The Moonlit Way: A Novel

There was a quick break in her voice; she set her lips in silence until the moment’s emotion had passed, then, turning to Westmore with winning dignity: “I am a dancer and singer – an entertainer of sorts, by profession. I – ”

“Tell Westmore a little more, Thessa,” said Barres.

“If you think it necessary.”

“I’ll tell him. Miss Dunois was the most celebrated entertainer in Europe when this happened. Since she came here the man she has mentioned has, somehow, managed to interfere and spoil every business arrangement which she has attempted.” He looked at Thessa. “I don’t know whether, if Thessalie had cared to use the name under which she was known all over Europe – ”

“I didn’t dare, Garry. I thought that, if some manager would only give me a chance I could make a new name for myself. But wherever I went I was dogged, and every arrangement was spoiled… I had my jewels… You remember some of them, Garry. I gave those away – I think I told you why. But I had other jewels – unset diamonds given to my mother by Prince Haledine. Well, I sold them and invested the money… And my income is all I have – quite a tiny income, Mr. Westmore, but enough. Only I could have done very well here, I think, if I had not been interfered with.”

“Thessa,” said Barres, “why not tell us both a little more? We’re devoted to you.”

The girl lifted her dark eyes, and unconsciously they were turned to Westmore. And in that young man’s vigorous, virile personality perhaps she recognised something refreshing, subtlely compelling, for, still looking at him, she began to speak quite naturally of 199 things which had long been locked within her lonely heart:

“I was scarcely more than a child when General Count Klingenkampf killed my father. The Grand Duke Cyril hushed it up.

“I had several thousand roubles. I had – trouble with the Grand Duke… He annoyed me … as some men annoy a woman… And when I put him in his place he insulted the memory of my mother because she was a Georgian… I slapped his face with a whip… And then I had to run away.”

She drew a quick, uneven breath, smiling at Westmore from whose intent gaze her own dark eyes never wandered.

“My father had been a French officer before he took service in Russia,” she said. “I was educated in Alsace and then in England. Then my father sent for me and I returned to St. Peters – I mean Petrograd. And because I loved dancing my father obtained permission for me to study at the Imperial school. Also, I had it in me to sing, and I had excellent instruction.

“And because I did such things in my own way, sometimes my father permitted me to entertain at the gay gatherings patronised by the Grand Duke Cyril.”

She smiled in reminiscence, and her gaze became remote for a moment. Then, coming back, she lifted her eyes once more to Westmore’s:

“I ran away from Cyril and went to Constantinople, where Von-der-Goltz Pasha and others whom I had met at the Grand Duke’s parties, when little more than a child, were stationed. I entertained at the German Embassy, and at the Yildiz Palace… I was successful. And my success brought me opportunities – of the wrong kind. Do you understand?”

Westmore nodded.

“So,” she continued, with a slight movement of disdain, “I didn’t quite see how I was to get to Paris all alone and begin a serious career. And one evening I entertained at the German Embassy – tell me, do you know Constantinople?”

“No.”

“Well, it is nothing except a vast mass of gossip and intrigue. One breakfasts on rumours, lunches on secrets, and dines on scandals. And my maid told me enough that day to make certain matters quite clear to me.

“And so I entertained at the Embassy… Afterward it was no surprise when his Excellency whispered to me that an honest career was assured me if I chose, and that I might be honestly launched in Paris without paying the price which I would not pay.

“Later I was not surprised, either, when Ferez Bey, a friend of my father, and a man I had known since childhood, presented me to – to – ” She glanced at Barres; he nodded; she concluded to name the man: “ – the Count d’Eblis, a Senator of France, and owner of the newspaper called Le Mot d’Ordre.”

After a silence she stole another glance at Barres; a smile hovered on her lips. He, also, smiled; for he, too, was thinking of that moonlit way they travelled together on a night in June so long ago.

Her glance asked:

“Is it necessary to tell Mr. Westmore this?”

He shook his head very slightly.

“Well,” she went on, her eyes reverting again to Westmore, “the Count d’Eblis, it appeared, had fallen in love with me at first sight… In the beginning he misunderstood me… When he realised that I would endure no nonsense from any man he proved to be sufficiently infatuated with me to offer me marriage.”

