so long and not exactly what it is to know!"

He made no answer to this remark. But suddenly, in a startled, suppressed whisper, he exclaimed, "Who's that?"

Anna looked round. "Eh?" she said.

"You told me there was no one in the house, but someone has just come out of the gate, and is standing by my motor!" He added sternly, "Was heisst das?" (What does this mean?)

Anna hurried to the window and looked through the muslin curtain hanging in front of it. Yes, the stranger had spoken truly. There was Mr. Hayley, standing between the little motor-car and the back door.

"Do not yourself worry," she said quickly. "It is only a gentleman who luncheon here has eaten. Go out and explain to him everything I will."

But the man had turned a greenish-white colour. "How d'you mean 'explain'?" he said roughly, in English.

"Explain that they are things of mine—luggage—that taking away you are," said Anna.

The old woman could not imagine why the stranger showed such agitation. Mr. Hayley had no kind of right to interfere with her and her concerns, and she had no fear that he would do so.

"If you are so sure you can make it all right," the man whispered low in German, "I will leave the house by some other way—there is surely some back way of leaving the house? I will walk away, and stop at Hegner's till I know the coast is clear."

"There is no back way out," whispered Anna, also in German. She was beginning to feel vaguely alarmed. "But no one can stop you. Walk straight out, while I stay and explain. I can make it all right."

In a gingerly way he moved to one side the heavy object he had been carrying, and then, as if taking shelter behind her, he followed the old woman out through the door.

"What's this you're taking out of the house, Anna?" Mr. Hayley's tone was not very pleasant. "You mustn't mind my asking you. My aunt, as you know, told me to remain here to-day to look after things."

"Only my luggage it is," stammered Anna. "I had hoped to have cleared out my room while the wedding in progress was."

"Your luggage?" repeated James Hayley uncomfortably. He was now feeling rather foolish, and it was to him a very disturbing because an unusual sensation.

"Yes, my luggage," repeated Anna. "And this"—she hesitated a moment—"this person here is going to look for a man to help carry out my heavy boxes. There are two. He cannot manage them himself."

James Hayley looked surprised, but to her great relief, he allowed the stranger to slip by, and Anna for a moment watched the little man walking off at a smart pace towards the gate house. She wondered how she could manage to send him a message when the tiresome, inquisitive Mr. Hayley had gone.

"But whose motor is that?" Mr. Hayley went on, in a puzzled tone. "You must forgive me for asking you, Anna, but you know we live in odd times." He had followed her into the kitchen, and was now standing there with her. As she made no answer, he suddenly espied the odd-looking parcel which stood close to his feet, where the stranger had put it down.

Mr. Hayley stooped, really with the innocent intention of moving the parcel out of the way. "Good gracious!" he cried. "This is a tremendous weight, Anna. What on earth have you got in there?" He was now dragging it along the floor.

"Don't do that, sir," she exclaimed involuntarily. "It's fragile."

"Fragile?" he repeated. "Nonsense! It must be iron or copper. What is it, Anna?"

She shook her head helplessly. "I do not know. It is something I have been keeping for a friend."

His face changed. He took a penknife out of his pocket, and ripped off the stout paper covering.

Then, before the astonished Anna could make a movement, he very quietly pinioned her elbows and walked her towards the door giving into the hall.

"Captain Joddrell?" he called out. And with a bewildered feeling of abject fear, Anna heard the quick steps of the soldier echoing down the hall.

"Yes; what is it?"

"I want your help over something."

They were now in the hall, and Miss Forsyth, standing in the doorway of the drawing-room, called out suddenly, "Oh, Mr. Hayley, you are hurting her!"

"No, I'm not. Will you please lock the front door?"

Then he let go of Anna's arms. He came round and gazed for a moment into her terrified face. There was a dreadful look of contempt and loathing in his eyes. "You'd better say nothing," he muttered. "Anything you say now may be used in evidence against you!"

He drew the other man aside and whispered something; then they came back to where Anna stood, and she felt herself pushed—not exactly roughly, but certainly very firmly—by the two gentlemen into the room where were the remains of the good cold luncheon which she had set out there some two hours before.

She heard the key turned on her, and then a quick colloquy outside. She heard Mr. Hayley exclaim, "Now we'd better telephone to the police." And then, a moment later: "But the telephone's gone! What an extraordinary thing! This becomes, as in 'Alice in Wonderland,' curiouser and curiouser——" There was a tone of rising excitement in his quiet, rather mincing voice. Then came the words, "Look here! You'd better go outside and see that no one comes near that motor-car, while I hurry along to the place they call 'Robey's.' There's sure to be a telephone there."

Anna felt her legs giving way, and a sensation of most horrible fear came over her. She bitterly repented now that she had not told Mr. Hayley the truth—that these parcels which she had now kept for three years were only harmless chemicals, connected with an invention which was going to make the fortune of a great many people, including her nephew, Willi Warshauer, once this terrible war was over.

The police? Anna had a great fear of the police, and that though she knew herself to be absolutely innocent of any wrong-doing. She felt sure that the fact that she was German would cause suspicion. The worst would be believed of her. She remembered with dismay the letter some wicked, spiteful person had written to her mistress—and then, with infinite comfort, she suddenly remembered that this same dear mistress was only a little over two miles off. She, Anna, would not wish to disturb her on her wedding day, but if very hard pressed she could always do so. And Miss Rose—Miss Rose and Mr. Blake—they too were close by; they certainly would take her part!

She sat down, still sadly frightened, but reassured by the comfortable knowledge that her dear, gracious ladies would see her through any trouble, however much the fact that her country was at war with England might prejudice the police against her.



CHAPTER XXX

It was late afternoon in the same day, a bright, sunny golden afternoon, more like a warm May day than a day in March.

The bride and bridegroom, each feeling more than a little shy, had enjoyed their late luncheon, the first they had ever taken alone together. And Major Guthrie had been perhaps rather absurdly touched to learn, from a word dropped by Howse, that the new mistress had herself carefully arranged that this first meal should consist of dishes which Howse had told her his master particularly liked. And as they sat there, side by side, in their pleasant dining-room—for he had not cared to take the head of the table—the bridegroom hoped his bride would never know that since his blindness he had retained very little sense of taste.

After luncheon they had gone out into the garden, and she had guided his footsteps along every once familiar path. Considering how long he had been away, everything was in very fair order, and she was surprised to find how keen he was about everything. He seemed to know every shrub and plant there, and she felt as if in that hour he taught her more of practical gardening than she had ever known.

And then, at last, they made their way to the avenue which was the chief glory of the domain, and which had certainly been there in the days when the house had stood in a park, before the village of which it was the Manor had grown to be something like a suburb of Witanbury.

There they had paced up and down, talking of many things; and it was he who, suggesting that she must be tired, at last made her sit down on the broad wooden bench, from where she could see without being seen the long, low house and wide lawn.

They both, in their very different ways, felt exquisitely at peace. To his proud, reticent nature, the last few days had proved disagreeable—sometimes acutely unpleasant. He had felt grateful for, but he had not enjoyed, the marks of sympathy which had been so freely lavished on him and on his companions in Holland, on the boat, and since his landing in England.

In those old days which now seemed to have belonged to another existence, Major Guthrie had thought his friend, Mrs. Otway, if wonderfully kind, not always very tactful. It is a mistake to think that love is blind as to those matters. But of all the kind women he had seen since he had left Germany, she was the only one who had not spoken to him of his blindness, who had made no allusion to it, and who had not pressed on him painful, unsought sympathy. From the moment they had been left alone for a little while in that unknown London house, where he had first been taken, she had made him feel that he was indeed the natural protector and helper of the woman he loved; and of the things she had said to him, in those first moments of emotion, what had touched and pleased him most was her artless cry, "Oh, you don't know how I have missed you! Even quite at first I felt so miserable without you!"

