The Firefly of France Part 5

"Well, here I am," I said briefly as I struck a match.

"I've thought it over a good bit," he went on, apparently in self-justification. "I don't know how you will take it, but I'll chance it just the same. If I don't give you a hint, you don't get a square deal. That's my att.i.tude. Did you ever hear of Franz von Blenheim, Mr.

Bayne?"

"Eh?" The question seemed distinctly irrelevant--and yet where had I heard that name, not very long ago?

"The German secret-service agent. The best in the world, they say." A sort of reluctant admiration showed in Van Blarcom's face. "There isn't any one that can get him; he does what he wants, goes where he likes--the United States, England, France, Russia--and always gets away safe. You'd think he was a conjurer to read what he does sometimes.

A whole country will be looking for him, and he takes some one else's pa.s.sport, puts on a disguise, and good-by--he's gone! That's Franz von Blenheim. No; that's just an outline of him. And on pretty good authority, he's in Was.h.i.+ngton now."

Mr. Van Blarcom, I reflected, was surely coming out of his sh.e.l.l; this was quite a monologue with which he was favoring me. It was dark now; our lights were flaring. Being in a friendly port's shelter, we burned electricity to-night.

"You seem to know a whole lot about this fellow," I remarked idly in the pause.

"Yes, I do." He smiled a trifle grimly. "In fact, I once came near getting him; it would have made my fortune, too. But he slipped through my fingers at the last minute, and if I ever--You see, I'm in the secret-service myself, Mr. Bayne."

I turned to stare at him.

"The United States service?" I asked.

"Yes."

I nodded. All that had puzzled me was fairly clear in this new light.

Not at all the type of the star agents, those marvelous beings who figure so romantically in fiction and on the boards, he was yet, I fancied, a good example of the ruck of his profession, those who did the every-day detective work which in such a business must be done.

But--Franz von Blenheim? What was my a.s.sociation with the name? Then I recalled that in the extra I had read as we left harbor there had been some account of the man's activities in Mexico.

"What I wanted to say was this," Van Blarcom continued in his usual manner--the manner that I now recognized to be a subtler form of the policeman's, respectful to those he held for law-abiding, alert and watchful to detect gentry of any other kind. "This line we're traveling on now is one the spies use quite a bit. They used to go to London straight or else to Bordeaux and Paris; but the English and French got a pretty strict watch going, and now it's easier for them to slip into France through Italy, by Modane. They sail for Naples mostly, do you see? And--you won't repeat this?--it's fairly sure that when Franz von Blenheim sends his government a report of what he's done in Mexico against us, he'll send it by an agent who travels on this line and lands in Italy and then slips into Germany by way of Switzerland."

We were drifting slowly into the harbor of Gibraltar, the rock looming over us through the blackness, a gigantic mountain, a ma.s.s of tiered and serried lights. Search-lights, too, shot out like swords, focused on us, and swept us as we crept forward between dimly visible, anch.o.r.ed craft. The throbbing of our engines ceased. A launch chugged toward us, bringing the officers of the port. I watched, pleased with the scene, and rather taken with my companion's discourse. It was not unlike a dime novel of my youth.

"Do you mean you've been sent on this line to watch for one of Blenheim's agents?" I inquired.

"No. I'm sent for some work on the other side--and I'm not telling you what it is, either," he rejoined. "What I meant was that a man has to be careful, traveling on these s.h.i.+ps. They watch close. They have to.

Haven't you noticed that whenever two or three of us get to talking, a steward comes snooping round? Well, I suppose you wouldn't, it not being your business; but I have. We're watched all the time; and if we're wise, we'll mind our step. Take you, for instance. You're a good American, eh? And yet some spy might fool you with a cute story and get your help and maybe play you for a sucker on the other side. I saw that happen once. It was a nice young chap, and a pretty girl fooled him--got him into a peck of trouble. What you want to remember is that good spies never seem like spies."

If I looked as I felt just then, the search-light that swept me must have startled him. I could feel my face flus.h.i.+ng, my hands clenching as I caught his drift. I swung round.

"What's this about?" I demanded sharply. But I knew.

"Well," said the secret-service man discreetly, "I saw something pretty funny the first night out, Mr. Bayne. It was safe enough with me; I can tell a gentleman from a spy; but if an officer had seen it, the thing wouldn't have been a joke. Suppose we put it this way. There's a person on board I think I know. I haven't got the goods, I'll own, but I don't often make mistakes. My advice to you, sir, is to steer clear of strangers. And if I were you, I--"

"That'll do, thanks!" I cut him short. "I can take care of myself. I don't say your motives are bad,--you may think this is a favor,--but I call it a confounded piece of meddling, and I'll trouble you to let it end."