She shrugged:

“At that age one man resembled another to me. Marriage was a convention, a desirable business arrangement. The Count was in a position to launch me into a career. Careers begin in Paris. And I knew enough to realise that a girl has to pay in one way or another for such an opportunity. So I said that I would marry him if I came to care enough for him. Which merely meant that if he were ordinarily polite and considerate and companionable I would ultimately become his wife.

“That was the arrangement. And it caused much trouble. Because I was a – ” she smiled at Barres, “ – a success from the first moment. And d’Eblis immediately began to be abominably jealous and unreasonable. Again and again he broke his promise and tried to interfere with my career. He annoyed me constantly by coming to my hotel at inopportune moments; he made silly scenes if I ventured to have any friends or if I spoke twice to the same man; he distrusted me – he and Ferez Bey, who had taken service with him. Together they humiliated me, made my life miserable by their distrust.

“I warned d’Eblis that his absurd jealousy and unkindness would not advance him in my interest. And for a while he seemed to become more reasonable. In fact, he apparently became sane again, and I had even consented to our betrothal, when, by accident, I discovered that he and Ferez were having me followed everywhere I went. And that very night was to have been a gay one – a party in honour of our betrothal – the night I discovered what he and Ferez had been doing to me.

“I was so hurt, so incensed, that – ” She cast an involuntary glance at Barres; he made a slight movement 202 of negation, and she concluded her sentence calmly: “ – I quarrelled with d’Eblis… There was a very dreadful scene. And it transpired that he had sold a preponderating interest in Le Mot d’Ordre to Ferez Bey, who was operating the paper in German interests through orders directly from Berlin. And d’Eblis thought I knew this and that I meant to threaten him, perhaps blackmail him, to shield some mythical lover with whom, he declared, I had become involved, and who was betraying him to the British Ambassador.”

She drew a deep, long breath:

“Is it necessary for me to say that there was not a particle of truth in his hysterical accusations? – that I was utterly astounded? But my amazement became anger and then sheer terror when I learned from his own lips that he had cunningly involved me in his transactions with Ferez and with Berlin. So cunningly, so cleverly, so seriously had he managed to compromise me as a German agent that he had a mass of evidence against me sufficient to have had me court-martialled and shot had it been in time of war.

“To me the situation seemed hopeless. I never would be believed by the French Government. Horror of arrest overwhelmed me. In a panic I took my unset jewels and fled to Belgium. And then I came here.”

She paused, trembling a little at the memory of it all. Then:

“The agents of d’Eblis and Ferez discovered me and have given me no peace. I do not appeal to the police because that would stir up secret agents of the French Government. But it has come now to a place where – where I don’t know what to do… And so – being afraid at last – I am here to – to ask – advice – ”

She waited to control her voice, then opened her gold-mesh bag and drew from it a letter.

“Three weeks ago I received this,” she said. “I ignored it. Two weeks ago, as I opened the door of my room to go out, a shot was fired at me, and I heard somebody running down stairs… I was badly scared. But I went out and did my shopping, and then I went to the writing room of a hotel and wrote to Garry… Somebody watching me must have seen me write it, because an attempt was made to steal the letter. A man wearing a handkerchief over his face tried to snatch it out of the hands of Dulcie Soane. But he got only half of the letter.

“And when I got home that same evening I found that my room had been ransacked… That was why I did not go to meet you at the Ritz; I was too upset. Besides, I was busy moving my quarters… But it was no use. Last night I was awakened by hearing somebody working at the lock of my bedroom. And I sat up till morning with a pistol in my hand… And – I don’t think I had better live entirely alone – until it is safer. Do you, Garry?”

“I should think not!” said Westmore, turning red with anger.

“Did you wish us to see that letter?” asked Barres.

She handed it to him. It was typewritten; and he read it aloud, leisurely and very distinctly, pausing now and then to give full weight to some particularly significant and sinister sentence:

“Mademoiselle:

“For two years and more it has been repeatedly intimated to you that your presence in America is not desirable to certain people, except under certain conditions, which conditions you refuse to consider.

“You have impudently ignored these intimations.

“Now, you are beginning to meddle. Therefore, this warning is sent to you: Mind your business and cease your meddling!

