Bernard Treves's Boots: A Novel of the Secret Service

BERNARD TREVES'S BOOTS

A NOVEL OF THE SECRET SERVICE

BY

LAURENCE CLARKE

AUTHOR OF "A PRINCE OF INDIA," ETC.

HODDER AND STOUGHTON LIMITED
LONDON
1920

DEDICATION

To Sir Emsley Carr, who suggested
that I should write this book, and
to whom I am much indebted for
valuable first-hand incidents which
figure in these pages.

January, 1920.

CHAPTER I

"Are you sure your name is Manton?"

Captain Gilbert looked keenly across the table. The light in the little room was not good, and the expression on the Captain's face was one of intense interest and bewilderment.

"Quite sure, sir—John Manton," answered the man standing at the further side of the table.

Manton was one of a number of recruits who had that day presented themselves at the Ryde Recruiting Office—a tall, well-poised man of twenty-six, dark-haired, blue-eyed, firm-lipped and vigorous-looking, despite the fact that his countenance was somewhat pale. He wore a well-brushed blue serge suit, noticeably the worse for wear. His bowler hat, too, had seen long service.

Captain Gilbert, still looking at him, drew forth a sheet of paper, and took up his pen.

"John Manton," he wrote, then his eyes lifted, and he looked once more and with a peculiar expression into the tall young recruit's face. For a moment he paused. "Manton," he said, "I should like to see you privately after the office closes."

The young man steadily returned his gaze.

"Very good, sir," he said, with an air of docility. "At what time shall I come?"

"At eight o'clock," returned Gilbert. "Wait for me outside." His eyes followed the other as he turned and left the building, but the moment the door had closed Captain Gilbert plunged once again into his work.

"Next," he called to the line of men seated on the far side of the room; and the man at the end of the line rose and advanced towards the table.

Manton in the meantime paced the streets until eight o'clock, then turned his steps towards the recruiting office.

"I wonder what he wants," thought the young man.

Possibly Gilbert guessed he had been in the army before, and wished to question him upon that point.

"Whatever he wants," thought Manton, somewhat wearily, "does not much matter. If he refuses to take me, and manages to find out everything, I can enlist somewhere else."

As the clock struck eight Captain Gilbert, with an air of haste, closed his desk, left the office and came striding along the street.

"Ah!" exclaimed the Captain, catching sight of Manton, "we'll come up here to the left; it's quieter."

He led the way as he spoke towards a deserted side street. It was already almost dark, and the dimmed street lamps had been lit. They had proceeded some distance together in silence, when Gilbert halted suddenly, and laid his hand on Manton's shoulder.

"Treves," he said, "so you had the grit to do it, after all?"

Manton turned and stared in wonderment.

"Do what, sir?" But he suddenly felt his fingers seized in a cordial grip.

"Gad," went on Gilbert, "that'll make a man of you—eh?"

"I'm afraid I don't understand a word of what you are saying, sir!"

"You don't understand a word! Why, of course you don't! I like you for it—and I'll be frank, I thought I never could like you. Somehow," he went on, looking into Manton's face, "you are the same and yet different, but I'd know you anywhere, despite this shabby old suit and your battered bowler. You knew me, too, when you came into the office."

Manton, still bewildered beyond measure, shook his head slowly.

"I have never seen you in my life before, sir!"

"No, of course not," laughed Gilbert, who was jovial and good-natured. He slipped his arm through Manton's. "Come along now, and we'll talk about it!" Something in the situation of the moment seemed to exhilarate him. "So you've decided to make good after all? Well, all I can say is—I'm delighted. For your own sake, for the old Colonel's sake, for everybody's sake!"

Again he paused and looked into his companion's face.

"I'll admit, Treves, I didn't think you had it in you. I thought——"

Manton freed his arm from the other's grasp.

"I am sorry, sir," he said, "but you are evidently making a grievous mistake. My name is Manton——"

"I don't care what your name is," retorted Gilbert, irritated a little by what he believed to be the other's unnecessary reserve. "You can get rid of your name and call yourself Manton or Jones or Smith or Robinson or anything you like for all I care! But I know you to be Bernard Treves, and——"

But this time a note of firmness appeared in Manton's voice.

"My name is not Treves, sir!"

Gilbert shrugged his shoulders.

"You needn't keep up that note with me," he said. "I'm delighted to find you have the grit to try to make some sort of reparation."

Manton moistened his lips.

"I still don't understand you," he said slowly. "But all I can do is to assure you I am not Treves. If you know some one who resembles me and whose name is Treves, perhaps you would look at me again. To my knowledge, sir, I have never met you in my life before."

As he spoke he took off his hat and turned his face fully towards the Captain.

For a moment there was silence.

"In this half-darkness," said Gilbert, "you look absolutely like Bernard Treves to me. You looked like him in the office. I could see that you had been in the army the minute you stood at my table." He paused, and for the first time a slight doubt crept over him. "The only thing that seems changed to me," he went on, "is your manner. Come, now, Treves, you know me well enough to confide in me; that's why I asked you to speak to me out of the office. Anything you care to say will go no further. I will accept it as unofficial, and if you intend to make good I'm prepared to be a good friend to you. But in the first place admit that you are Treves; it will make matters much easier."

For some moments Manton remained silent. Gilbert believed that at last he was about to admit his identity.

"I will tell you my history for the past three months, sir," said the young man.

"I shall respect your confidence," Gilbert answered.