It was Rose who had suggested an immediate marriage; Rose who had—well, yes, there was no other word for it—coaxed them both into realizing that it was the only thing to do.

Even now, on this their wedding day, they felt awkward, and yes, very shy the one with the other. And as he sat there by her side, wearing a rough grey suit he had often worn last winter when calling on her in the Trellis House, her cheeks grew hot when she remembered the letter she had written to him. Perhaps he had thought it an absurdly sentimental letter for a woman of her age to write.

The only thing that reassured her was the fact that once, at luncheon, he had clasped her hand under the table; but the door had opened, and quickly he had taken his hand away, and even moved his chair a little farther off. It was true that Howse had put the chairs very close together.

* * * * *

Now she was telling him of all that had happened since he had gone away, and he was listening with the eager sympathy and interest he had always shown her, that no one else had ever shown her in the same degree, in those days that now seemed so long ago, before the War.

So she went on, pouring it all out to him, till she came to the amazing story of her daughter Rose, and of Jervis Blake. She described the strange, moving little marriage ceremony; and the man sitting by her side sought and found the soft hand which was very close to his, and said feelingly, "That must have been very trying for you."

Yes, it had been trying for her, though no one had seemed to think so at the time. But he, the speaker of these kind understanding words, had always known how she felt, and sympathised with her.

She wished he would call her "Mary"—if only he would begin, she would soon find it quite easy to call him "Alick...."

Suddenly there came on his sightless face a slight change. He had heard something which her duller ears had failed to hear.

"What's that?" he asked uneasily.

"It's only a motor-car coming round to the front door. I hope they will send whoever it is away," the colour rushed into her face.

"Oh, surely Howse will do that to-day——"

And then she saw the man-servant come out of the house and advance towards them. There was a salver in his hand, and on the salver a note.

"The gentleman who brought this is waiting, ma'am, to see you."

She took up the envelope and glanced down at it. Her new name looked so odd in Dr. Haworth's familiar writing—it evoked a woman who had been so very different from herself, and yet for whom she now felt a curious kind of retrospective tenderness.

She opened the note with curiosity.

"DEAR MRS. GUTHRIE,

"The bearer of this, Mr. Reynolds of the Home Office, will explain to you why we are anxious that you should come into Witanbury for an hour this afternoon. I am sure Major Guthrie would willingly spare you if he knew how very important and how delicate is the business in question. Please tell him that we will keep you as short a time as possible. In fact, it is quite probable that you will be back within an hour.

"Very truly yours,

"EDMUND HAWORTH."

She looked down at the letter with feelings of surprise and of annoyance. Uncaring of Howse's discreet presence, she read it aloud. "It's very mysterious and queer, isn't it? But I'm afraid I shall have to go."

"Yes, of course you will. It would have been better under the circumstances for the Dean to have told you what they want to see you about."

In the old days, Major Guthrie had never shared Mrs. Otway's admiration for Dr. Haworth, and now he felt rather sharply disturbed. The Home Office? The words bore a more ominous sound to him than they did, fortunately, to her. Was it possible that she had been communicating, in secret, with some of her German friends? He rose from the bench on which they had been sitting: "Is the gentleman in the motor, Howse?"

"Yes, sir. He wouldn't come in."

"Go and tell him that we are coming at once."

And then, after a moment, he said quietly, "I'm coming, too."

"Oh, but——" she exclaimed.

"I don't choose to have my wife's presence commanded by the Dean of Witanbury, or even, if it comes to that, by the Home Office."

She seized his arm, and pressed close to him. "I do believe," she cried, "that you suspect me of having got into a scrape! Indeed, indeed I have done nothing!" She was smiling, though moved almost to tears by the way he had just spoken. It was a new thing to her to be taken care of, to feel that there was someone ready, aye, determined, to protect her, and take her part. Also, it was the first time he had called her his wife.

* * * * *

A few minutes later they were sitting side by side in a large, open motor-car. Mr. Reynolds was a pleasant, good-looking man of about thirty, and he had insisted on giving up his seat to Major Guthrie. There would have been plenty of room for the three of them leaning back, but he had preferred to sit opposite to them, and now he was looking, with a good deal of sympathy, interest, and respect at the blind soldier, and with equal interest, but with less liking and respect, at Major Guthrie's wife.

Mr. Reynolds disliked pro-Germans and spy-maniacs with almost equal fervour; his work brought him in contact with both. From what he had been able to learn, the lady sitting opposite to him was to be numbered among the first category.

"And now," said Major Guthrie, leaning his sightless face forward, "will you kindly inform me for what reason my wife has been summoned to Witanbury this afternoon? The Dean's letter—I do not know if you have read it—is expressed in rather mysterious and alarming language."

The man he addressed waited for a moment. He knew that the two people before him had only been married that morning.

"Yes, that is so," he said frankly. "I suppose the Dean thought it best that I should inform Mrs. Guthrie of the business which brought me to Witanbury three hours ago. It chanced that I was in the neighbourhood, so when the Witanbury police telephoned to London, I, being known to be close here, was asked to go over."

"The police?" repeated both his hearers together.

"Yes, for I'm sorry to tell you"—he looked searchingly at the lady as he spoke—"I'm sorry to tell you, Mrs. Guthrie, that a considerable number of bombs have been found in your house. I believe it to be the fact that you hold the lease of the Trellis House in Witanbury Close?"

She looked at him too much surprised and too much bewildered to speak. Then, "Bombs?" she echoed incredulously. "There must be some mistake! There has never been any gunpowder in my possession. I might almost go so far as to say that I have never seen a gun or a pistol at close quarters——"

She felt a hand groping towards her, and at last find and cover in a tight grip her fingers. "You do not fire bombs from a gun or from a pistol, my dearest." There was a great tenderness in Major Guthrie's voice.

Even in the midst of her surprise and disarray at the extraordinary thing she had just heard, Mrs. Guthrie blushed so deeply that Mr. Reynolds noticed it, and felt rather puzzled. He told himself that she was a younger woman than he had at first taken her to be.

In a very different tone Major Guthrie next addressed the man he knew to be sitting opposite to him: "May I ask how and where and when bombs were found in the Trellis House?" To himself he was saying, with anguished iteration, "Oh, God, if only I could see! Oh, God, if only I could see!" But he spoke, if sternly, yet in a quiet, courteous tone, his hand still clasping closely that of his wife.

"They were found this morning within half an hour, I understand, of your wedding. And it was only owing to the quickness of a lady named Miss Forsyth—assisted, I am bound to say, by Mr. Hayley of the Foreign Office, who is, I believe, a relation of Mrs. Guthrie—that they were found at all. The man who came to fetch them away did get off scot free—luckily leaving them, and his motor, behind him."

"The man who came to fetch them away?" The woman sitting opposite to the speaker repeated the words in a wondering tone—then, very decidedly, "There has been some extraordinary mistake!" she exclaimed. "I know every inch of my house, and so I can assure you"—she bent forward a little in her earnestness and excitement—"I can assure you that it's quite impossible that there was anything of the sort in the Trellis House without my knowing it!"

"Did you ever go into your servant's bedroom?" asked Mr. Reynolds quietly.

Major Guthrie felt the hand he was holding in his suddenly tremble, and his wife made a nervous movement, as if she wanted to draw it away from his protecting grasp.

A feeling of terror—of sheer, unreasoning terror—had swept over her. Anna?