He looked hurt and indignant.

"Now, look here," he remonstrated, "what have I done but give you a friendly hint not to get in bad? But maybe I was too vague about it; you just listen to a few facts. I'll tell you who that young lady is and who her people are and what she wants on the other side--"

"No, you won't!" I declared. My voice sounded savage. I was recalling how she had begged the extra of me, and how it had contained a full account of Franz von Blenheim, the kaiser's man. "The young lady's name and affairs are no concern of mine. If you know anything you can keep it to yourself."

As we glared at each other like two hostile catamounts, a steward relieved the tension by running toward us down the deck.

"_Signori, un momento, per piacere_!" he called as he came. The British officers were on board, he forthwith informed us, and were demanding, in accordance with the martial law now reigning at Gibraltar, a sight of each pa.s.senger and his pa.s.sport before the s.h.i.+p should proceed.

CHAPTER VI

THUMBSCREWS

The salon of conversation, as the mirrored, gilded, and highly varnished apartment was grandiloquently termed, had been the very spot chosen for our presumably not very terrible ordeal. Things were well under way.

At the desk in the corner one officer was jotting down notes as to the clearance papers and the cargo; while at a table in the foreground sat his comrade, in a lieutenant's uniform, with the captain of the _Re d'Italia_ at his right, swart-faced and silent, and the list of the pa.s.sengers lying before the pair.

As I entered a few moments behind Van Blarcom, I perceived that the interrogation had already run a partial course. Pietro Ricci, the reservist, had, no doubt, emerged with flying colors and now stood against the wall beside the doughty agent of the Phillipson Rifles, who had apparently satisfied his inquisitor, too. Near the door a group of stewards had cl.u.s.tered to watch with interest; and as I stood waiting, the girl in furs came in.

I put myself a hypothetical query.

"If a girl," I thought, "materializes from the void, asks an incriminating favor, and vanishes, does that put one on bowing terms with her when one meets her again?" Evidently it did, for she smiled brightly and graciously and bent her ruddy head. But she was pale, I noticed critically; there was apprehension in her eyes. Wasn't it odd that the prospect of a few simple questions from an officer should disconcert her when she had possessed the courage, or the foolhardiness, to sail on this line at this time?

Really I could not deny that all I had seen of her was most suspicious.

For aught I knew, the secret-service man might be absolutely right. I had treated him outrageously. I owed him an apology, doubtless. But I still felt furious with him, and when she looked anxiously at those officers, I felt furious with them too.

Van Blarcom, his brief questioning ended, was turning from the table. As he pa.s.sed, I made a point of smiling companionably at the girl.

"Now for the rack, the cord, and the thumbscrews," I murmured to her, making way.

The lieutenant was a tall, lean, muscular young man with a shrewd tanned face in which his eyes showed oddly blue, and he half rose, civilly enough, as the girl advanced.

"Please sit down," he said with a strong English accent. "I'll have to see your pa.s.sport if you will be so good." She took it from the bag she carried, and he glanced at it perfunctorily.

"Your name is Esme Falconer?"

"Yes," she replied.

It was the name of the little Stuart princess, the daughter of Charles the First, whose quaint, coiffed, blue-gowned portrait hangs in a dark, gloomy gallery at Rome. I was subconsciously aware that I liked it despite its strangeness, the while I wondered more actively if that Paul Pry of a Van Blarcom had imparted to the s.h.i.+p's authorities the suspicions he had shared with me.

"You are an American, Miss Falconer? You were born in the States?

You are going to Italy--and then home again?" The questions came in a rea.s.suringly mechanical fas.h.i.+on; the man was doing his duty, nothing more.

"I may go also to France." Her voice was steady, but I saw that she had clenched her hands beneath the table.

I glanced at Van Blarcom, to find him listening intently, his neck thrust forward, his eyes almost protruding in his eagerness not to miss a word. But there was to be nothing more.

"That is satisfactory, Miss Falconer," announced the Englishman; with a little sigh of relief, she stood back against the wall.

"If you please," said the officer to me in another tone.

As I came forward, his eyes ran over me from head to foot. So did Captain Cecchi's; but I hardly noticed; these uniforms, these formalities, these war precautions, were like a dash of comic opera. I was not taking them seriously in the least. The Britisher gestured me toward a seat, but it seemed superfluous for so brief an interview, and I remained standing with my hands resting on a chair.

"I'll have your pa.s.sport!" There was something curt in his manner. "Ah!

And your name is--?"