‘And to think that no one told me you were here!’ he exclaimed.
There was a moment’s strained silence. Then a cold wave of doubt, a premonition of evil, suddenly chilled him. In the background he had caught a glimpse of a peculiar smile upon his host’s lips, and again there was the warning in Suzanne’s eyes.
‘I have been down in the neighbourhood for several days,’ she told him. ‘It is rather a coincidence, is it not?’
Anthony Silburn, who had remained all the time within earshot, strolled over towards them.
‘So you young people have discovered one another,’ he remarked. ‘The gong at last!’ he added, with a little burst of enthusiasm, ‘Lavendale, as it is your first evening, will you take Lydia in? Miss de Freyne, I am going to give myself the happiness to-night’
He held out his arm and led Suzanne away. Lavendale loitered behind with his cousin.
‘Lydia,’ he whispered, as they passed into the great dining-room, ‘how long has Miss de Freyne been here?’
‘In this house since the day before yesterday,’ she answered. ‘She was staying before at the Hookam Arms, down in the village.’
‘Say, is there anything wrong about this place?’ he asked. ‘I don’t know what it is, but I feel as though I’d come into some sort of a theatrical performance. I suppose you are all alive, aren’t you? That really is Barracombe, the traveller, and old Steinletter?’
His tone had been one of half banter, but her reply made him suddenly serious.
‘I don’t know, Ambrose,’ she confessed nervously. ‘Sometimes I feel like that myself. Don’t talk too loudly.’
Lavendale became a watcher through the progress of the wonderfully served meal. The servants, in a way, were all of the usual type, obviously well-trained and attentive. The dining-room at Hookam had been built out by a favourite of one of the Georges almost in the form of a pagoda, and under the high, domed roof, listening to the somewhat stereotyped conversation of those strangely-assorted guests, Lavendale became slowly conscious of a new sensation, the sensation of restriction. It was hard to believe that outside lay the park; that in the morning he would be wandering about, free to come and go as he pleased; that in the garage was his own car, and a couple of miles away across the park, the road to London. He tried to talk lightly to Lydia of their relatives and friends in America, but he found her distrait and depressed. Dinner was no sooner over, however, than he made a bold attempt to dissipate some of his presentiments.
‘Can I use the telephone, Silburn?’ he asked.
‘With pleasure, my dear boy,’ was the unhesitating reply. ‘You’ll find an instrument this way.’
They were all crossing the hall. The men and the women were to smoke and take their coffee together. Silburn led his young guest into a small waiting-room, comfortably furnished. On a table in the middle of the apartment was a telephone instrument and a book of subscribers. Lavendale took up the receiver.
‘Can you get through to London?’ he asked.
‘Sorry, sir, the line is engaged,’ the operator regretted.
‘Will it be free presently?’
‘I’ll ring up as soon as we can get through, What number?’
Lavendale gave the number of his own rooms and rejoined the little group in the hall. He found Barracombe on one side of Suzanne and his host on the other, but he drew a chair as near to her as he could.
‘Get through all right?’ Silburn inquired.
‘I didn’t get through anywhere,’ Lavendale replied. ‘The line was engaged.’
‘We’ve a lot of soldiers down here,’ Mr. Silburn explained. ‘They are always commandeering the line for military purposes.’
‘You seem to get plenty of messages,’ Lavendale remarked, as a servant for the third or fourth time brought a slip of folded paper to his master.
Silburn smiled.
‘I have a private line,’ he announced. ‘Sorry I can’t ask you to use it, but I have promised the military here that no one else save myself shall communicate by means of it. Are you a bridger, Lavendale?’
Lavendale excused himself, but gained nothing, for Suzanne was almost forced into the game by her host. He wandered about the hall, glancing up at the pictures. Then he went back to the telephone room.
‘Line’s still engaged, sir,’ was the laconic reply to his inquiry.
Lavendale strolled back. He wandered uneasily about the hall for a time and then approached the great front door.
‘Think I’ll have a look at the night,’ he remarked, with his hand upon the bolt.