"I am sorry to disappoint you, sir, but my name is really Manton, and, as you guessed when I came into the office, I have been in the army before. I was at Scarthoe Head, Battery A. I was a sergeant, and, being a public school man, was made book-keeper to the acting adjutant." He fell into silence again, and went on after a pause. "Something went wrong in regard to the delivery of stores to the fort. There was a hundred and forty-five pounds deficit in the accounts. I was held responsible, sir."

There was an intensity and a genuineness in the ring of the stranger's voice that gripped Gilbert's attention. He listened with the closest attention, and as Manton narrated in detail his life during the past six months, Gilbert's convictions faded and gradually vanished. It was impossible that the man could have invented the story, a story so easy of verification. It was some time, however, before he let Manton perceive his change of view; then he drew in a deep breath.

"Gad!" he exclaimed, "then you are not Treves after all!"

"No, sir."

"Go on with your story."

Manton obediently resumed his discourse, bringing his history down to that afternoon and his visit to the recruiting office.

"It's amazing!" exclaimed Gilbert. "I could have sworn—— But, after all," he went on, as if communing with himself, "there's something in your eyes that's different."

"My one ambition in life," concluded Manton, "is to repay that hundred and forty-five pounds. I wanted to do it for the honour of the battery. But when three months had passed and I found I couldn't manage it, I decided to enlist again."

Gilbert, when his first surprise had departed, began to feel an unusual interest in the young man, and as the two strolled back towards the Captain's hotel, he dropped his slight tone of authority, but was quite uncommunicative as to the mysterious and evidently delinquent Treves.

"If you could come to the office in the morning," he said at parting, "I think we can get round any difficulties there may be in regard to your re-enlistment. Do you mind if I make inquiries about you, merely as a matter of form?"

"Not in the least, sir."

A few minutes later Captain Gilbert put through a trunk call to Scarthoe Fort. The commandant of Battery A, who was known to Gilbert by name, happened to be on duty. Gilbert explained that a man giving the name of John Manton, lately of his battery, had that day attempted to re-enlist at Ryde.

"I'd like all the information you can give me about him," Gilbert asked.

"One of the best," came back the prompt answer from Scarthoe Fort. "Manton was a favourite here, and quite unofficially, although matters got a bit muddled, and the case went against him, none of us believed him guilty. A first-rate gunner and white clear through. I shall be glad to know that he's back in the army again."

Gilbert rang off, and all that night the amazing resemblance between his friend Treves and Manton occupied his thoughts. As a result of this preoccupation, and some time during the small hours, a startling idea came to him, first as a nebulous, vague possibility, then as an entirely practicable and simple solution of a difficulty. The thought was this: why should not the singular resemblance between Treves and Manton be turned to good account? Manton had said he wanted more than anything in the world to repay the money due to the battery. Treves, on his part, wanted—— Gilbert broke off here, but his thoughts continued to pursue the new, startling idea that had come to him.

"Gad!" he exclaimed, as the morning broke, "I believe the plan would achieve miracles. If Treves got away under another name he might rouse himself. He might become a man again." ...

In the morning Manton came into the office looking bright, vigorous and full of vitality. Gilbert rose and examined him. Yes, there was a difference, a slight, almost undetectable difference. Something in the eyes—nothing more than that.

"Are you convinced now, sir?" asked the young man, smiling and standing at attention.

"I am quite convinced, Manton, and I have a proposition to make to you."

He took his visitor into an inner room, and, seated there, he unfolded a little of the plan that had come to him during the watches of the night.

"Manton," he said, "I must get authority before I can accept you as a recruit, but in the meantime," he went on, "I have been thinking of our talk of last night. I like you for trying to earn that hundred and forty-five pounds, and they gave a good account of you at Scarthoe."

"I don't know who had the money, sir, but I'd do anything in the world to pay it back for the honour of the battery."

Captain Gilbert paused, then took a letter from the pocket of his tunic. The envelope was addressed: "Lieutenant Bernard Treves, 15, Sade Road, Lymington."

Gilbert had written this letter earlier that morning. With a certain air of formality he handed it to John Manton and instructed him to deliver it to Lieutenant Treves that evening after dark.

"I have a plan in regard to you, Manton, that I think will work out to your entire satisfaction. I won't tell you what it is until you have seen my friend Treves. But when Treves has read this letter he may, or may not, think it worth his while to pay you the money you need. If he doesn't, please come back to me to-morrow, and we will go on with the matter of your re-enlistment."

"In case Lieutenant Treves decides favourably, sir, what must I do to earn the money?"

"You will learn that from him," answered the Captain. "Go to-night, as unobtrusively as you can," he said. He rose, held out his hand and gripped Manton's fingers cordially in his.

CHAPTER II

That evening, when John Manton stepped off the boat at Lymington, a heavy summer rain was falling. In the town itself the streets appeared to be deserted, and it was some minutes before he encountered a workman hurrying home, with upturned collar. He inquired the way to Sade Road, and five minutes later came upon a row of small workmen's cottages with little gardens in front. Counting the houses until he came to number fifteen, he entered the garden gate, and, striking a match, discovered that he had halted at the right address. A woman came to the door in answer to his knock, and stood in the dark, looking out at him, opening the door only a few cautious inches.

"What do you want?"

Manton, with collar turned up and hat drawn over his brows, answered that he brought a letter for Lieutenant Treves.

"You'd better go up to him, then," said the woman, drawing open the door. "It's the front room at the top of the stairs."

There was a candle at the stair-head, and Manton passed her, ascended the single flight of steps and halted at the door. The smallness of the house, the shabbiness of the woman who had admitted him, depressed his spirits. He liked Captain Gilbert, with his sleek and buoyant confidence. This plan of his suddenly struck Manton as the wildest piece of quixotism.