“Moreover, you are invited to leave the United States at your early convenience.

“France, England, Russia, and Italy are closed to you. Without doubt you understand that. Also, doubtless you have no desire to venture into Germany, Austria, Bulgaria, or Turkey. Scandinavia remains open to you, and practically no other country except Spain, because we do not permit you to go to Mexico or to Central or South America. Do you comprehend? We do not permit it.

“Therefore, hold your tongue and control your furor scribendi while in New York. And make arrangements to take the next Danish steamer for Christiania.

“This is a friendly warning. For if you are still here in the United States two weeks after you have received this letter, other measures will be taken in your regard which will effectually dispose of your troublesome presence.

“The necessity which forces us to radical action in this affair is regrettable, but entirely your own fault.

“You have, from time to time during the last two years, received from us overtures of an amicable nature. You have been approached with discretion and have been offered every necessary guarantee to cover an understanding with us.

“You have treated our advances with frivolity and contempt. And what have you gained by your defiance?

“Our patience and good nature has reached its limits. We shall ask nothing further of you; we deliver you our orders hereafter. And our orders are to leave New York immediately.

“Yet, even now, at the eleventh hour, it may not be too late for us to come to some understanding if you change your attitude entirely and show a proper willingness to negotiate with us in all good faith.

“But that must be accomplished within the two weeks’ grace given you before you depart.

“You know how to proceed. If you try to play us false you had better not have been born. If you deal honestly with us your troubles are over.

“This is final.

“The Watcher.”

XVI

THE WATCHER

“The Watcher,” repeated Barres, studying the typewritten signature for a moment longer. Then he looked at Westmore: “What do you think of that, Jim?”

Westmore, naturally short tempered, became very red, got to his feet, and began striding about the studio as though some sudden blaze of inward anger were driving him into violent motion.

“The thing to do,” he said, “is to catch this ‘Watcher’ fellow and beat him up. That’s the way to deal with blackmailers – catch ’em and beat ’em up – vermin of this sort – this blackmailing fraternity! – I haven’t anything to do; I’ll take the job!”

“We’d better talk it over first,” suggested Barres. “There seem to be several ways of going about it. One way, of course, is to turn detective and follow Thessa around town. And, as you say, spot any man who dogs her and beat him up very thoroughly. That’s your way, Jim. But Thessa, unfortunately, doesn’t desire to be featured, and you can’t go about beating up people in the streets of New York without inviting publicity.”

Westmore came back and stood near Thessalie, who looked up at him from her seat on the Chinese couch with visible interest:

“Mr. Westmore?”

“Yes?”

“Garry is quite right about the way I feel. I don’t want notoriety. I can’t afford it. It would mean stirring up every French Government agent here in New York. And if America should ever declare war on Germany and become an ally of France, then your own Secret Service here would instantly arrest me and probably send me to France to stand trial.”

She bent her pretty head, adding in a quiet voice:

“Extradition would bring a very swift end to my career. With the lying evidence against me and a Senator of France to corroborate it by perjury – ask yourselves, gentlemen, how long it would take a military court to send me to the parade in the nearest caserne!”

“Do you mean they’d shoot you?” demanded Westmore, aghast.

“Any court-martial to-day would turn me over to a firing squad!”

“You see,” said Barres, turning to Westmore, “this is a much more serious matter than a case of ordinary blackmail.”

“Why not go to our own Secret Service authorities and lay the entire business before them?” asked Westmore excitedly.

But Thessalie shook her head:

“The evidence against me in Paris is overwhelming. My dossier alone, as it now stands, would surely condemn me without corroborative evidence. Your people here would never believe in me if the French Government forwarded to them a copy of my dossier from the secret archives in Paris. As for my own Government – ” She merely shrugged.

Barres, much troubled, glanced from Thessalie to Westmore.

“It’s rather a rotten situation,” he said. “There must be, of course, some sensible way to tackle it, 207 though I don’t quite see it yet. But one thing is very plain to me: Thessa ought to remain here with us for the present. Don’t you think so, Jim?”

