The Revellers Part 62

Martin had to put forth a physical effort to regain self-control. He plunged at once into the story of those early years. There was little to tell with regard to Mrs. Saumarez and Angle. "Fritz Bauer" was the chief personage, and he was now well on his way to a prison camp in England.

Monsieur d.u.c.h.esne was amused by the map episode in its latest phase.

"And you were so blind that you took no action?" he commented dryly.

"No. We saw, but were invincibly confident. My father sent the map to the Intelligence Department, with which he was connected until 1912, when he was given a command in the North. He and I believe now that someone in Whitehall overlooked the connection between Mrs. Saumarez and an admitted spy. She had left England, and there was so much to do when war broke out."

"Ah! If only those people in London had written us!"

"Is the affair really so bad?"

"Bad! This wretched creature showed an ingenuity that was devilish. She deceived her own daughter. That is perfectly clear. The girl married a French officer after the Battle of the Marne, and, as we have every reason to believe, thought she had persuaded her mother to break off relations with her German friends. We know now that the baroness, left to her own devices, adopted a method of conveying information to the Boches which almost defied detection. Owing to her knowledge of the British army she was able to chat with your men on a plane of intimacy which no ordinary woman could command. She found out where certain brigades were stationed and what regiments composed them. She heard to what extent battalions were decimated. She knew what types of guns were in use and what improvements were coming along in caliber and range. She was told when men were suddenly recalled from leave, and where they were going. Need I say what deductions the German Staff could make from such facts?"

"But how on earth could she convey the information in time to be of value?"

"Quite easily. There is one weak spot on our frontier--south of the German line. She wrote to an agent in Pontarlier, and this man transmitted her notes across the Swiss frontier. The rest was simple.

She was caught by fate, not by us. Years ago she employed a woman from Tinchebrai as a nurse----"

"Franoise!" broke in Martin.

"Exactly--Franoise Dupont. Well, Madame Dupont died in 1913. But she had spoken of her former mistress to a nephew, and this man, a cripple, is now a Paris postman. He is a sharp-witted peasant, and, as he grew in experience, was promoted gradually to more important districts. Just a week ago he took on this very street, and when he saw the name recalled her aunt's statements about Mrs. Saumarez. He informed the Sret at once. Even then she gave us some trouble. Her letters were printed, not written, and she could post them in out-of-the-way places. However, we trapped her within forty-eight hours. Have you a battery of four 9.2's hidden in a wood three hundred meters north-west of Pont Ballot?"

Martin was so flabbergasted that he stammered.

"That--is the sort of thing--we don't discuss--anywhere," he said.

"Naturally. It happens to be also the sort of thing which Mrs. Saumarez drew out of some too-talkative lieutenant of artillery. Luckily, the fact has not crossed the border. We have the lady's notepaper and her secret signs, so are taking the liberty to supply the Boches with intelligence more useful to us."

"Then you haven't grabbed the Pontarlier man?"

"Not yet. We give him ten days. He has six left. When his time is up, the Germans will have discovered that the wire has been tapped."

Martin forced the next question.

"What of Madame de Saint-Ivoy?"

"Her case is under consideration. She is working for the Croix Rouge.

That is why she was in Amiens. Her husband has been recalled from Verdun. He, by the way, is devoted to her, and she professes to hate all Germans. Thus far her record is clean."

Martin was glad to get out into the night air, though he had a strange notion that the quietude of the darkened Paris streets was unreal--that the only reality lay yonder where the sh.e.l.ls crashed and men burrowed like moles in the earth. His chauffeur saluted.

"Glad to see you, sir," said the man. "Those blighters wanted to run me in."

"No. It's all right. The police are doing good work. Take me to the hotel. I'll follow your example and go to bed."

Martin's voice was weary. He was grateful to Providence that he had been spared the ordeal which faced him when he entered the city. But the strain was heavier than he counted on, and he craved rest, even from tumultuous memories. Before retiring, however, he wrote to Elsie--guardedly, of course--but in sufficient detail that she should understand.

Next morning, making an early start, he guided the car up the Rue Blanche, as the north road could be reached by a slight detour. He saw the Impa.s.se Fautet, and glanced at the drawn blinds of Numro 2 bis. In one of those rooms, he supposed, Angle was lying. He had resolved not to seek her out. When the war was over, and he and his wife visited Paris, they could inquire for her. Was she wholly innocent? He hoped so.

Somehow, he could not picture her as a spy. She was a disturbing influence, but her nature was not mean. At any rate, her mother's death would scare her effectually.

It was a fine morning, clear, and not too cold. His spirits rose as the car sped along a good road, after the suburban traffic was left behind.

The day's news was cheering. Verdun was safe, the Armentires "push" was an admitted gain, and the United States had reached the breaking point with Germany. Thank G.o.d, all would yet be well, and humanity would arise, blood-stained but triumphant, from the rack of torment on which it had been stretched by Teuton oppression!

"Hit her up!" he said when the car had pa.s.sed through Crueil, and the next cordon was twenty miles ahead. The chauffeur stepped on the gas, and the pleasant panorama of France flew by like a land glimpsed in dreams.

Every day in far-off Elmsdale Elsie would walk to the White House, or John and Martha would visit the vicarage. If there was no letter, some crumb of comfort could be drawn from its absence. Each morning, in both households, the first haunted glance was at the casualty lists in the newspapers. But none ever spoke of that, and Elsie knew what she never told the old couple--that the thing really to be dreaded was a long white envelope from the War Office, with "O.H.M.S." stamped across it, for the relatives of fallen officers are warned before the last sad item is printed.

Elsie lived at the vicarage. The Elms was too roomy for herself and her baby boy, another Martin Bolland--such were the names given him at the christening font. So it came to pa.s.s that she and the vicar, accompanied by a nurse wheeling a perambulator, came to the White House with Martin's letter. And, heinous as were Mrs. Saumarez's faults, unforgivable though her crime, they grieved for her, since her memory in the village had been, for the most part, one of a gracious and dignified woman.

Martha wiped her spectacles after reading the letter. The word "hotel"

had a comforting sound.

"It must ha' bin nice for t' lad te find hisself in a decent bed for a night," she said.

Then Elsie's eyes filled with tears.

"I only wish I had known he was there," she murmured.

"Why, honey?"

"Because, G.o.d help me, on one night, at least, I could have fallen asleep with the consciousness that he was safe!"

She averted her face, and her slight, graceful body shook with an uncontrollable emotion. The vicar was so taken aback by this unlooked-for distress on Elsie's part that his lips quivered and he dared not speak. But John Bolland's huge hand rested lightly on the young wife's shoulder.

"Dinnat fret, la.s.s," he said. "I feel it i' me bones that Martin will come back te us. England needs such men, the whole wulld needs 'em, an'

the Lord, in His goodness, will see to it that they're spared.

Sometimes, when things are blackest, I liken mesen unto Job; for Job was a farmer an' bred stock, an' he was afflicted more than most. An'

then I remember that the Lord blessed the latter end of Job, who died old and full of days; yet I shall die a broken man if Martin is taken. O Lord, my G.o.d, in Thee do I put my trust!"

THE END