Who Goes There!

"Karen," he said in a low voice.

The girl opened her eyes. They had that starry freshness that one sees in the eyes of waking children. For a moment her confused gaze met his without expression, then a hot flush stained her face and she sat up hurriedly. Down tumbled the thick, burnished locks and her hands flew instinctively to twist them up.

"I didn't realize that I had been asleep. Please, will you turn your back" – her glance fell on the table – "I shall be ready in a moment – Kervyn."

"Had I not better give you the place to yourself?"

"Yes, please."

"I'll do a sentry-go in the corridor," he said. "Open the door when you're quite ready."

So he went out and walked up and down until the stateroom door opened and her low voice summoned him.

"I can't eat," she said.

"Do you feel the sea?"

"No" – she smiled faintly – "but the excitement of the day – the anxiety – "

"We'll have some tea, anyway," he said.

They ate a little after all, and the hot and rather vile tea stimulated her. Presently he set tray and table outside in the corridor and came slowly back to where she had gathered herself in a corner of the sofa.

"The sea is rather rough," he said. "You seem to be a good sailor."

"Yes, I am. My father had a yacht and my mother and I always went when he cruised."

This slightest glimpse of personal history – the first she had vouchsafed – the first slight lifting of the curtain which hung between them, aroused his latent curiosity.

What else lay behind that delicate, opaque veil which covered the nineteen years of her? What had been the childhood, the earlier life of this young girl whom he had found living alone with a maid and a single servant at an obscure heath outside of London?

Gently born, gently bred young girls of aristocratic precedents, don't do that sort of thing. Even if they desire to try it, they are not permitted. Also they don't go on the stage, as a rule.

Neither the sign manual, the sign visible of the theatre, nor yet that occult indefinable something characteristic of the footlights appeared to taint her personality.

Talented as she was undoubtedly, cultured and gently nurtured, the sum total of all her experience, her schooling, her development, and her art had resulted only in a charming harmony, not a personality aggressively accented in any single particular. Any drawing-room in any country might have contained this young girl. Homes which possess drawing-rooms breed the self-possession, the serenity, the soft voice, the winsome candour and directness of such girls as she.

She was curled up in the corner of the sofa where he had placed behind her the two pillows from the bed, and her winning blue eyes rested every few minutes upon this young man whom she had known only a few hours and whom she already, in her heart and in her mind, was calling a friend.

She had never had any among young men – never even among older men had she experienced the quiet security, the untroubled certainty of such a friendship as had begun now – as had suddenly stepped into her life, new, yet strangely familiar – a friendship that seemed instantly fully developed and satisfactory.

There appeared to be no room for doubt about it, no occasion for waiting, no uncertainty in her mind, no inclination and no thought of the lesser conventionalities which must strew elaborately the path of first acquaintance with the old, old-fashioned garlands – those prim, stiff blossoms of discretion, of propriety, of self-conscious concession to formula and tradition.

No; when her eyes first fell on him her mind and heart seemed to recognize what neither had ever before beheld – a friend. And from that moment the girl had accepted the matter as settled, as far as she herself was concerned. And she had lost very little time in acquainting herself with his views upon the subject.

That he had responded to the friendship she had so naïvely offered did not surprise her. She seemed to have expected it – perhaps in the peril of the moments when they were nearing London and doubt and suspicion in her mind concerning the contents of her satchel were becoming an agony to her as they grew more definite – perhaps even then the sudden and deep sense of gratitude for his response had made courage a new necessity and had armoured her against panic – for friendship's sake.

All she realized in that moment was that this friendship, so sudden, so vital, was already so strong in her, so real, that even in the terror of that instant she thought of the danger to him, and asked him to let her go on alone.

Perhaps they both were thinking of these things – she, curled up in her corner, looking thoughtfully at him; he, knees crossed, gazing restlessly from object to object in the unsteady stateroom, but his eyes always reverting to her.