"No," she faltered, but her voice was woefully changed. "No, I never had occasion to go into my old servant's bedroom. But oh, I cannot believe——" and then she stopped. She had remembered Anna's curious unwillingness to leave the Trellis House this morning, even to attend her beloved mistress's wedding. She, and Rose too, had been hurt, and had shown that they were hurt, at old Anna's obstinacy.

"We have reason to suppose," said Mr. Reynolds slowly, "that the explosives in question have been stored for some considerable time in a large roomy cupboard which is situated behind your servant's bed. As a matter of fact, the man who had come to fetch them away was already under observation by the police. He has spent all the winter in a village not far from Southampton, and he is registered as a Spaniard, though he came to England from America just before the War broke out. Of course, these facts have only just come to my knowledge. But both this Miss Forsyth and your cousin, Mr. Hayley, declare that they have long suspected your servant of being a spy."

"Suspected my servant? Suspected Anna Bauer?" repeated Mrs. Guthrie, in a bewildered tone.

"Then you," went on Mr. Reynolds, "have never suspected her at all, Mrs. Guthrie? I understand that but for the accidental fact that Witanbury is just, so to speak, over the border of the prohibited area for aliens, she would have had to leave you?"

"Yes, I know that. But she has been with me nearly twenty years, and I regarded her as being to all intents and purposes an Englishwoman."

"Did you really?" he observed drily.

"Her daughter is married to an Englishman."

Mr. Reynolds, in answer to that statement, remained silent, but a very peculiar expression came over his face. It was an expression which would perchance have given a clue to Major Guthrie had Major Guthrie been able to see.

Mrs. Guthrie's face had gone grey with pain and fear; her eyes had filled with tears, which were now rolling down her cheeks. She looked indeed different from the still pretty, happy, charming-looking woman who had stepped into the car a few minutes ago.

"I should not have ventured to disturb you to-day—to-morrow would have been quite time enough——" said Mr. Reynolds, speaking this time really kindly, "were it not that we attach the very greatest importance to discovering whether this woman, your ex-servant, forms part of a widespread conspiracy. We suspect that she does. But she is in such a state of pretended or real agitation—in fact, she seems almost distraught—that none of us can get anything out of her. I myself have questioned her both in English and in German. All she keeps repeating is that she is innocent, quite innocent, and that she was unaware of the nature of the goods—she describes them always as goods, when she speaks in English—that she was harbouring in your house. She declares she knows nothing about the man who came for them, though that is false on the face of it, for she was evidently expecting him. We think that he has terrorised her. She even refuses to say where she obtained these 'goods' of hers, or how long she has had them. You see, we have reason to believe"—he slightly lowered his voice in the rushing wind—"we have reason to believe," he repeated, "that the Germans may be going to try their famous plan of invasion within the next few days. If so, it is clear that these bombs were meant to play a certain part in the business, and thus it is extremely important that we should know if there are any further stores of them in or about Witanbury."



CHAPTER XXXI

They were now in the streets of the cathedral city, and Mrs. Guthrie, agitated though she was, could see that there was a curious air of animation and bustle. A great many people were out of doors on this late March afternoon.

As a matter of fact something of the facts, greatly exaggerated as is always the way, had leaked out, and the whole city was in a ferment.

Slowly the motor made its way round the Market Place to the Council House, and as it drew up at the bottom of the steps, a crowd of idlers surged forward.

There was a minute or two of waiting, then a man whom Mrs. Guthrie knew to be the head inspector of the local police came forward, with a very grave face, and helped her out of the car. He wished to hurry her up the steps out of the way of the people there, but she heard her husband's voice, "Mary, where are you?" and obediently she turned with an eager, "Here I am, waiting for you!" She took his arm, and he pressed it reassuringly. She was glad he could not see the inquisitive faces of the now swelling crowd which were being but ill kept back by the few local police.

But her ordeal did not last long; in a very few moments they were safe in the Council House, and Mr. Reynolds, who already knew his way about there, had shown them into a stately room where hung the portraits of certain long dead Witanbury worthies.

"Am I going to see Anna now?" asked Mrs. Guthrie nervously.

"Yes, I must ask you to do that as soon as possible. And, Mrs. Guthrie? Please remember that all we want to know now are two definite facts. The first of these is how long she has had these bombs in her possession, and how she procured them? She may possibly be willing to tell you how long she has had them, even if she still remains obstinately silent as to where she got them. The second question, and of course much the more important from our point of view, is whether she knows of any other similar stores in Witanbury or elsewhere? That, I need hardly tell you, is of very vital moment to us, and I appeal to you as an Englishwoman to help us in the matter."

"I will do as you wish," said Mrs. Guthrie in a low voice. "But, Mr. Reynolds? Please forgive me for asking you one thing. What will be done to my poor old Anna? Will the fact that she is a German make it better for her—or worse? Of course I realise that she has been wicked—very, very wicked if what you say is true——"

"And most treacherous to you!" interposed the young man quickly. "You don't seem to realise, Mrs. Guthrie, the danger in which she put you;" and as she looked at him uncomprehendingly, he went on, "Putting everything else aside, she ran the most appalling danger of killing you—you and every member of your household. Of course I don't know what you mean to say to her——" he hesitated. "I understand that your relations with her have been much closer and more kindly than are often those between a servant and her employer," and as she nodded, he went on: "The Dean was afraid that it would give you a terrible shock—in fact, he himself seems extremely surprised and distressed; he had evidently quite a personal feeling of affection and respect for this old German woman, Anna Bauer!"

"And I am sure that if you had known her you would have had it too, Mr. Reynolds," she answered naively. Somehow the fact that the Dean had taken this strange and dreadful thing as he had done, made her feel less miserable.

"Ah! One thing more before I take you to her. Anything incriminating she may say to you will not be brought as evidence against her. The point you have to remember is that it is vitally important to us to obtain information as to this local spy conspiracy or system, to which we believe we already hold certain clues."

* * * * *

The police cell into which Mrs. Guthrie was introduced was in the half-basement of the ancient Council House. The walls of the cell were whitewashed with a peculiar, dusty whitewash that came off upon the occupant's clothes at the slightest touch. There was a bench fixed to the wall, and in a corner a bed, also fixed to the ground. A little light came in from the window high out of reach, and in the middle of the ceiling hung a disused gas bracket.

Those of Anna Bauer's personal possessions she had been allowed to bring with her were lying on the bed.

The old woman was sitting on the bench, her head bowed in an abandonment of stupor, and of misery. She did not even move as the door opened. But when she heard the kind, familiar voice exclaim, "Anna? My poor old Anna!—it is terrible to find you here, like this!" she drew a convulsive breath of relief, and lifted her tear-stained, swollen face.

"I am innocent!" she cried wildly, in German. "Oh, gracious lady, I am innocent! I have done no wrong. I can accuse myself of no sin."

Mr. Reynolds brought in a chair. Then he went out, and quietly closed the door.

Anna's mistress came and sat on the bench close to her servant. It was almost as if an unconscious woman, spent with the extremity of physical suffering, crouched beside her.

"Anna, listen to me!" she said at last, and there was a touch of salutary command in her voice—a touch of command that poor Anna knew, and always responded to, though it was very seldom used towards her. "I have left Major Guthrie on our marriage day in order to try and help you in this awful disgrace and trouble you have brought, not only on yourself, but on me. All I ask you to do is to tell me the truth. Anna?"—she touched the fat arm close to her—"look up, and talk to me like a reasonable woman. If you are innocent, if you can accuse yourself of no sin—then why are you in such a state?"

Anna looked up eagerly. She was feeling much better now.

"Every reason have I in a state to be! A respectable woman to such a place brought! Roughly by two policemen treated. I nothing did that ashamed of I am!"