The servant who was standing by, intervened.
‘I beg your pardon, sir,’ he said, ‘we are not allowed to open the front door after dusk. The military have complained so much about the lights.’
‘Show me another way out from the back, then?’ Lavendale persisted.
‘No one is allowed to leave the house at all until morning,’ the man told him.
Lavendale turned slowly round towards the bridge-table.
‘Silburn,’ he asked, ‘are we prisoners?’
‘My dear fellow,’ his host replied, dealing out a hand, ‘it is not I who am to blame, but the English military authorities. Look how closely-curtained we are everywhere. You will find double blinds in every room in the house. Yet even that has not been enough to satisfy them. I have had to promise that no members of my household shall even open a door after dark. “Defence of the Realm Act” they call it, I think.’
Lavendale turned a little discontentedly away. It was difficult to protest further, but he was not in the least satisfied that Silburn’s explanation was a genuine one. He talked for a few moments to several of the other guests and then drew a low chair up close to Suzanne. It was evident to him, watching her closely, that she was playing under great tension. More than ever he was convinced that something was wrong. With an excuse about fetching some cigarettes of a particular brand, he made up to his room and searched in his dressing-case. Within a few minutes he found himself face to face with a very grim reality. The revolver which he carried always with him had been removed!
* * * * *
Lavendale, with small hopes of any success, called once more at the telephone room before he rejoined the little party. The reply was almost brusque.
‘Line blocked. No chance of getting through to London to-night.’
‘Can I ring up Norwich?’ Lavendale asked, with a sudden inspiration.
‘Line to Norwich engaged,’ was the reply.
‘Is there anywhere I can speak to?’ Lavendale persisted. ‘Is there any number upon the exchange I can be connected with?’
There was no reply. He rang again and tapped the wire. There was still silence. Then he replaced the receiver upon the instrument and stood for a moment in the little room, thinking. There was no doubt but that he had simply followed Suzanne into a trap. He rapidly reviewed in his memory the guests.
Lady Marsham, it was well known, had been educated in Berlin and had German relatives. Barracombe wore an order conferred upon him by the Kaiser. Steinletter belonged to the greatest German-American banking firm in the world. Kindersley’s daughter had married an Austrian prince. Suzanne had succeeded, then, in this last quest of hers, a success which, although inadvertently, he might be said to share. They had in all probability discovered the headquarters of the great Teutonic espionage system in England. How was it going to profit them? His mind rapidly reviewed the situation. They were prisoners—of that he was certain—yet to what extent? How far was Silburn prepared to go? It was, after all, rather an opera-bouffe sort of trap. If they were caught, there was still the question of silencing them. Then he thought of that abstracted revolver, and a queer little wave of apprehension, not for himself but for Suzanne, suddenly chilled him.
He made his way back into the hall. The rubber was just over and he leaned boldly over the chair in which Suzanne was seated.
‘Come and talk to me for a few minutes,’ he begged.
She hesitate
d. Mr. Silburn, who was playing idly with the cards, glanced at the clock and back again.
‘At half-past ten,’ he announced, ‘in ten minutes, that is to say, we all meet in the cloister room. It is a queer custom, perhaps but my guests have been kind in conforming to it’
‘Prayers?’ Lavendale inquired.
‘Not a bad name for our few minutes’ serious diversion,’ Mr. Silburn remarked dryly.
Lavendale led Suzanne towards a couch at the further end of the hall. He laid his hand upon hers and found it as cold as ice.
‘Suzanne,’ he said quietly, ‘are we in trap?’
‘I believe we are,’ she answered. ‘It’s entirely my fault. I have never been so foolish before in my life. I have always had people behind me who have known my whereabouts and who could come to the rescue, if necessary. This time I told no one. I was selfish, wanted the whole credit. But tell me, yourself—how you came here?’
‘It was just the merest chance,’ he replied. ‘Silburn had asked me to shoot here, and then you half told me where you were, over the telephone. I think that the rest must have been instinct. You haven’t told me yet, though how you found your way here?’