Then the duet of silence ended for a while. He said: "You must not suppose that I am not keenly alive to the kindness, the fearless generosity you have shown me all through this affair. What you suffered is lodged forever in my mind – and in my heart."

"What you have done for me is in my – heart," she said in her sweetly modulated voice.

"I have done very little – "

"You would not leave me!"

"My own life was forfeit if I did – "

"No! You did not reason that way! Besides, had I managed to get through alone, you should have had your life back again to do with as you pleased. No; you did not reason that way. You stood by a friend in peril – at your own peril."

She drew a deep, tremulous breath. "More than that," she said, "you stood by me when you almost believed I had lied to you – lied shamefully."

"I had my plans ready – in that event," he said, forcing a laugh.

"You did doubt me?"

"Yes."

She bent her head, looked thoughtfully at her hands, which clasped one knee, then, lifting her eyes: "I forgive you," she said gravely.

He flushed: "I did not know you – did not realize – what you are – "

"You were slower than I."

"What?"

"I trusted you– from the first."

He was silent; she watched him for a few moments, then:

"When you concluded that I had lied to you, what plans had you ready?"

"I had rather not say – "

"Please do."

He bit his lip: "I had decided to take your satchel from you."

"Against my wishes?" she asked, amazed.

"Yes."

There was no resentment, only a childish surprise: "Why?"

"I told you that I am an enemy to your country."

"Yes, I know – "

"I told you that I would not knowingly permit you to take out of England anything which might be detrimental to England's interests. And I made up my mind that if you had deceived me – and although I stood by you – because you are only a young girl – and were in danger from those who make no allowance for youth and sex – nevertheless, as soon as you were in personal safety, I meant to take from you whatever you had concealed from me and which might have been of service to England's enemies."

"Would you have done that?"

"Yes, if you had been untruthful to me."

She bent her head, thoughtfully; then looking up at him: "Yes; that would have been just… But I have not been untruthful."

His perplexed and slightly careworn eyes met hers.

"I can't doubt you," he said. "I know you have been truthful. But – what is in that satchel? Forgive me, I must ask you. Because there is evidently enough there to terrify you at the thought of British eyes inspecting it."

"Kervyn – can't you believe me when I tell you that I don't know what is in that satchel?"

"I do believe you. But tell me what you are afraid it might be."

"I can't – truly I can't tell you. Don't you understand? Don't you realize that I must have promised?"

"Promised?"

"Yes – not to unlock or open the satchel. I did promise."

"To whom did you make that promise?" And, as she did not reply: "Was the promise made to anybody I ever met?"

She looked at him in a distressed way, but his face darkened and his determination increased.

"Did you make that promise to a German? An officer? Did you make it to General von Reiter?"

"Yes."

"I see. And there are papers in that satchel!"

"Yes."

"Where did you get them?"

"From – Mr. Grätz."

"You were accustomed to receive papers from Mr. Grätz?"

"Sometimes."

"At certain intervals?"

"I don't know. Whenever Mr. Grätz telephoned, Anna, my maid, went to London and usually brought back the – the plans."

"Plans!"

"Yes. I understood that they were plans of a new automobile which was being designed by the Edmeston Agency for their Berlin branch. Mr. Grätz mentioned it as the Bauer-Schroeder car."

"To whom were these plans to go, ultimately?"

"I sent them to New York."

"To whom?"

"To Schimmel and Company, Broadway."

"Have you any idea where Schimmel and Company sent those plans?"

"Yes. I never thought much about it then, but today I realized that sooner or later the plans were sent to General von Reiter – in Berlin."

"You are sure?"

"Yes. I saw them when I was there last April. He said that those were the plans which I had sent to Schimmel and Company."

"You saw the plans?"

"Yes."

"Were they plans of an automobile?"

"I – thought so then. They were on very thin paper. I supposed them to be drawings of detached machinery in sections. They looked to me like fragments of something."

"And now – in the light of what happened today – what do you believe those drawings represented?"

"I have no idea – really I haven't. Only – " She hesitated, troubled, twisting her fingers on her knees.