"What is it you did do?" said Mrs. Guthrie patiently. "Try and collect your thoughts, Anna. Explain to me where you got"—she hesitated painfully—"where you got the bombs."

"No bombs there were," exclaimed Anna confidently. "Chemicals, yes—bombs, no."

"You are mistaken, Anna," said Mrs. Guthrie quietly. She rose from the bench on which she had been sitting, and drew up the chair opposite to Anna. "There were certainly bombs found in your room. It is a mercy they did not explode; if they had done, we should all have been killed!"

Anna stared at her in dumb astonishment. "Herr Gott!" she exclaimed. "No one has told me that, gracious lady. Again and again they have asked me questions they should not—questions I to answer promised not. To you, speak I will——"

Anna looked round, as if to satisfy herself that they were indeed alone, and Mrs. Guthrie suddenly grew afraid. Was poor old Anna going to reveal something of a very serious self-incriminating kind?

"It was Willi!" exclaimed the old woman at last. She now spoke in a whisper, and in German. "It was to Willi that I gave my promise to say nothing. You see, gracious lady, it was a friend of Willi's who was making a chemical invention. It was he who left these goods with me. I will now confess"—she began to sob bitterly—"I will now confess that I did keep it a secret from the gracious lady that these parcels had been confided to me. But the bedroom was mine. You know, gracious lady, how often you said to me, 'I should have liked you to have a nicer bedroom, Anna—but still, it is your room, so I hope you make it as comfortable as you can.' As it was my room, gracious lady, it concerned no one what I kept there."

"A friend of Willi's?" repeated Mrs. Guthrie incredulously. "But I don't understand—Willi is in Berlin. Surely you have not seen Willi since you went to Germany three years ago?"

"No, indeed not. But he told me about this matter when he took me to the station. He said that a friend would call on me some time after my return here, and that to keep these goods would be to my advantage——" she stopped awkwardly.

"You mean," said Mrs. Guthrie slowly, "that you were paid for keeping these things, Anna?" Somehow she felt a strange sinking of the heart.

"Yes," Anna spoke in a shamed, embarrassed tone. "Yes, that is quite true. I was given a little present each year. But it was no one's business but mine."

"And how long did you have them?" Mrs. Guthrie had remembered suddenly that that was an important point.

Anna waited a moment, but she was only counting. "Exactly three years," she answered. "Three years this month."

Mrs. Guthrie also made a rapid calculation. "You mean that they were brought to the Trellis House in the March of 1912?"

Anna nodded. "Yes, gracious lady. When you and Miss Rose were in London. Do you remember?"

The other shook her head.

Anna felt almost cheerful now. She had told the whole truth, and her gracious lady did not seem so very angry after all.

"They were brought," she went on eagerly, "by a very nice gentleman. He asked me for a safe place to keep them, and I showed him the cupboard behind my bed. He helped me to bring them in."

"Was that the man who came for them this morning?" asked Mrs. Guthrie.

Anna shook her head. "Oh no!" she exclaimed. "The other gentleman was a gentleman. He wrote me a letter first, but when he came he asked me to give it him back. So of course I did so."

"Did he give you any idea of what he had brought you to keep?" asked Mrs. Guthrie. "Now, Anna, I beg—I implore you to tell me the truth!"

"The truth will I willingly tell!" Yes, Anna was feeling really better now. She had confessed the one thing which had always been on her conscience—her deceit towards her kind mistress. "He said they were chemicals, a new wonderful invention, which I must take great care of as they were fragile."

"I suppose he was a German?" said Mrs. Guthrie slowly.

"Yes, he was a German, naturally, being the superior of Willi. But the man who came to-day was no German."

"And during all that time—three years is a long time, Anna—did you never hear from him?" asked Mrs. Guthrie slowly.

It had suddenly come over her with a feeling of repugnance and pain, that old Anna had kept her secret very closely.

"I never heard—no, never, till last night," cried the old woman eagerly.

"But even now," said Mrs. Guthrie, "I can't understand, Anna, what made you do it. Was it to please Willi?"

"Yes," said Anna in an embarrassed tone. "It was to please my good nephew, gracious lady."



CHAPTER XXXII

"And now," said Mrs. Guthrie, looking at the little group of people who sat round her in the Council Chamber, "and now I have told you, almost I think word for word, everything my poor old Anna told me."

As Mr. Reynolds remained silent, she added, with a touch of defiance, "And I am quite, quite sure that she told me the truth!"

Her eyes instinctively sought the Dean's face. Yes, there she found sympathy,—sympathy and belief. It was impossible to tell what her husband was thinking. His face was not altered—it was set in stern lines of discomfort and endurance. The Government official looked sceptical.

"I have no doubt that the woman has told you a good deal of the truth, Mrs. Guthrie, but I do not think she has told you all the truth, or the most important part of it. According to your belief, she accepted this very strange deposit without the smallest suspicion of the truth. Now, is it conceivable that an intelligent, sensible, elderly woman of the kind she has been described to me, could be such a fool?"

And then, for the first time since his wife had returned there from her interview with Anna, Major Guthrie intervened.

"I think you forget, Mr. Reynolds, that this took place long before the war. In fact, if I may recall certain dates to your memory, this must have been a little tiny cog in the machine which Germany began fashioning after the Agadir crisis. It was that very autumn that Anna Bauer went to visit her nephew and niece in Berlin, and it was soon after she came back that, according to her story, a stranger, with some kind of introduction from her nephew, who is, I believe, connected with the German police——"

"Is he indeed?" exclaimed Mr. Reynolds. "You never told me that!" he looked at Mrs. Guthrie.

"Didn't I?" she said. "Yes, it's quite true, Wilhelm Warshauer is a sub-inspector of police in Berlin. But I feel sure he is a perfectly respectable man."

She fortunately did not see the expression which flashed across her questioner's face. Not so the Dean. Mr. Reynolds' look stirred Dr. Haworth to a certain indignation. He had known Anna Bauer as long as her mistress had, and he had become quite fond of the poor old woman with whom he had so often exchanged pleasant greetings in German.

"Look here!" he began, in a pleasant, persuasive voice. "I have a suggestion to make, Mr. Reynolds. We have here in Witanbury a most excellent fellow, one of our city councillors. He is of German birth, but was naturalised long ago. As I expect you know, there was a little riot here last week, and this man—Alfred Head is his name—had all his windows broken. He refused to prosecute, and behaved with the greatest sense and dignity. Now I suggest that we set Alfred Head on to old Anna Bauer! I believe she would tell him things that she would not even tell her very kind and considerate mistress. I feel sure that he would find out the real truth. As a matter of fact I met him just now when I was coming down here. He was full of regret and concern, and he spoke very kindly and very sensibly of this poor old woman. He said he knew her—that she was a friend of his wife's, and he asked me if he could be of any assistance to her."

Thinking he saw a trace of hesitation on the London official's face, he added, "After all, such an interview could do no harm, and might do good. Yes, I strongly do advise that we take Alfred Head into our counsels, and explain to him exactly what it is we wish to know."

"I am quite sure," exclaimed Mrs. Guthrie impulsively, "that Anna would not tell him any more than she told me. I am convinced, not only that she told me the truth, but that she told me nothing but the truth—I don't believe she kept anything back!"

Mr. Reynolds looked straight at the speaker of these impetuous words. He smiled. It was a kindly, albeit a satiric smile. He was getting quite fond of Mrs. Guthrie! And though his duties often brought him in contact with strange and unusual little groups of people, this was the first time he had ever had to bring into his official work a bride on her wedding day. This was the first time also that a dean had ever been mixed up in any of the difficult and dangerous affairs with which he was now concerned. It was, too, the first time that he had been brought into personal contact with one of his own countrymen "broken in the war."