He lifted his hand and knocked quietly upon the door. A voice from within instantly invited him to enter. A moment later he stood in a small lamp-lit bedroom. The room was littered with trunks, suit-cases, boxes and a general confusion of other articles. The close air reeked with the smell of Turkish cigarettes, and at a table near the window, with a lamp before him, sat a young man, busily occupied scribbling figures on a sheet of paper.

Bernard Treves, whose back was towards the door, wore mufti, and Manton, in the moment of entering, noticed that he was well dressed and that his hair was smooth and dark.

"If that's my supper, Mrs. Dodge," said Treves, "put it on the bed." He spoke without looking round, took a drink of whisky from a glass at his side, then went on with his figures.

Manton, standing near the door, coughed to attract his attention.

"Hallo!" exclaimed Treves, and turned swiftly. In an instant at sight of Manton his expression changed. He sprang to his feet in what appeared to be a state of terror, and stood staring at his visitor without uttering a word. With brows drawn together, he passed a hand over his eyes, then he turned, and, lifting his lamp from the table, held it aloft.

"Who are you?" he demanded savagely, "and what the devil do you want?"

John Manton took the letter from his pocket.

"I have come with a letter from your friend, Captain Gilbert," he answered quietly.

With his eyes still fixed on Manton, Treves lowered the lamp and replaced it on the table.

"A letter," he repeated, "from Gilbert? Give it to me." He held out his hand. "God!" he exclaimed, as he snatched the envelope, "coming in like that, you gave me a devil of a start. I thought that I was looking into my own face! Come nearer; come into the light."

Manton advanced farther into the room.

"I suppose these figures I've been poring over," went on Treves, "have made my eyes a bit wrong, but I've never seen anything like it." His nerve was gradually returning, and his astonishment was turning to amusement at the intensity of the resemblance between them.

"Look into the mirror there," he said. "Don't you think the likeness is amazing?"

Manton looked into the mirror, and then again at the young man, who had replaced the lamp on the table, and was tearing open Gilbert's envelope. As he scrutinised Treves's face and figure he, too, was astonished. He began to understand now something of Captain Gilbert's strange behaviour of the day before. But Manton had never been occupied over much with his own appearance; he took himself for granted, and after the first momentary flash of curiosity he thought no more of the resemblance. Besides, there was, after all, a difference. Treves wore a black moustache; his complexion was flushed, whereas Manton, as a result of gas poisoning at the Front, was still pale. Treves's eyes, moreover, were evasive and furtive in expression. Nevertheless, it would have been difficult to tell the two men apart.

"Sit down, Sergeant," Treves said. "Help yourself to a drink." He waved towards the whisky bottle and a siphon on the table. Upon Manton refusing the drink, Treves pushed towards him a box of cigarettes. Then read Captain Gilbert's missive through a second and a third time, and seemed to be considering it deeply with brows drawn together. "Do you know what is in this letter?" he questioned at last.

"No."

"Captain Gilbert told you nothing?"

"Nothing whatever, beyond saying that you might be willing to make some sort of offer."

"Well, he makes an extraordinary suggestion," went on Treves, leaning back in his chair. "It's all brought about by your resemblance to me." His eyes sought the letter again. "He tells me you are a public school boy and all that, and gives me here an outline of your little trouble at Scarthoe Head. Well, for certain reasons known to himself and to me, he thinks you may be able to make yourself useful to me. That is," he added, "if you are willing to undertake a somewhat delicate piece of work."

Manton looked inquiringly at Treves; he was not sure of the young man.

"Perhaps you will let me know the nature of the work."

"The fact of the matter is, Manton," Treves resumed, dropping his voice confidentially, "I am in want of help. Owing to certain peculiar circumstances, I want somebody to make use of my name and my personality for a short time."

He took up his whisky and Manton observed an almost imperceptible tremor of his fingers as they closed about the glass.

"Now, your extraordinary likeness to me, and the fact that you are in need of cash—well, do you see the point?"

"I'm afraid not," remarked Manton quietly.

Treves made a gesture of impatience.

"It's pretty plain, I should think. You need cash, I need some one to step into my shoes; somebody who must take the name of Bernard Treves. Now, do you understand?"

"Your suggestion is that I should pass myself off as you?"

"That's it exactly!"

His visitor stared at him in amazement.

"But I don't see," said he, "any advantage in that for either of us."

"Perhaps not. How much money are you in need of?" Treves inquired pointedly.

"Nearly one hundred and fifty pounds."

Treves whistled.

"Lot of money," he said.

John Manton agreed with him, and for a space there was silence. John's hopes that had risen fell to zero.

Then Treves poured himself another glass of whisky, and drank it down. He wiped his lips with a silk handkerchief from his breast pocket.

"All right," he said at length; "carry out my wishes and you shall have it."

"Then you are serious?"

"I was never more serious in my life. You are to take everything that is mine, and in return you shall have the money you need."

A vague doubt stirred in Manton's mind; then he thought of Gilbert. The Captain was most obviously a man of honour.

"If I accept, can I still enlist?"

"Enlist by all means."

"It seems to me to be an easy way of earning the money, but what about your rank in the army?"

Treves flashed a suspicious glance at him; there was a questioning expression in his eyes.

"If you accept my offer we can go into details later, and as regards my rank, I—I happen to be leaving the army."

"In that case," said Manton, "I am much obliged to you; the money will be a great boon to me."

"You accept?"

"Like a bird!" smiled Manton. "But there is one thing I would like to ask."

"Well?"