‘I was down at the village,’ she said, ‘—followed Mr. Steinletter here. I had a special permit, a military pass. I was supposed to be related to one of the officers quartered at the inn. I made a few inquiries about this place, which increased my suspicions. Then I met Mrs. Silburn outside the lodge gates. She was with the Colonel in command here and they stopped to speak to the officer I was with. She was delightful and asked me to call. I was only too glad to have a chance of obtaining the entrée to the house. They made me send for my clothes, to spend the night. That was two days ago. Since then I have tried in vain to get away.’
‘Let me understand what you mean by trying to get away?’ he begged. ‘Surely you could ask for a car to take you to the station?’
‘I have done so three times,’ she replied, ‘always with the same result. They assure me that every car in the garage has been requisitioned by the Government. I go to that dummy telephone—the exchange is in the house, you know—and of course nothing happens. If I start out to walk, I am shadowed by one of the men-servants, and, as you know, it is two miles before one reaches the road.’
‘Well, there isn’t much they can do with us, dear,’ Lavendale assured her coolly. ‘Tell me now, have you made any actual discovery?’
‘There is a private telegraph and telephone exchange here in the place,’ she said, ‘and Mr. Silburn gets messages every few hours. There are people always coming and going, all people of the same class. There is not the slightest doubt that this is the place for which we have searched. Ambrose, if only we could stretch out the net now, at this moment, we could make a great haul.’
‘Instead of which,’ he remarked grimly, ‘we seem to be in the meshes ourselves!’
‘Tell me,’ she begged, ‘does any one know that you were coming here?’
‘I told Elwell—Major Elwell,’ Lavendale replied, with a suddenly inspired flash of memory. ‘I told him why I was coming here, too.’
She clutched at his arm. Then suddenly she looked down. ‘They are watching us,’ she whispered. ‘Ambrose, that may save us yet, if only he comes in time!’
‘In time for what?’ Lavendale answered cheerfully. ‘I can’t look upon this as very serious, dear. Why, Lydia Silburn is my own cousin.’
‘She is our only hope,’ Suzanne declared. ‘As for the rest, I have grown to suspect every one of them.’
‘What does this half-past ten business mean?’ he asked.
She shook her head.
‘At half-past ten they all go into what they call the cloister room,’ she said. ‘As yet I have not been invited there, but I have an idea that to-night we are both to be present. Yes, here comes Mr. Silburn.’
‘Now, you young people,’ their host observed pleasantly, ‘we are going to let you into a few secrets. This way.’
They both rose. The others were crossing the hall towards the eastern corridor. Mr. Silburn drew Suzanne’s arm through his. As they walked his face became more serious. Lavendale had a wild idea, for a moment, of snatching Suzanne away, opening the front door by force and clamouring for freedom. Then he remembered the two miles to the lodge gate and shrugged his shoulders.
‘It’s rather a queer apartment into which I am going to take you,’ Mr. Silburn explained, ‘a crazy sort of place, really, but to us Americans this sort of room, I must confess, appeals some. Allow me, Miss de Freyne.’
He motioned them both to precede him. They found themselves in what seemed to be, from the bareness of the walls and the shape of the windows, a small chapel, built on different levels. The larger part of the room, which was below, was wrapped in complete gloom. The smaller part was unfurnished save for a long table, around which was ranged a number of chairs. One by one, the guests seated themselves. Lavendale and Suzanne followed their example as indifferently as possible. Mr. Silburn sat at the head of the table, with Lady Marsham on his right and Mr. Steinletter opposite. There was a certain significance to Lavendale in the fact that his cousin was not present. A somewhat gloomy light was thrown upon the faces of the little company from a heavily-shaded oil lamp suspended by a brass chain from the roof, and, looking around at their mingled expressions, Lavendale for the first time felt a sense of real danger, a thrill of something like fear, not for his own sake but for Suzanne’s. He groped for her hand beneath the table and held the icy-cold fingers tightly.
‘Courage, dear,’ he murmured under his breath.
