“Stay here,” he whispered.
Although the marsh was apparently a dead level, there were little hummocks and rises at irregular intervals, and toward one of the former he moved stealthily.
She thought she saw the black figure of a man sitting on the one dry space in the marsh, but fancy plays strange tricks on a dark and starless night, and her heart had beaten wildly a dozen times during that agonizing crawl at imaginary figures contesting her way of escape.
The man on the hummock was no figment of imagination, however; he sat cross-legged like a tailor, a big sheep-skin rug about his shoulders, a long-barrelled revolver on his knee.
The duty of outpost in this direction had fallen to Gregorio, the sour-faced man who had aroused Festini’s anger earlier during the day.
The “Red Hand” had established a system of sentries to preclude any surprises, and from where he sat Gregorio could keep a clear lookout upon the river approaches to the house.
He sat wide awake and alert, his fingers touching the trigger of his revolver. All this Tillizini guessed rather than saw. He knew that any act of violence, unless it was unexpected and deadly, would produce an alarm. The bold way was the only means possible. He rose and straightened himself, and went squelching forward across the oozy ground.
Gregorio heard him and sprang to his feet.
“Who’s there?” he asked, softly.
“It is I, Brother,” said Tillizini in Italian.
He yawned.
“Is anything wrong?” asked Gregorio, peering forward in the darkness to distinguish the newcomer.
Tillizini’s answer was to yawn again loudly and prodigiously, as one who had been recently wakened from his proper sleep and had reluctantly obeyed the summons.
His yawn extended for the half a dozen paces that separated him from the sentry.
Gregorio had no suspicion. His finger mechanically went from the trigger to the butt of the revolver, which now hung loosely at his side.
“What d—?” he began again.
Then like a bolt from a crossbow Tillizini launched himself at the man’s throat. His left hand gripped the revolver, he wrenched it from the man’s hand. In that motion he had him by the throat, and the two men were rolling on the ground.
The sentry’s yell for help was strangled in his throat.
Marjorie, a dozen yards away, kneeling in the cold marsh with clasped hands and parted lips, heard the sound of the struggle and heard, too, a stifled cry, and then a silence.
A few seconds later Tillizini came back to her.
“You may get up,” he said softly, “there is no need for any further concealment.”
He gave her his arm and assisted the half-fainting girl the remainder of the journey.
At the water’s edge he found the little Canadian canoe that had carried him across the river, and helped her into it. He followed, and, seizing his paddle, with two strokes he sent the little craft swiftly into the stream.
XVIII. —THE WOMAN
FESTINI STARED DUMBFOUNDED AT the window. He saw the dangling rope, and knew in what deadly peril he stood.
The girl had been rescued from the outside; he saw the bars laid on the bed, and the little heap of twine and cord beneath the window told its own story.
With a curse of rage he ran from the room.
In a moment he had the house roused.
In the rooms below a dozen trusted members of the “Red Hand” were sleeping; another dozen were out watching the roads.
“They cannot have gone far,” said Festini. “On your life see that they are captured.”
He himself went with a man in the direction of the river, the most likely way of escape. He knew every position his scouts occupied, and he half walked and half ran through the clogging marsh to where Gregorio had been posted. He was the most reliable of all the men who were on duty.
He came to the foot of the little hummock, and called softly.
Gregorio made no reply.
Festini ran up the gentle slope. He flashed his lamp over a prostrate form.
“Turn him over,” he said calmly.
He looked down at the dead man’s face, and a weary foreboding of defeat oppressed him. Without a word he turned and walked slowly back to the house.
Every step he took said, “Tillizini! Tillizini! Tillizini!”
This was the end. He knew it. His mind was less occupied with thoughts of escape than with a riot of plans to make his exit memorable.
The Premier had refused.
He did not require the arrival of a messenger to tell him that. Tillizini had located the laboratory, that fact was evident. How, Festini could not guess, but the last card of the “Red Hand” was not played. He had still the germs of this terrible disease. They themselves would be the first victims and leave behind their dreadful heritage to humanity.
He wondered why the professor had not struck at him. Surely at this, the eleventh hour, he felt no compunction? Festini dismissed the possibility with a smile. He knew the breed too well to imagine that pity or any tender sentiment could influence the anthropologist.
Then he remembered the girl. She explained all. It would be Tillizini’s first care to place her in safety.
He left word that the guard should be narrowed to a smaller circle about the house. He went to his room, searched his pockets and found letters which he had no desire should fall into the hands of the enemy. He burnt them, and sat down to the table to write a letter. He was in the midst of this when Il Bue came in.
“Our men have found a woman,” he said.
“A woman!” Festini jumped to his feet, his eyes kindling.
“It is not your lady, Signor,” said the man, and the other’s heart sank like a plummet.