"The terms are generous enough," he said, "but what is to happen to my name; is that to disappear too?"

Bernard Treves lit a cigarette, and looked at him with the expression of one from whose mind has been lifted a heavy burden. He made an expressive gesture with his hand.

"For the time being," he answered, "the name of Sergeant Manton will vanish into thin air."

CHAPTER III

Six days later Manton found himself once more in Lymington, alone in Treves's lodgings, in the crowded room, littered with that young man's desirable possessions. Those possessions were, for the time being, his own; even Treves's name was his, for, carrying out his bargain, Treves had vanished from the scene. Again Manton fell to wondering why the other had been so anxious to dispossess himself of name and identity. There was nothing criminal in the matter, he was assured of that, otherwise Captain Gilbert would not have had a hand in it. The idea that the Lieutenant had suffered from shell-shock, and desired to hide himself from all who knew him for a time until he had recovered, came to Manton, and struck him as feasible. He had himself known quite a number of peculiar manifestations of this particularly mysterious disease. In any case, whatever Treves's reasons, it mattered little to Manton at that moment.

"I have simply got to make myself act as Treves, and to do the best I can in Treves's shoes for the time being."

A few days earlier the young man had written him a letter in which he had said: "Use everything of mine as if it were your own. It is only fair if you get the kicks meant for me, you should get the ha'pence as well. I have few relations, and none of them are likely to bother you. When we shall meet again I do not know, but, in the meantime, au revoir. I wonder what you will feel like this time next year?"

Manton, in the quiet of the room, took some considerable time trying to realise his new circumstances, and gradually the sense of strangeness and mystery that enveloped him began to fade away. In all his life Manton had been used to the buffets and hard knocks of Fate; he began to wonder what his immediate future in Treves's shoes held for him. Both parents having died in India, he had been educated from a small fund in the hands of a guardian, first in Germany, and later at Rugby. After that he spent two years at Bonn. His resources were at an end, and the guardian, feeling that he had done his duty, left him to fend for himself. A period of hard going had followed, until the war broke out, whereupon he precipitately enlisted in the first hundred thousand. If he had waited a little longer a commission would have been thrust upon him as it was upon all public school men in any way eligible. Treves's past, Manton surmised, had not been of that nature, for despite the poorness of the young man's lodgings, all his belongings were of the costliest order. And all these belongings were now his, Manton's, to do with as he liked. The idea came to him to write to Captain Gilbert, thanking him for the amicable intervention that had wrought this change in his circumstances. He sat down, drew forth a sheet of Treves's notepaper, and had taken up a pen when a knock came at the door, and the landlady appeared.

"You'd like some tea, sir, wouldn't you?"

"Yes, thank you," answered the young man.

"I've dusted the room every day, sir, since you've been away," said the landlady.

"It's exactly as I left it," responded he truthfully. She was looking at him across the width of the little room, but there was no doubt or curiosity in her gaze; she had accepted him instantly on his arrival that day as Bernard Treves, and even now, looking at him full and closely, no thought of deception entered her mind. "I wonder what she'd think," he pondered inwardly, "if Treves were to come in behind her now."

But no such dramatic event occurred; the landlady brought up his tea, and later furnished him with a bottle of whisky, a siphon of soda, and a glass.

Next morning, when she cleared these things away, she was surprised to find that no more than one peg of whisky had been taken.

"Wasn't you feeling well, sir, last night?" she asked.

"Quite," answered Manton, who was busy with an excellent breakfast.

She went away wondering. Until that day she had never known Mr. Treves to drink less than half a bottle of whisky in the course of an evening.

During the morning John went for a stroll in the town, and on his return the landlady handed him a letter which had arrived by the post in his absence. Manton took it up to his room, and noticed that the handwriting was sprawling and shaky. Twice he read the superscription, "Bernard Treves, Esq., 15, Sade Road, Lymington." He hesitated several minutes before breaking open the envelope. He felt as though he were stepping beyond the pale of decency in opening the letter addressed to another man, then he recalled Treves's admonition, "Everything that is mine is yours." He tore open the envelope. Within was a single sheet of paper headed, "Heatherfield Grange, Freshwater." Manton quickly scanned the contents.

"Dear Bernard,—They tell me you are in hiding, as well you may be, but if you have a spark of decency left in you, you will come here to me at the first opportunity. There are things I have to say to you.

"You have dishonoured and disgraced the family name, but I have still a faint hope that you will retrieve yourself at the last moment.—Your affectionate father,

"R.T."

For many minutes John Manton sat staring at this letter, staring from the stiff, sprawling writing out into the little street and back again.

All that day he pondered upon the missive he had received from Treves's father. He wondered what it was Treves had done, and why he should have been skulking in hiding at that address? A sense of uneasiness swept over him, and was succeeded by a violent curiosity. For the first time he felt vividly interested in Treves and Treves's history, and at the same time doubtful and uneasy. Unpleasant and difficult situations presented themselves to his mind.

Next morning, as a result of a decision he had taken, he was on his way to Freshwater by midday. At three o'clock in the afternoon he walked through the town and out to Heatherfield Grange, which he discovered to be a large, many-chimneyed, many-windowed Elizabethan mansion, standing in a spacious, heavily-wooded park. The mansion itself was approached by a long carriage drive, too much overshadowed by trees, and when Manton reached the lodge gates a bent old man, who was sweeping leaves from the path, hurried forward and drew open the gate for him to enter. The man drew himself up and saluted.

"Good day, Master Bernard."