"I hope that you are right," he said soothingly. "Still, as Mr. Dean kindly suggests, it may be worth while allowing this man—Head is his name, is it?—to see the woman. It generally happens that a person of the class to which Anna Bauer belongs will talk much more freely to some one of their own sort than to an employer, however kind. In fact, it often happens that after having remained quite silent and refused to say anything to, say, a solicitor, such a person will come out with the whole truth to an old friend, or to a relation. We will hope that this will be the case this time. And now I don't think that we need detain you and Major Guthrie any longer. Of course you shall be kept fully informed of any developments."

"If there is any question, as I suppose there will be, of Anna Bauer being sent for trial," said Major Guthrie, "then I should wish, Mr. Reynolds, that my own solicitor undertakes her defence. My wife feels that she is under a great debt of gratitude to this German woman. Anna has not only been her servant for over eighteen years, but she was nurse to Mrs. Guthrie's only child. We neither of us feel in the least inclined to abandon Anna Bauer because of what has happened. I also wish to associate myself very strongly with what Mrs. Guthrie said just now. I believe the woman to be substantially innocent, and I think she has almost certainly told my wife the truth, as far as she knows it."

He held out his hand, and the other man grasped it warmly. Then Mr. Reynolds shook hands with Mrs. Guthrie. She looked happy now—happy if a little tearful. "I hope," he said eagerly, "that you will make use of my car to take you home."

Somehow he felt interested in, and drawn to, this middle-aged couple. He was quite sorry to know that, after to-day, he would probably never see them again. The type of man who is engaged in the sort of work which Mr. Reynolds was now doing for his country has to be very human underneath his cloak of official reserve, or he would not be able to carry out his often delicate, as well as difficult, duties.

He followed them outside the Council House. Clouds had gathered, and it was beginning to rain, so he ordered his car to be closed.

"Mr. Reynolds," cried Mrs. Guthrie suddenly, "you won't let them be too unkind to my poor old Anna, will you?"

"Indeed, no one will be unkind to her," he said. "She's only been a tool after all—poor old woman. No doubt there will be a deportation order, and she will be sent back to Germany."

"Remember that you are to draw on me if any money is required on her behalf," cried out Major Guthrie, fixing his sightless eyes on the place where he supposed the other man to be.

"Yes, yes—I quite understand that! But we've found out that the old woman has plenty of money. It is one of the things that make us believe that she knows more than she pretends to do."

He waved his hand as they drove off. Somehow he felt a better man, a better Englishman, for having met these two people.

* * * * *

There was very little light in the closed motor, but if it had been open for all the world to see, Mary Guthrie would not have minded, so happy, so secure did she feel now that her husband's arm was round her.

She put up her face close to his ear: "Oh, Alick," she whispered, "I am afraid that you've married a very foolish woman——"

He turned and drew her into his strong arms. "I've married the sweetest, the most generous, and—and, Mary, the dearest of women."

"At any rate you can always say to yourself, 'A poor thing, but mine own—'" she said, half laughing, half crying. And then their lips met and clung together, for the first time.



CHAPTER XXXIII

Mr. Reynolds walked back up the steps of the Council House of Witanbury. He felt as if he had just had a pleasant glimpse of that Kingdom of Romance which so many seek and so few find, and that now he was returning into the everyday world. Sure enough, when he reached the Council Chamber, he found Dr. Haworth there with a prosaic-looking person. This was evidently the man to whom the Dean thought Anna would be more likely to reveal the truth than to her kind, impulsive employer.

Mr. Reynolds had not expected to see so intelligent and young-looking a man. He was familiar with the type of German who has for long made his career in England. But this naturalised German was not true to type at all! Though probably over fifty, he still had an alert, active figure, and he was extraordinarily like someone Mr. Reynolds had seen. In fact, for a few moments the likeness quite haunted him. Who on earth could it be that this man so strongly resembled? But soon he gave up the likeness as a bad job—it didn't matter, after all!

"Well, Mr. Head, I expect that Dr. Haworth has already told you what it is we hope from you."

"Yes, sir, I think I understand."

"Are you an American?" asked the other abruptly.

The Witanbury City Councillor looked slightly embarrassed. "No," he said at last. "But I was in the United States for some years."

"You were never connected, I suppose, with the New York Police?"

"Oh no, sir!" There was no mistaking the man's genuine surprise at the question.

"I only asked you," said Mr. Reynolds hastily, "because I feel as if we had met before. But I suppose I made a mistake. By the way, do you know Anna Bauer well?"

Alfred Head waited a moment; he looked instinctively to the Dean for guidance, but the Dean made no sign.

"I know Anna Bauer pretty well," he said at last. "But she's more a friend of my wife than of mine. She used sometimes to come and spend the evening with us."

He was feeling exceedingly uncomfortable. Had Anna mentioned him? He thought not. He hoped not. "What is it exactly you want me to get out of her?" he asked, cringingly.

Mr. Reynolds hesitated. Somehow he did not at all like the man standing before him. Shortly he explained how much the old woman had already admitted; and then, "Perhaps you could ascertain whether she has received any money since the outbreak of war, and if so, by what method. I may tell you in confidence, Mr. Head, there has been a good deal of German money going about in this part of the world. We hold certain clues, but up to the present time we have not been able to trace this money to its source."

"I think I quite understand what it is you require to know, sir," said Alfred Head respectfully.

There came a knock at the door. "Mr. Reynolds in there? You are wanted, sir, on the telephone. A London call from Scotland Yard."

"All right," he said quietly. "Tell them they must wait a moment. Will you please take Mr. Head to the cell where Anna Bauer is confined?"

Then he hurried off to the telephone, well aware that he might now be about to hear the real solution of the mystery. Some of his best people had been a long time on this Witanbury job.

* * * * *

Terrified and bewildered as she had been by the events of midday, Anna, when putting her few things together, had not forgotten her work. True, she had been too much agitated and upset to crochet or knit during the long hours which had elapsed since the morning. But the conversation she had had with her mistress had reassured her. How good that dear, gracious lady had been! How kindly she had accepted the confession of deceit!

Yes, but it was very, very wrong of her, Anna Bauer, to have done what she had done. She knew that now. What was the money she had earned—a few paltry pounds—compared with all this fearful trouble? Still, she felt now sure the trouble would soon be over. She had a pathetic faith, not only in her mistress, but also in Mrs. Jervis Blake and in the Dean. They would see her through this strange, shameful business. So she took her workbag off the bed, and brought out her crochet.

She had just begun working when she heard the door open, and there came across her face a sudden look of apprehension. She was weary of being questioned, and of parrying questions. But now she had told all she knew. There was great comfort in that thought.

Her face cleared, became quite cheerful and smiling, when she saw Alfred Head. He, too, was a kind friend; he, too, would help her as much as he could—if indeed any more help were needed. But the Dean and her own lady would certainly be far more powerful than Alfred Head.

Poor Old Anna was not in a condition to be very observant. She did not see that there was anything but a cordial expression on her friend's face, and that he looked indeed very stern and disagreeable.

The door was soon shut behind him, and instead of advancing with hand outstretched, he crossed his arms and looked down at her, silently, for a few moments.

At last, speaking between his teeth, and in German, he exclaimed, "This is a pretty state of things, Frau Bauer. You have made more trouble than you know!"

She stared up at him, uncomprehendingly. "I don't understand," she faltered. "I did nothing. What do you mean?"

"I mean that you have brought us all within sight of the gallows. Yourself quite as much as your friends."

"The gallows?" exclaimed old Anna, in an agitated whisper. "Explain yourself, Mr. Head——" She was trembling now. "What is it you mean?"