“Where did you find her? What was she doing?”
“Making her way to the house,” said Il Bue.
“Bring her here.”
In a few minutes the man returned and ushered a woman into the room.
Festini, dapper and handsome in his well-fitting greatcoat, his feet covered with the mud of the marsh, stood, his hand resting on the bare table, an electric reading-lamp the only illumination the room possessed.
It was innocent of furniture; save for the dull glow of the fire in the broken hearth, it was cheerless. The damp had stripped the walls of its paper, there was an indefinable air of decay in the room.
The woman standing in the doorway took all this in as she advanced slowly towards him, her eyes fixed on his face.
“Vera!” he gasped, and stared.
She nodded.
“Let your man go away,” she said.
At a sign from Festini the big man withdrew, closing the door behind him.
“Why have you come? How did you get here? How did you know I was here?” He fired the questions at her.
She made no reply, taking off her long fur coat deliberately.
“I have come,” she said at last, “to be with you at the great moment.”
His brows knit. “What do you mean?” he said.
“You are doomed, Festini. I discovered it last night. Sir Ralph had confidential information from the Government, ordering him to be present at the end.”
“‘The end’?” he repeated. “I don’t understand. When is the end to be?”
“To-day,” she answered steadily.
“But you, you,” he said, “why have you come?”
She did not speak for a moment, her eyes were still fixed on his.
“I have served you well,” she said slowly, “let me serve you to the end.”
“But there may be danger for you.”
“There will be danger,” she said.
“I cannot allow this; go back to your friends. Leave me to fight this out alone.”
She shook her head with a little sm
ile.
“We fight this out together, Festini. I have come to stay. They have traced you.”
“Tillizini?” he asked, without resentment. She nodded.
“He saw your car in town, suspected you, fastened a band to the wheel. That band bore a particular mark. I did not know this until last night. The police all over the country have been examining the roads for signs of that car. Tillizini did the rest.”
“I see. What is happening?”
“The place is surrounded,” she said.
“Surrounded?” he did not raise his voice. He was not, apparently, alarmed. He put the question eagerly; it seemed to her that his interest in the method which had been employed to trap him was greater than any dread of the consequence.
“How do you mean?”
She led him to the window of the room. It was on the opposite side of the house to that which Marjorie had been confined, and commanded an uninterrupted view of the country for six or seven miles. The overnight mists had cleared away and it was a calm, still night. The low hills of the horizon could be easily distinguished.
He saw a sprinkling of lights that were familiar to him. They were the lights of a hamlet, two miles distant, and at intervals a flickering gleam told him where the road lay.
They watched in silence. Then, of a sudden, they saw a new light. It was whiter than the others; it flickered three times, and was dark. Flickered again with irregular intervals, and kept winking and winking, as though it were a candle blown by the wind.
“I understand,” he said, “that is a signal lamp. Are there soldiers?”
She nodded.
“There are a dozen regiments on this side alone,” she said.
“Infantry?” he asked.
“Yes,” she replied, “and horse soldiers, and I saw guns coming through Witham.”
“And on the river side?” he asked.
“I think they have some torpedo boats. They came up from Chatham last night.”
He walked round to the other side of the house, but could see nothing. He went back to his room and found a pair of night glasses, and searched the river with a long and steady scrutiny.
Then he distinguished the low-lying hulls of the destroyers, anchored in midstream, their lights out—no sign of life.
He nodded slowly.
“I understand,” he said, for the second time. “Come back with me.”
He put his hand on her shoulder affectionately, and she thrilled at the touch.
She had not asked about Marjorie, but now the thought occurred to her. He divined it before she spoke.
“The girl is gone,” he said. “Tillizini released her less than half an hour ago; he also released some pigeons,” he said, with a quiet smile.
He told her what had happened.
“I think it is best,” she said, gravely.
There was no resentment in her heart against his treachery, nor did he feel it necessary to explain his act, or express his contrition.
Those two had much in common—as he had always realized. They took things for granted.
“I suppose,” he said, after he had sat at the table, his head in his hands, deep in thought, “there is no question of surrender?”
She shook her head.
“They will accept no surrender,” she said. “They have come to exterminate you. They dare not take you for fear of your disseminating the plague.”
“They are very wise,” he said; “but yet I think….”
He bit his knuckles thoughtfully.
“Perhaps,” he began again, then shrugged his shoulders.
He walked with a firm step to the door and called in Il Bue. In a few words he made the position clear.
“Get the rifles out of the cellar,” he said, “and serve out ammunition to the men. We are going to make a fight for it, but I tell you there is no chance of escape. The least we can do is to leave behind a little souvenir of our earnestness and bona fides.”
When the man had gone, he turned to Vera. “Dear,” he said, gently, “you must go back.”