Manton nodded and smiled. As he walked along the drive towards the grand old house, his pulse-beat quickened. After all, had he a right to act the part; was it honourable and fair that he should thus step into another man's shoes? The under-gardener had taken him for Bernard Treves; the whole world evidently was prepared to believe in the deception. But there was Treves's father to face. Naturally Treves's father would detect an impostor in a moment. But was he an impostor; was it not probable that the elder Treves also was aware of what had occurred?

The broad front door of the mansion was opened to him. A white-haired butler, with pouches under his eyes, and a general air of world-weariness, looked at him from the threshold, and slowly lifted his eyes in surprise.

"Good afternoon, sir," said the butler. He took Manton's hat and stick, and deferentially stood aside. "Your father will indeed be pleased and surprised to see you, sir," he said, as he closed the door. His manner was studiously civil, and yet somehow Manton felt a lack of cordiality towards himself in the butler's tone.

"Possibly he's a privileged servant," he thought, "and does not like Mr. Bernard."

"Where is—is the Colonel?" he asked after a moment's hesitation.

"In the library, sir, as usual. Will you go up at once?"

"Yes." He wondered consumedly where the Colonel's room might be, and experienced a pleasant thrill of impending event. He attempted a little harmless finesse to discover the way. "Perhaps you will go first and tell him I am here."

"Very good, sir." The butler looked at him meditatively for a moment, then went to a side-table and took up a silver salver containing three letters and a telegram. Manton seized the moment to survey the heavy splendour of the dark antique furniture, the wide spaces of the hall and the richness of the rugs scattered over the polished floor. High above the mantelshelf hung a portrait in oils of a personage in eighteenth century costume. Descending to the middle of the hall was a wide oak balustraded staircase, carpeted in scarlet, a single flight ascended to the first floor, then branched to right and left.

"Your letters, sir." The butler was standing at Manton's elbow with the silver salver extended. John took up the three letters and the telegram. A renewed and intensified disinclination to pry into Bernard Treves's affairs seized him. He was about to put letters and telegram into his pocket when the butler spoke in his firm, polite voice. There was a note of reproach in his tone, however, "The telegram came two days ago, sir."

"Oh!" exclaimed Manton. And under the bleak eye of the butler he disinterred it from his pocket, tore open the envelope, and read the contents. The telegram had been dispatched from Camden Town, and ran:

"Wire when you can come. Of course I will forgive you.—ELAINE."

He was conscious, as he read the words, that the butler's eyes were fixed steadily upon him.

Then the old servant turned and preceded him towards the broad staircase. They ascended to the first landing, and here the butler wheeled to the right and halted before a double green baize door. The elderly man knocked, paused for a moment, then pushed open the door, and stepped into a room lined with books, a spacious, luxuriously furnished apartment, with two mullioned windows overlooking the park. John, following him, saw him cross to a deep, high-backed arm-chair near the hearth.

"Mr. Bernard's here, sir," he announced, standing before this chair.

There was a movement in the chair, then a tall, soldierly, grey-haired man revealed himself, leaning on a stick, and looked across at Manton. He looked at him with a cold, inimical gaze, and until the butler had closed the door and departed, did not utter a word, Then he spoke:

"So you've come, you dog, have you!" The almost savage intensity of dislike and contempt in his tone struck the young man like a blow in the face.

"I got your letter——" he began.

"Oh, yes, I found out where you were. Well," he went on, harshly, "there is no need for us to waste compliments on each other. We will settle the business that is to be settled at once."

He moved shakily towards a desk in the middle of the room, using his stick as a support. Manton, seeing his frailty, hurried forward to assist him, but the old man drew himself erect, raised his stick, and flashed a look at him of utter repulsion.

"Do not dare to lay a hand on me," he said violently.

When he reached his desk he seated himself in a big swivel-chair, drew out a drawer, and flung certain documents on the table. From under his eyebrows he glowered at Manton.

"Sit down," he commanded.

John moved to the table side and occupied a chair near his elbow. Among a pile of documents Colonel Treves searched for a certain typewritten sheet. He found it at length, a long, yellow piece of official paper.

"Listen to this," he commanded. From the table beside him he took up a square reading glass, and deciphered the typewritten paper with faded grey eyes. "This," he vouchsafed, raising his eyes, "is from my old, good friend, General Whiston." He paused a moment, and John seized the opportunity to intervene, "May I say a word, sir?"

"No," thundered Treves. Then he read aloud in a voice vibrant with emotion:

"My dear Treves,—Your boy had every chance.... It was the merest fluke in the world that he escaped as easily as he did. He is not of the right stuff, and my condolences are with you. I wish I could suggest something, but I cannot. I know, old friend, what a tragedy this must be to you——"

The Colonel stopped abruptly, flung down his reading glass, and looked into Manton's face. "Well?" he demanded. "What do you think of that?"

Manton said nothing.

"Can you read between the lines?" questioned the elder man.

"It suggests," said John, after a moment's hesitation, "that the punishment meted out to—to me, was a light one."

"I see you are as evasive as ever," retorted Colonel Treves. He turned and smote the open letter twice with the back of his hand. "In this letter, General Whiston," he measured his words slowly, "tells me, by implication, that you are guilty of cowardice in the face of the enemy—you, a Treves!" Then in a moment the anger that had vivified him seemed to fade; he appeared to Manton to become suddenly old, bowed, and pitiful, the expression on his face was one of anguish. The dishonour that had befallen his name was no less than torture to him, but once again he recovered himself, and gripped the arms of his chair with both white-knuckled hands.

"You know the just punishment for cowardice in the face of the enemy?" He was leaning towards Manton now; his mouth twitched, but there was a blaze in the old grey eyes.