"I do not know what it is you have told," he spoke in a less savage tone. "And I know as a matter of fact that there is very little you could say, for you have been kept in the dark. But one thing I may tell you. If you say one word, Frau Bauer, of where you received your blood money just after the War broke out, then I, too, will say what I know. If I do that, instead of being deported—that is, instead of being sent comfortably back to Berlin, to your niece and her husband, who surely will look after you and make your old age comfortable—then I swear to you before God that you will hang!"

"Hang? But I have done nothing!"

Anna was now almost in a state of collapse, and he saw his mistake.

"You are in no real danger at all if you will only do exactly what I tell you," he declared, impressively.

"Yes," she faltered. "Yes, Herr Hegner, indeed I will obey you."

He looked round him hastily. "Never, never call me that!" he exclaimed. "And now listen quite quietly to what I have to say. Remember you are in no danger—no danger at all—if you follow my orders."

She looked at him dumbly.

"You are to say that the parcels came to you from your nephew in Germany. It will do him no harm. The English police cannot reach him."

"But I've already said," she confessed, distractedly, "that they were brought to me by a friend of his."

"It is a pity you said that, but it does not much matter. The one thing you must conceal at all hazards is that you received any money from me. Do you understand that, Frau Bauer? Have you said anything of that?"

"No," she said slowly. "No, I have said nothing of that."

He fancied there was a look of hesitation on her face. As a matter of fact we know that Anna had not betrayed Alfred Head. But that she had not done so was an accident, only caused by her unwillingness to dwell on the money she had received when telling her story to Mrs. Guthrie.

The old woman turned a mottled red and yellow colour, in the poor light of the cell.

"Please try and remember," he said sternly, "if you mentioned me at all."

"I swear I did not!" she cried.

"Did you say that you had received money?"

And Anna answered, truthfully, "Yes, Herr Head; I did say that."

"Fool! Fool indeed—when it would have been so easy for you to pretend you had done it to please your nephew!"

"But Mrs. Otway, she has forgiven me. My gracious lady does not think I did anything so very wrong," cried Anna.

"Mrs. Otway? What does she matter! They will do all they can to get out of you how you received this money. You must say—— Are you attending, Frau Bauer?"

She had sunk down again on her bench; she felt her legs turning to cotton-wool. "Yes," she muttered. "Yes, I am attending——"

"You must say," he commanded, "that you always received the money from your nephew. That since the war you have had none. Do I make myself clear?"

"Yes," she murmured—"quite clear, Herr Head."

"If you do not say that, if you bring me into this dirty business, then I, too, will say what I know about you."

She looked at him uncomprehendingly. What did he mean?

"Ah, you do not know perhaps what I can tell about you!"

He came nearer to her, and in a hissing whisper went on: "I can tell how it was through you that a certain factory in Flanders was shelled, and eighty Englishmen were killed. And if I tell that, they will hang you!"

"But that is not true," said Anna stoutly. "So you could not say that!"

"It is true." He spoke with a kind of ferocious energy that carried conviction, even to her. "It is absolutely true, and easily proved. You showed a letter—a letter from Mr. Jervis Blake. In that letter was information which led directly to the killing of those eighty English soldiers, and to the injury to Mr. Jervis Blake which lost him his foot."

"What is that you say?" Anna's voice rose to a scream of horror—of incredulous, protesting horror. "Unsay, do unsay what you have just said, kind Mr. Head!"

"How can I unsay what is the fact?" he answered savagely. "Do not be a stupid fool! You ought to be glad you performed such a deed for the Fatherland."

"Not Mr. Jervis Blake," she wailed out. "Not the bridegroom of my child!"

"The bridegroom of your child was engaged in killing good Germans; and now he will never kill any Germans any more. And it is you, Frau Bauer, who shot off his foot. If you betray me, all that will be known, and they will not deport you, they will hang you!"

To this she said nothing, and he touched her roughly on the shoulder. "Look up, Frau Bauer! Look up, and tell me that you understand! It is important!"

She looked up, and even he was shocked, taken aback, by the strange look on her face. It was a look of dreadful understanding, of fear, and of pain. "I do understand," she said in a low voice.

"If you do what I tell you, nothing will happen to you," he exclaimed impatiently, but more kindly than he had yet spoken. "You will only be sent home, deported, as they call it. If you are thinking of your money in the Savings Bank, that they will not allow you to take. But without doubt your ladies will take care of it for you till this cursed war is over. So you see you have nothing to fear if you do what I tell you. So now good-bye, Frau Bauer. I'll go and tell them that you know nothing, that I have been not able to get anything out of you. Is that so?"

"Yes," she answered apathetically.

Giving one more quick look at her bowed head, he went across and knocked loudly at the cell door.

There was a little pause, and then the door opened. It opened just wide enough to let him out.

And then, just for a moment, Alfred Head felt a slight tremor of discomfort, for the end of the passage, that is, farther down, some way past Anna's cell, now seemed full of men. There stood the chief local police inspector and three or four policemen, as well as the gentleman from London.

It was the latter who first spoke. He came forward, towards Alfred Head. "Well," he said rather sternly, "I presume that you've been able to get nothing from the old woman?"

And Mr. Head answered glibly enough, "That's quite correct, sir. There is evidently nothing to be got out of her. As you yourself said, sir, not long ago, this old woman has only been a tool."

The two policemen were now walking one each side of him, and it seemed to Alfred Head as if he were being hustled along towards the hall where there generally stood, widely open, the doors leading out on to the steps to the Market Place.

He told himself that he would be very glad to get out into the open air and collect his thoughts. He did not believe that his old fellow-countrywoman would, to use a vulgar English colloquialism, "give him away." But still, he would not feel quite at ease till she was safely deported and out of the way.

The passage was rather a long one, and he began to feel a curious, nervous craving to reach the end of it—to be, that is, out in the hall.

But just before they reached the end of the passage the men about him closed round Alfred Head. He felt himself seized, it seemed to him from every side, not roughly, but with a terribly strong muscular grip.

"What is this?" he cried in a loud voice. Even as he spoke, he wondered if he could be dreaming—if this was the horrible after effect of the strain he had just gone through.

For a moment only he struggled, and then, suddenly, he submitted. He knew what it was he wished to save; it was the watch chain to which were attached the two keys of the safe in his bedroom. He wore them among a bunch of old-fashioned Georgian seals which he had acquired in the way of business, and he had had the keys gilt, turned to a dull gold colour, to match the seals. It was possible, just possible, that they might escape the notice of these thick-witted men about him.

"What does this mean?" he demanded; and then he stopped, for there rose a distant sound of crying and screaming in the quiet place.

"What is that?" he cried, startled.

The police inspector came forward; he cleared his throat. "I'm sorry to tell you, Head"—he spoke quite civilly, even kindly—"that we've had to arrest your wife, too."

"This is too much! She is a child—a mere child! Innocent as a baby unborn. An Englishwoman, too, as you know well, Mr. Watkins. They must be all mad in this town—it is quite mad to suspect my poor little Polly!"

The inspector was a kindly man, naturally humane, and he had known the prisoner for a considerable number of years. As for poor Polly, he had always been acquainted with her family, and had seen her grow up from a lovely child into a very pretty girl.

"Look here!" he said. "It's no good kicking up a row. Unluckily for her, they found the key with which they opened your safe in her possession. D'you take my meaning?"

Alfred Head grew rather white. "That's impossible!" he said confidently. "There are but two keys, and I have them both."

The other looked at him with a touch of pity. "There must have been a third key," he said slowly. "I've got it here myself. It was hidden away in an old-fashioned dressing-case. Besides, Mrs. Head didn't put up any fight. But if she can prove, as she says, that she knows no German, and that you didn't know she had a key of the safe—for that's what she says—well, that'll help her, of course."