“I have come to stay,” she said. “I want no better end than this.”
He looked at her thoughtfully, tenderly. Then he took her face in both his hands, and kissed her on the lips.
“As you will,” he said; “it will strengthen me as nothing else could strengthen me, to have you by me.”
He kissed her again, and her head fell on his shoulder, her arms stole about his neck.
She was happy. Whatever other joys life had held for her, they were as nothing to this.
An hour before dawn Festini left the woman who had braved so much for him, and went the rounds. A new sentry had been posted in the place of Gregorio. Festini was returning and crossing the room which had served as a common room and office for the band, when the tinkle of a bell held him. He turned back.
He had had the house connected by telephone, but an hour before the arrival of Tillizini, though he did not know this, the wires had been cut. He walked to the instrument and took down the receiver. Was it possible that by some chance they had overlooked the wire, and that he could communicate with the agents of the “Red Hand” in London? The thought had not occurred to him before, but at the first word which reached him his lips curled in an ironic smile.
“Is that you, Festini?” said the voice.
“Yes,” replied the Count, “my friend Tillizini, I think?”
“It is I,” said the voice calmly. “Have you nothing to say to me?”
Festini bent his head. For a long time he remained silent.
“I have nothing to say,” he said. “You have won and I have lost; that is too obvious to need any labouring.”
“Nothing else?” asked the voice.
Festini thought he detected a note of sadness.
“Nothing else,” he replied firmly. “What can I say? Except that I lose with a good heart. After all, I have so frequently laid down my creed in regard to such trivial matters as life and death, that even now, confronting the supreme crisis of my life, I can find no more comforting thought than that creed offers.”
He heard Tillizini’s voice break into a little laugh; a low, amused, yet despairing little laugh.
“How like you, Festini!” he said. “How like you!”
“What else?” asked the Count. “You did not expect me to recant or to offer you terms? You would have despised me as much as I should despise you if you proffered me a way of escape. I suppose,” he asked, “you are speaking from some place of security?”
“I am speaking from one of the destroyers,” said the other. “We have tapped your wire—”
“Which is cut, I presume,” said Festini, coolly.
“Which is cut,” repeated the other. “What of Vera?” asked Tillizini suddenly.
“I would rather not discuss that,” said Festini, a little haughtily.
“She is with you?”
“Yes, she is here,” replied Festini, after a little hesitation. “In justice to myself, I have tried to persuade her to go back. I can conduct her outside these lines without any difficulty.”
“And she refuses?”
“Yes, she refuses,” said Festini. “And I think it is better so.”
He stood with his elbow against the wall, his feet crossed; one who was not acquainted with the circumstances might have thought he was conducting a very ordinary and commonplace conversation, which involved more than ordinary thought, but that had not more than ordinary consequences.
There was another long silence, which Festini broke.
“In all your philosophy, Tillizini,” he said, “and I concede you a vast and interesting knowledge of human affairs, has it ever occurred to you how wonderful a thing is a woman? Put out of your mind the passions and the follies of life, and come down to the essentials and the utilitarian pa
rt of existence. Is there anything so devoted, so self-effacing, so purely noble? I think,” Tillizini heard him laugh—a bright, happy, joyous laugh—“I think that all the bother and stress and scheming of my life, all the crime, as you would call it, all the endeavour and disappointment was worth this: here is my reward, probably more tangible and beautiful than the ten millions we ask from your Government—by the way, I suppose they have adopted you now?” he added, mockingly.
“It is worth much,” said Tillizini.
“It is worth all,” said Festini, and his voice vibrated; “without this philosophy is futile, life has been wasted.”
There was another long pause.
“You have nothing else to say?” asked Tillizini.
“Nothing,” said Festini. “Nothing more than I have said. “Is not that enough?” he asked. “What a glutton you are, Tillizini,” he bantered him. “What do you desire—a tearful repentance? An admission of my manifold sins and wickednesses? A plea for mercy? King’s Evidence?” He laughed again. “You never expected that, my friend?”
“No, I never expected that,” said Tillizini’s voice. “I don’t know exactly what I did expect. I think that is all.”
“I will say au revoir,” said Festini.
“Farewell,” said the other’s voice suddenly.
There was such a long wait now that Festini thought the other must have hung up his receiver.
He was on the point of following his example, when Tillizini’s voice spoke again.
“And bon voyage!” it said.
Festini laughed, and the receivers clicked together.
XIX. —THE WORKING OF THE ACT
THE DAWN CAME UP greyly over Essex.
Sir Ralph Morte-Mannery, wrapped in furs, dozing in his car, was awakened by the arrival of a pannikin of coffee.
A young officer, great-coated to his ears, held the carriage door open, and smilingly offered it to the other.
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