"I know it, sir," said John quietly.

The Colonel drew in his breath slowly and sat erect.

"Ah, you know. And, having escaped that punishment, and knowing yourself to be guilty, you skulk in hiding! You fail to seize the one chance that is open to you to redeem the past!"

"What is the chance?" inquired Manton, forgetting himself for a moment.

The Colonel stared at him in astonishment.

"The chance of re-enlistment, of course. Instead of doing that," he went on, "you write me a whining letter, saying you can't stand the trenches, you can't face it, your nerves—bah! nerves, my God, and you a Treves!" He hurled these words forth with a contempt and loathing that was like a blow in the face. But Manton noticed that he was breathing heavily. The emotional intensity of his feelings was wearing on him, and the younger man felt a sudden tenderness towards this old, stricken, bitterly disappointed father.

"Is it too late now, sir?" he asked quietly.

"Eh?"

"Is it too late for me to make good?"

"Talk!" exclaimed the Colonel, in bitter derision; "always talk with you. You don't mean that any more than you meant any of the lying promises you made to me in the past. You have always been a liar! A liar, a spendthrift, and a fool—and now, added to all these things, to your gambling and your profligacy, you've finished as a——"

He paused, and Manton ventured:

"In regard to a way out, sir?"

The Colonel looked at him with renewed ferocity, then his expression slowly changed. For some seconds he was silent, and, without a glance at Manton, he began to fumble at a drawer. He drew it open at length, and groped in its interior. His hand shook visibly, but there was something in his attitude, some strange intensity of purpose, that riveted Manton's attention. Presently the Colonel discovered the object he sought, and revealed from the depths of the drawer an automatic pistol.

"If you have a shred of honour left you will know what to do," he said grimly. He reached out, and laid the weapon on the corner of the desk at the young man's side.

CHAPTER IV

Then Colonel Treves rose slowly to his feet, took up his stick, and moved towards the door of the room. With his hand on the door knob, he pointed his stick at the weapon on the table. Manton had remained motionless; utterly at a loss. Now the old soldier's meaning gradually revealed itself.

"You want me to take this and——?"

"And," broke in Colonel Treves, "use it to recover such shreds of honour as are left to you."

He drew open the door.

"Thanks," said Manton, taking the pistol from the desk. He slipped the weapon into his hip pocket. The Colonel halted, looking back at him in surprise.

"What are you going to do?"

"I am going to use it," answered John, "if occasion arises."

He saw the Colonel hesitate. Some deep emotion seemed to stir within him. Then with an effort he turned swiftly, and was about to hurry from the room. Manton strode towards him.

"There was another way out?" he questioned, rapidly.

"There was, and you failed to take it. You whined that you couldn't face the army again—you, a Treves! In the past, before my time and yours," went on the Colonel, suddenly violent again, "there have been Treves who have been fools and spendthrifts; there may have been Treves who kept their honour none too clean—but never in our long line has there been a coward until you came, until you grew up to be a curse to my existence, and made my life a shame to me!" His lip trembled, the old, proud head was held aloft, but a world of desolation dwelt in the faded eyes. On a sudden impulse, John gripped him by the hand; he could feel the old man resisting him, seeking to free himself.

"I want to make you a promise, sir," he said. "I am going to Ryde the first thing in the morning. I have a friend there who will help me to get back into the army."

The Colonel narrowed his eyes and tried to read the expression on his face.

"There is a new ring in your voice, Bernard," he said, after a moment's pause, "but I cannot trust you."

He turned and walked away. John saw him go, using his stick for support, and felt a renewed pity for the old, broken father. He spent that night at an inn in Freshwater, and took the first train next morning for Ryde. Here at the recruiting office he presented himself before Captain Gilbert. This plump and comfortable officer was busy at his work when John stepped into the office. His shadow fell upon Captain Gilbert's desk, and the elder man looked up quickly.

"Great Scott!" he exclaimed. He stared wide-eyed at Manton for a moment, and John broke into a smile.

"I see you mistook me for Treves."

"I did," said Gilbert, leaning forward and looking into his face. "The resemblance is really closer than I thought at first. Well," he said, "you've done your part of the bargain splendidly. You earned the money you needed, and you've lifted a great load off the minds of several deserving persons, including myself."

"I should like to know how I've done that," said Manton. "It seems to me the only service I have rendered has been to myself."

"You forget the battery at Scarthoe Head. You made up the deficiency, and the Colonel's delighted with you, Manton."

"Thanks to you—and young Treves—I was able to put matters straight there."

"You have probably saved young Treves from going utterly to the devil," said Gilbert. "I'll tell you about that later; I'm busy till one o'clock, but come to my hotel then and we'll have lunch together."

"But I am here on business myself!" protested Manton. He was feeling cheerful and particularly satisfied with the course of events so far.

"What is your particular business?" inquired Gilbert.

"I want to get back into the army."

Gilbert looked at him for a moment.

"Of course—of course," he said hastily. "I'd forgotten that; we will discuss the subject at lunch time."

Until lunch time Manton was free to stroll upon the pier and consider his situation. He felt a deep curiosity to know what had happened to the man whose clothes he was wearing; to Treves, whose money he was jingling in his pocket, whose excellent cigarettes he had smoked.

At a quarter to one he threw his cigarette end over the rail into the water, and turning, made his way to the hotel where Gilbert was staying. He found the Captain already there, busy mixing a salad at a table in the corner of a small dining-room. There were half a dozen tables in the room, none of which were as yet occupied.

"Sit down, Manton," invited Captain Gilbert, as John entered. "I always mix my own salads. What will you have? There's the menu."