“How can I, Garry?” she asked. “You have only one room, and I couldn’t turn you out – ”

“I can arrange that,” interposed Westmore, turning eagerly to Barres with a significant gesture toward the door at the end of the studio. “There’s the solution, isn’t it?”

“Certainly,” agreed Barres; and to Thessalie, in explanation: “Westmore’s two bedrooms adjoin my studio – beyond that wall. We have merely to unlock those folding doors and throw his apartment into mine, making one long suite of rooms. Then you may have my room and I’ll take his spare room.”

She still hesitated.

“I am very grateful, Garry, and I admit that I am becoming almost afraid to remain entirely alone, but – ”

“Send for your effects,” he insisted cheerfully. “Aristocrates will move my stuff into Westmore’s spare room. Then you shall take my quarters and be comfortable and well guarded with Aristocrates and Selinda on one side of you, and Jim and myself just across the studio.” He cast a sombre glance at Westmore: “I suppose those rats will ultimately trail her to this place.”

Westmore turned to Thessalie:

“Where are your effects?” he asked.

She smiled forlornly:

“I gave up my lodgings this morning, packed everything, and came here, rather scared.” A little flush came over her face and she lifted her dark eyes and met Westmore’s intent gaze. “You are very kind,” she said. “My trunks are at the Grand Central Station – if 208 you desire to make up my disconcerted mind for me. Do you really want me to come here and stay a few days?”

Westmore suppressed himself no longer:

“I won’t let you go!” he said. “I’m worried sick about you!” And to Barres, who sat slightly amazed at his friend’s warmth:

“Do you suppose any of those dirty dogs have traced the trunks?”

Thessalie said:

“I’ve never yet been able to conceal anything from them.”

“Probably, then,” said Barres, “they have traced your luggage and are watching it.”

“Give me your checks, anyway,” said Westmore. “I’ll go at once and get your baggage and bring it here. If they’re watching for you it will jolt them to see a man on the job.”

Barres nodded approval; Thessalie opened her purse and handed Westmore the checks.

“You both are so kind,” she murmured. “I have not felt so sheltered, so secure in many, many months.”

Westmore, extremely red again, controlled his emotions – whatever they were – with a visible effort:

“Don’t worry for one moment,” he said. “Garry and I are going to settle this outrageous business for you. Now, I’m off to find your trunks. And if you could give me a description of any of these fellows who follow you about – ”

“Please – you are not to beat up anybody!” she reminded him, with a troubled smile.

“I’ll remember. I promise you not to.”

Barres said:

“I think one of them is a tall, bony, one-eyed man, 209 who has been hanging around here pretending to peddle artists’ materials.”

Thessalie made a quick gesture of assent and of caution:

“Yes! His name is Max Freund. I have found it impossible to conceal my whereabouts from him. This man, with only one eye, appears to be a friend of the superintendent, Soane. I am not certain that Soane himself is employed by this gang of blackmailers, but I believe that his one-eyed friend may pay him for any scraps of information concerning me.”

“Then we had better keep an eye on Soane,” growled Westmore. “He’s no good; he’ll take graft from anybody.”

“Where is his daughter, Dulcie?” asked Thessalie. “Is she not your model, Garry?”

“Yes. She’s in my room now, lying down. This morning it was pretty hot in here, and Dulcie fainted on the model stand.”

“The poor child!” exclaimed Thessalie impulsively. “Could I go in and see her?”

“Why, yes, if you like,” he replied, surprised at her warm-hearted interest. He added, as Thessalie rose: “She is really all right again. But go in if you like. And you might tell Dulcie she can have her lunch in there if she wants it; but if she’s going to dress she ought to be about it, because it’s getting on toward the luncheon hour.”

So Thessalie went swiftly away down the corridor to knock at the door of the bedroom, and Barres walked out with Westmore as far as the stairs.

“Jim,” he said very soberly, “this whole business looks ugly to me. Thessa seems to be seriously entangled in the meshes of some blackmailing spider who is sewing her up tight.”

“It’s probably a tighter web than we realise,” growled Westmore. “It looks to me as though Miss Dunois has been caught in the main net of German intrigue. And that the big spider in Berlin did the spinning.”