"Only – " he prompted her.

She said, with a tremulous intake of breath: "I think I had better tell you, Kervyn. This is what frightened me – what the experience of today seemed to suddenly make plain to me – I mean your coming to Westheath, Mr. Grätz telephoning about obeying you, and informing me of the arrest of my maid – these things, and the war, and what I have read about German spies in England – all this flashed up in my mind at the same time when you turned from the telephone and asked me such terrible questions.

"It made clear to me, or seemed to, something else that I had not understood at the time – " She hesitated, her gaze concentrated as though in an effort to recollect and visualize some scene —

"It was last April, in Berlin… General Baron von Reiter said something to me as I was waiting for his car to take me to the station – I was departing for England again – and he said – he said – "

"Yes, Karen?"

"He said something about war – the possibility of it. And he said that in case war ever came while I was in England, and if, when it came, I had in my possession any automobile plans from the Edmeston Agency – from Mr. Grätz – that I was to bring them with me to Germany – not to show them to anybody, not to send them by mail, but to bring them back and deliver them to him."

"Yes, Karen."

"I promised… He made me promise again. He was very serious. He said that on my obedience in this matter might depend the lives of many people. I had no idea what he meant by that – until today… And what I fear has happened is that Anna, who went yesterday to London because Mr. Grätz telephoned, was arrested while in possession of papers delivered to her by Mr. Grätz… And that these papers were not what I had always supposed. And that is why I was suddenly afraid – afraid – Oh, Kervyn! – I cannot describe the fear that leaped up and seized me when you asked me those dreadful questions! Suddenly everything, every detail in the entire matter seemed to grow clear and terrible to me… I – I went into my dressing-room – and steadied myself against the wall – feeling faint for a moment.

"Then I took from my dressing-table the papers which I had from Anna's last visit to Mr. Grätz. They had remained there in the drawer because I had been told not to mail them, and no word had come for me to go back to Berlin. So I had them on my hands. But until you came I gave them no thought – merely conscious that I had promised to take them back with me.

"But – in that terrible moment when I stood there leaning against the wall, I remembered what was said to me about the lives of many people depending upon my keeping my promise. It was a hideous thing to remember at such a time… But I could not break my word – for the sake of these imperilled people also – could I, Kervyn?.. So I took the papers and locked them in my satchel. And afterward I – I asked you to leave – " Her voice quivered; she bent her head and sat twisting her slim fingers on her lap.

"That is all I know," she faltered – "all I know about it. I have tried to be true to my word, and loyal to – you."

Her emotion was reflected in his own face; he bent forward, laid his hand over her restless fingers.

"Karen," he said, "you are the pluckiest, straightest, whitest woman I ever knew."

"I'm only – honest," she whispered… "And I want you to think me so."

"I do! – Karen, dearest, sincerest, most fearless of women!"

"Do you believe me – that?"

"Karen, I – "

A sharp knocking at the door cut him short. They looked at each other, startled. At the same moment he realized that the ship had stopped.

"Could it be the stewardess?" she whispered.

"I don't know."

He rose, picked up the satchel and went to the open port.

"If a British guard-ship has stopped us to search us, we can't have this thing found," he said.

She stared at him in frightened silence.

"They may have found those men we tied up and left in your house at Westheath!" he whispered. "A wireless would set a score of warships ready to intercept us. If they board us they must not find that satchel."

The sharp, loud rapping came again.

Guild went to the open port, pushed the satchel through it, leaned out himself. As he did so something brushed his head, and, looking up, he saw a rope's end dangling there.

In an instant he had tied it to the handle of the satchel, stepped back, screwed the heavy glass fast, and then, motioning Karen to fling herself on the bed, he went to the door, opened it, and stood yawning in the face of a ship's officer.

"Don't wake my wife," he said drowsily. "What is the trouble?"

"The trouble is," replied the officer coldly, "that a British cruiser has signalled us to stop, and has asked whether an American named Guild is aboard."