John chose a dish and accepted his host's invitation to divide with him a bottle of Chablis. During the meal Captain Gilbert talked on general matters. But at length the conversation appeared to drift round to the subject of Treves.

"Old Treves took you for granted, eh?" asked the Captain.

"His eyesight isn't good," answered John, "but he suspected nothing."

"And Gates, the butler?"

"He called me 'Mr. Bernard' the moment he saw me. Also, he gave me Treves's letters and a telegram. I didn't read the letters, but the telegram——" Manton put his hand in his inner pocket. "Perhaps I'd better hand them all over to you now."

"Not so fast," Gilbert said, pushing the letters and the telegram back across the table towards Manton. "As a matter of fact, I can't hand them to Treves just now, as I have persuaded him to go to a nursing home for a time. A very good friend of his father's, General Whiston, recommended that something of the sort should be done with him months ago."

"Treves did not give me the impression of being actually ill," Manton observed.

"He wasn't, but his nerves were all to rags. He was in such a state of acute neurasthenia that I expected him to lay hands on himself any minute. Anyway, where he is he will be safe for a while; he will be out of his father's way and the discipline of this particular nursing home may pull him together."

John lit a cigarette and smoked thoughtfully. There was evidently something on Gilbert's mind, something of which he wished to unburden himself. John waited, and at last the elder man broke the silence again:

"Manton," he said earnestly, "I want you to do me a particular favour."

John inquired the nature of the favour.

"I want you," went on the Captain, "to sustain Treves's personality for a little longer. He is in good hands in the nursing home, and for the time being has vanished from the public gaze." Gilbert paused, and again appeared to hesitate. What he had to say was very difficult to frame in words. He wished to hint at something that was the merest suspicion in his own mind. Two or three times he was on the verge of putting his thoughts into words, and each time the effort appeared too much for his gift of expression. Finally he leaned back in his chair. "Manton," he said, "I cannot tell you all I think and suspect, but I will give you such confidences as I can."

He paused for a moment, then went on: "Since Treves came back from France, he appears to have got into the hands of undesirable company. One of his rooted ideas, possibly the result of his drug habit, is that some one is watching him, and that, for some reason or other, his life is in danger."

John listened quietly; then, when the other had finished, he observed seriously: "So far as I see it, you want me to continue my impersonation of Treves until he is cured and comes out of the nursing home."

"That is it, exactly," said Gilbert.

"You are putting a good deal of trust in me," answered John.

At that Gilbert stretched out his hand and gripped John's fingers heartily.

"Manton," he said, "you and I are in this together for the good of the Cause. Not only for Treves and the old Colonel, but perhaps for bigger issues."

"I don't get your meaning," said John.

"Don't ask it, trust me as I trust you. And now to get back to the matter in hand," he said, resuming his ordinary tone. "Perhaps it would be worth your while to open those two letters."

As John obediently tore open the envelopes and read the contents of the letters, Gilbert called the waiter and paid for the two lunches. One of the letters was a typewritten screed from a quack doctor in which he claimed to cure any victim of the drug habit within the space of three months. John experienced a real feeling of pity for Treves as he read the quack's fraudulent promises. The second letter contained two lines only on a single sheet of paper with the printed heading: "208, St. George's Square, S.W." The letter ran:

"Dear Treves,—I must see you at once. You understand; it is essential that you should come to me without delay. To-morrow night at nine o'clock I shall expect you.—Yours, G. MANNERS."

Manton handed both letters to Gilbert, who studied them carefully.

"I haven't a notion who G. Manners is," mused the Captain when he had read the letter through a second time, "but he may be one of the friends Treves ought to get rid of, and for that reason I should advise you to call on him to-morrow."

Manton was thoughtful for a moment.

"What if he discusses matters I know nothing about? Treves's past life is a blank to me:"

"Come," said Gilbert, touching him lightly on the arm, "you are playing a part; you are not such a fool as not to play it well. I admit there are certain little precautions you may find it wise to take. In the first place, you might have a go at copying Treves's degenerate handwriting. You might also keep in mind that Treves is over-strung, lacking in will-power, and so much a victim of the cocaine habit that he would do anything, short of murder, to get the drug when the craving is upon him. As to Treves's past life, it seems to me that a victim of the drug habit can be afflicted with convenient lapses of memory when occasion arises."

Manton glanced at the Captain's pleasant, fat face, and the thought crossed his mind that there was a good deal more cleverness behind Gilbert's amiable exterior than he had at first realised. He forthwith decided to go to town that night. London always held a vivid attraction for him, and he had not had the pleasure of visiting it since his journey through its streets in an ambulance on his return from France. Some weeks in hospital had followed that visit, then had come his transference to the R.G.A. at Scarthoe Head. And now, with returned health and in new, strange and portentous circumstances, he was to visit London again.

Mr. Manners, the mysterious, imperative writer of the letter, had demanded to see Treves at nine o'clock. The hour of John's arrival was eight, and he was in a hurry. He was impatient to plunge into whatever adventure awaited him. Without bothering to engage a room for the night, he deposited his bag in the cloak-room at Waterloo Station, and set out to find St. George's Square. He arrived at the corner of the square, the Embankment corner, at precisely eight-thirty. The square's decorous, solemn-looking houses with heavy pillared porticoes struck him as gloomy in the extreme. The only individual upon the long strip of pavement which ran the length of the west side of the square was himself. His footfalls appeared to echo with inordinate resonance in the areas as he made his way towards Number 208.