“That’s certainly what it looks like,” admitted the other in a grave voice. “I don’t believe that this is merely a local matter – an affair of petty, personal vengeance: I believe that the Hun is actually afraid of her – afraid of the evidence she might be able to furnish against certain traitors in Paris.”

Westmore nodded gloomily:

“I’m pretty sure of it, too. They’ve tried, apparently, to win her over. They’ve tried, also, to drive her out of this country. Now, they mean to force her out, or perhaps kill her! Good God! Garry, did you ever hear of such filthy impudence as this entire German propaganda in America?”

“Go and get her trunks,” said Barres, deeply worried. “By the time you fetch ’em back here, lunch will be ready. Afterward, we’d all better get together and talk over this unpleasant situation.”

Westmore glanced at his watch, turned and went swinging away in his quick, energetic stride. Barres walked slowly back to the studio.

There was nobody there. Thessalie had not yet returned from her visit to Dulcie Soane.

The Prophet, however, came in presently, his tail politely hoisted. An agreeable aroma from the kitchen had doubtless allured him; he made an amicable remark to Barres, suffered himself to be caressed, then sprang to the carved table – his favourite vantage point for observation – and gazed solemnly toward the dining-room.

For half an hour or more, Barres fussed and pottered 211 about in the rather aimless manner of all artists, shifting canvases and stacking them against the wall, twirling his wax Arethusa around to inspect her from every possible and impossible angle, using clouds of fixitive on such charcoal studies as required it, scraping away meditatively at a too long neglected palette.

He was already frankly concerned about Thessalie, and the more he considered her situation the keener grew his apprehension.

Yet he, like all his fellow Americans, had not yet actually persuaded himself to believe in spies.

Of course he read about them and their machinations in the daily papers; the spy scare was already well developed in New York; yet, to him and to the great majority of his fellow countrymen, people who made a profession of such a dramatic business seemed unreal – abstract types, not concrete examples of the human race – and he could not believe in them – could neither visualise such people nor realise that they existed outside melodrama or the covers of a best-seller.

There is an incredulity which knows yet refuses to believe in its own knowledge. It is very American and it represented the paradoxical state of mind of this deeply worried young man, as he stood there in the studio, scraping away mechanically at his crusted palette.

Then, as he turned to lay it aside, through the open studio door he saw a strange, bespectacled man looking in at him intently.

An unpleasant shock passed through him, and his instinct started him toward the open door to close it.

“Excuse,” said he of the thick spectacles; and Barres stopped short:

“Well, what is it?” he asked sharply.

The man, who was well dressed and powerfully built, 212 squinted through his spectacles out of little, inflamed and pig-like eyes.

“Miss Dunois iss here?” he enquired politely. “I haff a message – ”

“What is your name?”

“Excuse, please. My name iss not personally known to Miss Dunois – ”

“Then what is your business with Miss Dunois?”

“Excuse, please. It iss of a delicacy – of a nature quite private, iff you please.”

Barres inspected him in hostile silence for a moment, then came to a swift conclusion.

“Very well. Step inside,” he said briefly.

“I thank you, I will wait here – ”

“Step inside!” snapped Barres.

Startled into silence, the man only blinked at him. Under the other’s searching, suspicious gaze, the small, pig-like eyes were now shifting uneasily; then, as Barres took an abrupt step forward, the man shrank away and stammered out something about a letter which he was to deliver to Miss Dunois in private.

“You say you have a letter for Miss Dunois?” demanded Barres, now determined to get hold of him.

“I am instructed to giff it myself to her in private, all alone – ”

“Give it to me!”

“I am instruc – ”

“Give it to me, I tell you! – and come inside here! Do you hear what I’m saying to you?”

The spectacled man lost most of his colour as Barres started toward him.

“Excuse!” he faltered, backing off down the corridor. “I giff you the letter!” And he hastily thrust his hand into the side pocket of his coat. But it was 213 a pistol he poked under the other’s nose – a shiny, lumpy weapon, clutched most unsteadily.

“Hands up and turn me once around your back!” whispered the man hoarsely. “Quick! – or I shoot you!” – as the other, astounded, merely gazed at him. The man had already begun to back away again, but as Barres moved he stopped and cursed him:

“Put them up your hands!” snarled the spectacled man, with a final oath. “Keep your distance or I kill you!”