"But there's nothing in the safe," Head objected, quickly, "nothing of what might be called an incriminating nature, Mr. Watkins. Only business letters and papers, and all of them sent me before the War."

The other man looked at him, and hesitated. He had gone quite as far as old friendship allowed. "That's as may be," he said cautiously. "I know nothing of all that. They've been sealed up, and are going off to London. What caused you to be arrested, Mr. Head—this much I may tell you—is information which was telephoned down to that London gentleman half an hour ago. But it was just an accident that the key Mrs. Head had hidden away was found so quickly—just a bit of bad luck for her, if I may say so."

"Then I suppose I shan't be allowed to see Polly?" There was a tone of extreme dejection in the voice.

"Well, we'll see about that! I'll see what I can do for you. You're not to be charged till to-morrow morning. Then you'll be charged along with that man—the man who came to the Trellis House this morning. He's been found too. He went straight to those Pollits—you follow my meaning? Mrs. Pollit is the daughter of that old German woman. I never could abide her! Often and often I said to my missis, as I see her go crawling about, 'There's a German as is taking away a good job from an English woman.' So she was. Well, I must now tell them where to take you. And I'm afraid you'll have to be stripped and searched—that's the order in these kind of cases."

Alfred Head nodded. "I don't mind," he said stoutly. "I'm an innocent man." But he had clenched his teeth together when he had heard the name of Pollit uttered so casually. If Pollit told all he knew, then the game was indeed up.



CHAPTER XXXIV

After the door had shut behind Alfred Head, Anna Bauer sat on, quite motionless, awhile. What mind was left to her, after the terrifying and agonising interview she had just had, was absorbed in the statement made to her concerning Jervis Blake.

She remembered, with blinding clearness, the afternoon that Rose had come into her kitchen to say in a quiet, toneless voice, "They think, Anna, that they will have to take off his foot." She saw, as clearly as if her nursling were there in this whitewashed little cell, the look of desolate, dry-eyed anguish which had filled Rose's face.

But that false quietude had only lasted a few moments, for, in response to her poor old Anna's exclamation of horror and of sympathy, Rose Otway had flung herself into her nurse's arms, and had lain there shivering and crying till the sound of the front door opening to admit her mother had forced her to control herself.

Anna's mind travelled wearily on, guided by reproachful memory through a maze of painful recollections. Once more she stood watching the strange marriage ceremony—trying hard, aye, and succeeding, to obey Sir Jacques's strict injunction. More than one of those present had glanced over at her, Anna, very kindly during that trying half-hour. How would they then have looked at her if they had known what she knew now?

She lived again as in long drawn-out throbs of pain the piteous days which had followed Mr. Blake's operation.

Rose had not allowed herself one word of fret or of repining; but on three different nights during that first week, she had got out of bed and wandered about the house, till Anna, hearing the quiet, stuffless sounds of bare feet, had come out, and leading the girl into the still warm kitchen, had comforted her.

It was Anna who had spoken to Sir Jacques, and suggested the sleeping draught which had finally broken that evil waking spell—Anna who, far more than Rose's own mother, had sustained and heartened the poor child during those dreadful days of reaction which followed on the brave front she had shown at the crisis of the operation.

And now Anna had to face the horrible fact that it was she who had brought this dreadful suffering, this—this lifelong misfortune, on the being she loved more than she had ever loved anything in the world. If this was true, and in her heart she knew it to be true, then she did indeed deserve to hang. A shameful death would be nothing in comparison to the agony of fearing that her darling might come to learn the truth.

* * * * *

The door of the cell suddenly opened, and a man came in, carrying a tray in his hands. On it were a jug of coffee, some milk, sugar, bread and butter, and a plateful of cold meat.

He put it down by the old woman's side. "Look here!" he said. "Your lady, Mrs. Guthrie as she is now, thought you'd rather have coffee than tea—so we've managed to get some for you."

And, as Anna burst into loud sobs, "There, there!" he said good-naturedly. "I daresay you'll be all right—don't you be worrying yourself." He lowered his voice: "Though there are some as says that what they found in your back kitchen this morning was enough to have blown up all Witanbury sky high! Quite a good few don't think you knew anything about it—and if you didn't, you've nothing to fear. You'll be treated quite fair; so now you sit up, and make a good supper!"

She stared at him without speaking, and he went on: "You won't be having this sort of grub in Darneford Gaol, you know!" As she again looked at him with no understanding, he added by way of explanation: "After you've been charged to-morrow, it's there they'll send you, I expect, to wait for the Assizes."

"So?" she said stupidly.

"You just sit up and enjoy your supper! You needn't hurry over it. I shan't be this way again for an hour or so." And then he went out and shut the door.

For almost the first time in her life, Anna Bauer did not feel as if she wanted to eat good food set before her. But she poured out a cup of coffee, and drank it just as it was, black and bitter, without putting either milk or sugar to it.

Then she stood up. The coffee had revived her, cleared her brain, and she looked about her with awakened, keener perceptions.

It was beginning to get dark, but it was a fine evening, and there was still light enough to see by. She looked up consideringly at the old-fashioned iron gas bracket, placed in the middle of the ceiling, just above the wooden chair on which her gracious lady had sat during the last part of their conversation.

Anna took from the bench where she had been sitting the crochet in which she had been interrupted.

She had lately been happily engaged in making a beautiful band of crochet lace which was destined to serve as trimming for Mrs. Jervis Blake's dressing-table. The band was now very nearly finished; there were over three yards of it done. Worked in the best and strongest linen thread, it was the kind of thing which would last, even if it were cleaned very frequently, for years and years, and which would grow finer with cleaning.

The band was neatly rolled up and pinned, to keep it clean and nice; but now Anna slowly unpinned and unrolled it.

Yes, it was a beautiful piece of work; rather coarser than what she was accustomed to do, but then she knew that Miss Rose preferred the coarser to the very fine crochet.

She tested a length of it with a sharp pull, and the result was wonderful—from her point of view most gratifying! It hardly gave at all. She remembered how ill her mistress had succeeded when she, Anna, had tried to teach her to do this kind of work some sixteen to seventeen years ago. After a very little while Mrs. Otway had given up trying to do it, knowing that she could never rival her good old Anna. Mrs. Otway's lace had been so rough, so uneven; a tiny pull, and it became all stringy and out of shape.

Yes, whatever strain were put on this band, it would surely recover—recover, that is, if it were dealt with as she, Anna, would deal with such a piece of work. It would have to be damped and stretched out on a piece of oiled silk, and each point fastened down with a pin. Then an almost cold iron would have to be passed over it, with a piece of clean flannel in between....



CHAPTER XXXV

At eight o'clock the same evening, Mr. Reynolds and Mr. Hayley were eating a hasty meal in the Trellis House. James Hayley had been compelled to stay on till the last train back to town, for on him the untoward events of the day had entailed a good deal of trouble. He had had to put off his cousin's tenants, find lodgings for their two servants, and arrange quarters for the policeman who, pending inquiries, was guarding the contents of Anna's bedroom.

A charwoman had been found with the help of Mrs. Haworth. But when this woman had been asked—her name was Bent, and she was a verger's wife—to provide a little supper for two gentlemen, she had demurred, and said it was impossible. Then, at last, she had volunteered to cook two chops and boil some potatoes. But she had explained that nothing further must be expected of her; she was not used to waiting at table.

The two young men were thus looking after themselves in the pretty dining-room. Mr. Reynolds, who was not as particular as his companion, and who, as a matter of fact, had had no luncheon, thought the chop quite decent. In fact, he was heartily enjoying his supper, for he was very hungry.