It was not his intention to ring the bell immediately. In the first place he wanted to reconnoitre the house, to see if it were possible to judge of the house's occupants by its exterior. This thought occupied his mind, when a taxi sped into the square and drew to a halt within half a dozen yards of him. The taxi had stopped behind him, and its occupant had alighted.

"That's all right; half an hour," said a curt voice in a cultured accent.

The chauffeur nodded, and slammed the taxi door. The young man who had alighted hurried forward, passed John, and continued down the square. Without paying over especial attention, John noticed that he was tall, that he wore a morning coat of distinguished cut, that his light grey felt hat was of expensive quality, and that the pearl in his tie-pin was also, if genuine, of exceptional value. He was of John's height and age, fair-haired, blue-eyed, and with a slight tooth-brush moustache. His features were large and heavy-boned, without being harsh. Two things John noticed as he hurried past; one was that he carried a silk-lined light overcoat over his arm, and the other that he wore a "service rendered" badge on the lapel of his coat.

"Invalided from the army," thought John. "All the same, he doesn't look as if there was much the matter with him."

John continued to walk until he reached the corner of the square, then he turned, and as he did so he saw the tall young man flit up the steps of a house a considerable distance away. John fixed his eyes on the portico of this particular house and walked towards it. And as he neared the door he realised that the young man had entered the very house at which he also had an appointment—Number 208. For a moment Manton paused, hesitated, then passed on. Before making the plunge into whatever adventure awaited him, he wanted still further to consider the situation.

In the meantime the stranger, who had alighted from the taxi, was now within the hall of Mr. Manners's residence. He had opened the door with a Yale key and had admitted himself. The hall was narrow and somewhat dark, and the young man laid his gold-headed cane noisily on a little table, and began to draw off his grey gloves. A door at the back of the house opened noiselessly, and a sombre-faced, sallow-complexioned butler advanced.

"Mr. Manners is in, of course?" demanded the young man in a voice that rasped a little.

"Yes, Herr Baron, in the library."

The visitor nodded curtly, ran swiftly up the stairs, turned to the left, and opened a door on the first landing. He entered a room where the curtains had already been drawn. Two electric chandeliers, one on either side of the hearth, illuminated the apartment. A large bookcase occupied one wall of the room, and in the middle of the floor was a business-like table, scattered with papers. On the table was a green-shaded reading lamp, and by its illumination a man sat at work busily writing. He looked up as the stranger entered, then sprang quickly to his feet. He was a tall man of fifty, uncomfortably stout, with a fleshy neck that protruded over his collar at the back. The big man's iron-grey hair was short, his nose broad and short, and his lips thick and pouting. Despite his inelegance of figure, he was dressed, with an attempt at smartness, in a well-cut frock coat and newly-creased trousers. His heavy eyebrows shielded his eyes, hiding his expression from any but the closest scrutiny. For a man of his excessive bulk he showed extreme activity on his feet.

"I didn't expect you to-night," he said. He placed a chair near the desk for the younger man to seat himself.

His visitor, however, stood still and fixed him with a direct, cold stare.

"Well, Manners," he demanded, "what have you to say for yourself?"

Manners shrugged his heavy shoulders, and displayed the palms of his hands.

"Nothing, Herr Baron," he said, "except that I have done my best. Won't you sit down?"

The young man took a cigarette from his case, and lit it.

"Your best is damned bad!" he said.

"I exercised such judgment as I have," returned the other, in a tone of abasement.

"Judgment alone is of no avail," retorted the other. "What we want is aggressive action. We don't get that from you—you talk, and think, and scheme——"

The other ventured a faint note of protest.

"I was chosen, Herr Baron——"

"I don't want to hear your history," returned the younger man, coldly. "I want to know about this expedition that is being prepared by the Eastern Command, that has been under preparation for the past six weeks."

"I gave you such figures, Herr Baron, as I was able to collect."

The young man crossed to the hearth and stood leaning with his back against the mantelshelf.

"Doesn't it occur to you," he demanded, after a moment's silence, "that figures are only a detail? Figures are something any fool could gather. What Berlin wants to know is, what is this expedition's objective, where is it bound for, also what port it sails from, and when?"

The elder German—Gottfried Manwitz by name, though he figured in the London directory as Godfrey Manners—turned nervously towards his desk and began to search among the papers. An expression of relief crossed his face as he took up a particular sheet of paper.

"That is the date, Herr Baron," he said, "when the expedition will sail, and also the place of departure."

The young man took the sheet, scrutinised it with frowning brows for a moment, then lifted his eyes and looked into Manwitz's fat face with cold, contemptuous gaze.

"Excellent!" he said, cuttingly; "wonderful and utterly useless! You provide Headquarters with all this detail, and fail to give the one vital, useful piece of information—the sole item that Headquarters requires."

"It is very difficult, Herr Baron," apologised Manners.

"You and I, Manwitz," retorted the younger man, "are retained in London for the sole purpose of overcoming difficulties." He paused a moment, and looked complacently for the first time in the elder man's face. "For instance, I myself have overcome quite a number of difficulties."

"Indeed, that is true, Herr Baron," conceded Manners.

"I expect you to do the same. Since you let the Inflexible and the Invincible vanish to the Falkland Islands without any one of us being aware of the fact, Berlin doesn't think so highly of your attainments as before the war. For my part," he went on, "I find you too much of a dreamer." He paused; some one had knocked lightly on the door of the room. "Open it, Manwitz!" he commanded.

The big man crossed lightly to the door and drew it open. Upon the threshold stood the sombre-countenanced butler. The tall young man from the hearth called aloud to him:

"Well, Conrad, what is it?"