She smiled at him plaintively, and with the fear still lurking in her dark eyes. Then Mr. Silburn leaned forward in his place and tapped upon the table with his forefinger. His voice in the hollow spaces sounded strangely.
‘My friends,’ he began, ‘few words are best. We live, as you all know, from day to day in danger. No such association as ours could continue to exist without hourly peril. So far we have triumphed over the secret service of every country. So far we have carried on our great, work without hindrance or suspicion. Those days I am forced to tell you, are passing. The hour of our supreme peril is close at hand. There are two people here present who have guessed our secret. One of them, this young lady upon my left, Miss de Freyne, is here for no other purpose than to spy upon us.’
Suzanne seemed to have regained her courage. In the moment of trial she was stronger than in the indeterminate hours of suspense. She turned her head towards Silburn.
‘What are you all but spies,’ she demanded, ‘spies of the lowest and most dastardly class? You are here under the shelter of a friendly country to do her all the harm you can, to stab in the dark, to take advantage of your nationality—your American nationality—to pose as an Anglo-Saxon. You abuse the country which shelters you. You call me a spy! Compared with you, all of you, I am the most innocent person who ever breathed.’
A strange impassivity seemed to be reflected from all the faces of the little gathering. Only in Mr. Kindersley’s face there trembled for a moment some shadow of sympathy.
‘You have heard the young lady,’ Mr. Silburn continued calmly. ‘We come now to her companion. Mr. Lavendale, although an American by birth, has embraced the cause of this country; doubtless,’ he added, with a little satirical bow, ‘for reasons upon which I will not enlarge. He has become the ally of mademoiselle. We secured his presence here, I admit, by a ruse. My friends, these two people’s knowledge of our secret is fatal to our safety.’
There was a moment’s silence. Then Lady Marsham leaned back in her chair.
‘I propose,’ she said firmly, ‘that the same steps be taken with these two people as heretofore.’
There was a little murmur of approval. Only Mr. Kindersley sighed.
‘One must remember,’ he observed reflectively, ‘that it is not only for our own safety—it is for the preservation of a great cause.’
Lavendale took a cigarette from a box in the centre o
f the table, and lit it.
‘I don’t know what this penalty is that you propose to inflict upon us,’ he remarked, ‘but I should just like to remind you that you are living in a very highly civilized country, where people do not disappear.’
‘At Hookam,’ Mr. Silburn said calmly, ‘people have disappeared for the last nine hundred years. Below there, the secret cloisters reach almost to the sea. The cleverest and most astute criminologists who ever breathed might track you to these doors, Lavendale, and search until their hair was grey before they discovered a single trace of you. My servants are mine, body and soul. For my wife’s sake, Lavendale—’
‘Look here,’ Lavendale interrupted, ‘I am not sure whether you are in earnest or not, but whatever you might be thinking about for me, you couldn’t be such brutes—’
He stopped short. There was a sudden light in his face. From outside the door they could clearly hear the sound of an angry voice. A little ripple of terrified excitement flashed around the table. Mr. Silburn’s teeth came together with a little click. There was a curious tremor of emotion in his tone.
‘Lock the door,’ he ordered Barracombe.
It was too late. In a long travelling ulster, with his cap still in his hand, Major Elwell stood already upon the threshold. Behind him, still protesting, was Lydia Silburn.
‘Elwell!’ Lavendale shouted. ‘Thank God!’
Major Elwell gazed around at them all through his eye-glass and looked back at the woman by his side. He seemed bewildered.
‘What in the name of all that’s holy is this?’ he demanded.
There was a moment’s silence. Lavendale drew a long breath. His arm was stretched out accusingly towards his host. Suddenly the words failed upon his lips. He looked around him, speechless, amazed, It was as though the whole world had gone mad. Mr. Barracombe, from the opposite side of the table, had removed his spectacles from his nose and was wiping the tears from his eyes. Lady Marsham was leaning on one side, doubled up. There was only one common sound everywhere—laughter, irresistible, compelling, unmistakable. Mr. Silburn, taking off his pince-nez and struggling for composure, rose to his feet.
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