"I daresay all you say concerning Anna Bauer's powers of cooking, of saving, of mending, and of cleaning, are quite true!" he exclaimed, with a laugh. "But believe me, Mr. Hayley, she's a wicked old woman! Of course I shall know a great deal more about her to-morrow morning. But I've already been able to gather a good deal to-day. There's been a regular nest of spies in this town, with antennae stretching out over the whole of this part of the southwest coast. Would you be surprised to learn that your cousin's good old Anna has a married daughter in the business—a daughter married to an Englishman?"

"You don't mean George Pollit?" asked James Hayley eagerly.

"Yes—that's the man's name! Why, d'you know him?"

"I should think I do! I helped to get him out of a scrape last year. He's a regular rascal."

"Aye, that he is indeed. He's acted as post office to this man Hegner. It's he, the fellow they call Alfred Head, the Dean's friend, the city councillor, who has been the master spy." Again he laughed, this time rather unkindly. "I think we've got the threads of it all in our hands by now. You see, we found this man Pollit's address among the very few papers which were discovered at that Spaniard's place near Southampton. A sharp fellow went to Pollit's shop, and the man didn't put up any fight at all. They're fools to employ that particular Cockney type. I suppose they chose him because his wife is German——"

There came a loud ring at the front door, and James Hayley jumped up. "I'd better see what that is," he said. "The woman we've got here is such a fool!"

He went out into the hall, and found Rose Blake.

"We heard about Anna just after we got to London," she said breathlessly. "A man in the train mentioned it to Jervis quite casually, while speaking of mother's wedding. So we came back at once to hear what had really happened and to see if we could do anything. Oh, James, what a dreadful thing! Of course she's innocent—it's absurd to think anything else. Where is she? Can I go and see her now, at once? She must be in a dreadful state. I do feel so miserable about her!"

"You'd better come in here," he said quietly. It was odd what a sharp little stab at the heart it gave him to see Rose looking so like herself—so like the girl he had hoped in time to make his wife. And yet so different too—so much softer, sweeter, and with a new radiance in her face.

He asked sharply, "By the way, where's your husband?"

"He's with the Robeys. I preferred to come here alone."

She followed him into the dining-room.

"This is Mr. Reynolds,—Mr. Reynolds, my cousin Mrs. Blake!" He waited uncomfortably, impatiently, while they shook hands, and then: "I'm afraid you're going to have a shock——" he exclaimed, and, suddenly softening, looked at her with a good deal of concern in his face. "There's very little doubt, Rose, that Anna Bauer is guilty."

"I'm sure she's not," said Rose stoutly. She looked across at the stranger. "You must forgive me for speaking like this," she said, "but you see old Anna was my nurse, and I really do know her very well."

As she glanced from the one grave face to the other, her own shadowed. "Is it very very serious?" she asked, with a catch in her clear voice.

"Yes, I'm afraid it is."

"Oh, James, do try and get leave for me to see her to-night—even for only a moment."

She turned to the other man; somehow she felt that she had a better chance there. "I have been in great trouble lately," she said, in a low tone, "and but for Anna Bauer I don't know how I should have got through it. That is why I feel I must go to her now in her trouble."

"We'll see what can be done," said Mr. Reynolds kindly. "It may be easier to arrange for you to see her to-night than it would be to-morrow, after she has been charged."

* * * * *

When they reached the Market Place they saw that there were a good many idlers still standing about near the steps leading up to the now closed door of the Council House.

"You had better wait down here while I go and see about it," said James Hayley quickly. He did not like the thought of Rose standing among the sort of people who were lingering, like noisome flies round a honey-pot, under the great portico.

And when he had left them standing together in the great space under the stars, Rose turned to the stranger with whom she somehow felt in closer sympathy than with her own cousin.

"What makes you think our old servant was a——" she broke off. She could not bear to use the word "spy."

"I'll tell you," he said slowly, "what has convinced me. But keep this for the present to yourself, Mrs. Blake, for I have said nothing of it to Mr. Hayley. Quite at the beginning of the War, it was arranged that all telegrams addressed to the Continent should be sent to the head telegraph office in London for examination. Now within the first ten days one hundred and four messages, sent, I should add, to a hundred and four different addresses, were worded as follows——" He waited a moment. "Are you following what I say, Mrs. Blake?"

"Yes," she said quickly. "I think I understand. You are telling me about some telegrams—a great many telegrams——"

But she was asking herself how this complicated story could be connected with Anna Bauer.

"Well, I repeat that a hundred and four telegrams were worded almost exactly alike: 'Father can come back on about 14th. Boutet is expecting him.'"

Rose looked up at him. "Yes?" she said hesitatingly. She was completely at a loss.

"Well, your old German servant, Mrs. Blake, sent one of these telegrams on Monday, August 10th. She explained that a stranger she met in the street had asked her to send it off. She was, it seems, kept under observation for a little while, after her connection with this telegram had been discovered, but in all the circumstances, the fact she was in your mother's service, and so on, she was given the benefit of the doubt."

"But—but I don't understand even now?" said Rose slowly.

"I'll explain. All these messages were from German agents in this country, who wished to tell their employers about the secret despatch of our Expeditionary Force. 'Boutet' meant Boulogne. Of course we have no clue at all as to how your old servant got the information."

Rose suddenly remembered the day when Major Guthrie had come to say good-bye. A confused feeling of horror, of pity, and of vicarious shame swept over her. For the first time in her young life she was glad of the darkness which hid her face from her companion.

The thought of seeing Anna now filled her with repugnance and shrinking pain. "I—I understand what you mean," she said slowly.

"You must remember that she is a German. She probably regards herself in the light of a heroine!"

The minutes dragged by, and it seemed to Mr. Reynolds that they had been waiting there at least half an hour, when at last he saw with relief the tall slim figure emerge through the great door of the Council House. Very deliberately James Hayley walked down the stone steps, and came towards them. When he reached the place where the other two were standing, waiting for him, he looked round as if to make sure that there was no one within earshot.

"Rose," he said huskily—and he also was consciously glad of the darkness, for he had just gone through what had been, to one of his highly civilised and fastidious temperament, a most trying ordeal—"Rose, I'm sorry to bring you bad news. Anna Bauer is dead. The poor old woman has hanged herself. As a matter of fact, it was I—I and the inspector of police—who found her. We managed to get a doctor in through one of the side entrances—but it was of no use."

Rose said no word. She stood quite still, overwhelmed, bewildered with the horror, and, to her, the pain, of the thing she had just heard.

And then, suddenly, there fell, shaft-like, athwart the still, dark air, the sound of muffled thuds, falling quickly in rhythmical sequence, on the brick-paved space which melted away into the darkness to their left.

"What's that?" exclaimed Mr. Reynolds. His nerves also were shaken by the news which he had just heard; but even as he spoke he saw that the sound which seemed so strange, so—so sinister, was caused by a tall figure only now coming out of the shadows away across the Market Place. What puzzled Mr. Reynolds was the man's very peculiar gait. He seemed, if one can use such a contradiction in terms, to be at once crawling and swinging along.

"It's my husband!"

Rose Blake raised her head. A wavering gleam of light fell on her pale, tear-stained face, and showed it suddenly as if illumined, glowing from within: "He's never been so far by himself before—I must go to him!"

She began walking swiftly—almost running—to meet that strangely slow yet leaping figure, which was becoming more and more clearly defined among the deeply shaded gas lamps which stood at wide intervals in the great space round them.

Then, all at once, they heard the eager, homing cry, "Rose?" and the answering cry, "Jervis?" and the two figures seemed to become merged till they formed one, together.



THE END