 Section Zero of the Yellow Dove. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. The Yellow Dove by George Gibbs. Prelude. Rifts of sullen gray in the dirty veil of vapor beyond the reaches of dunes, where the sea and long lines of white, like the ghostly hosts of lost regiments, clamored along the sand. A sowing wind, a shrieking of seabirds, audible in pauses between the faraway crackle of rifle fire and the deep reverberations of artillery. Familiar music, two ears trained by long listening, a shrill scream of flying shrapnel, a distant crash, and then a tense hush. Silence, nearly, but not quite. A sound so small as to be almost lost in the echoes of the clamor, an impact upon the air like the tapping of the wings of an insect against one's eardrum. A persistent staccato note, which no other noise could still, born with curious distinctness upon some aerial current of the fog bank. And yet this tiny sound had a strange effect upon the desolate scene. For in a moment, as if they had been sown with dragon's teeth, the sand dunes suddenly vomited forth armed men who ran hither and thither, their hands to their ears, peering aloft as though trying to pierce the mystery of the skies. The Boyer, it's Im Aghain. Im? Who's Im? I'd like to ask. Staw your jaw, can't your ear? Old Yalabeli, Aghain. The sounds were now clearly audible, and to the south a series of rapid detonations shivered the air. There goes Johnny, look in the air. Can't get him, though. His truth, ah, he's a cool one, ah, he has. A horse order rang out from the trenches behind them, and the men ran for cover. The fog lifted a little, and a shaft of light touched the leaden gray of the sea, like the sheen on a dirty gun barrel. The nearer high-angle guns were speaking now, fruitlessly, for the sounds seemed to come from directly overhead. The fog lifted again, and a shaft of pale sunlight shot across the line of entrenchments. There he is, not wasting no time, he ain't. Yes, but there after him there comes oiviation. Oh, Al. The expletive, in a final tone of disgust, for the fog had fallen again, completely obliterating the aircraft and its pursuers. O's Yalabeli asked a smooth-faced youth who still wore the salo of London under his coat of windburn. You're one of the new law, ain't ya? You'll know bloody soon who Yalabeli is, won't you, Bill? Pow! That's him, them sharp ones. Go on, said the one called Bill. I never hits anything but the duck, and he can't help that. Time calls he don't try, hear him? No, he stroppens for a dove, ain't they? Dove, said the newcomer. Yes, Tubbs, the swine calls him. Tub, ya blighter? Tub, I says. Whenever troops is moving, all he's always about, just drops down, informal-like, or nowhere. And can't they catch him? Catch him, blimey, not they. A thousand horsepower, they say he has, fly circles around our air-squad like there was a lot of blooming, captive-arting balloons. But the eye-angles move too fast, airing gone again, before you can feel your cutty. They do say, as hour when Yalabeli comes, there's sure to be big doings along the front. I, said Bill, when we was dawn at Copenhagen, compine grand pop, oh, what's the odds? Dawn at Copenhagen, he flew about same as he's doing now. Bill paused. And what happened? You'll have to ask Sir John about that, Miss Son. Finished the other dryly. We was drilling rear-guard actions, one we Bill. Aye, we was drilled right, left, and a bit of middle. Bill rose and sped down the wind. Take it from me. He finished with a glance aloft through the mist. There'll be something happen between air and wipers before the week is out. Aye, the us, Bill. What us? asked the newcomer again. The last time he climbed, down wipers' way, there was a lull in the firen, and twing the lines at trenches where the dead duchies was, comes a us, a real us, with black horses, plumes and all. We thought was some general they'd come to fetch, up we stands, out of the trenches, company after company, caps off, all respectful like. This here us comes along, slow and mournful, black curtains and all flapping in the wind, and six of the blighters are marching, heads down behind it. They wheels up a breast of our company, and mound our earth in stops, and while we was looking the front side of that there-boy vehicle robs out, and a machine gun began slipping into us, pretty as you please. Us. That's what it was. Us. And it jolly well made a funeral outer bee company. Go out, said the newcomer, and yell a belly. I ain't sayin' nothin' about him. You're white, that's all. The sounds of firing rose and fell again. The fog thickened, and the last crashes of the high-angled guns echoed out to sea. But the rush of the flying planes continued. Three machines there were by the sound of them, but one grew ever more distinct until the sounds of the three were merged into one. Closer it came, until, like the blast of a storm down a mountainside, a huge shadow fell across the dunes and was gone, amid a scattering of futile shots into the fog, which might as well have been aimed at the moon. Bill, the prescient, straightened and peered through the fog toward the flying plane. A-us, he muttered. That's what it was. A-us. End of Prelude. Chapter 1 of The Yellow Dove by George Gibbs. This LibriVox recording is in the public domain, recording by Tony Oliva. Sheltered people. Lady Betty Heathcote had a reputation in which she took pride for giving successful dinners in a neighborhood where successful dinners were a rule rather than an exception. Her prescription was simple and consisted solely in compounding her social elements by strenuous mixing. She had a faculty for discovering cubs withincipient mains and saw them safely grown without mishap at her house in Park Lane, politics, art, literature, and science rubbed elbows. Here pictures had been born, plays had had their real premieres, novels had been devised, and poems without number, not a few of which were indicted to my Lady Betty's eyebrow, here first saw the light of day. For all her dynamic energy and a variety of causes, most of them wise, all of them altruistic, Lady Betty had the rare faculty of knowing when to be restful. Tired cabinet ministers, overworked lords of the admiralty, leaders in all parties, knew that in Park Lane there would be no questions asked, which it would not be possible to answer, that there was always an excellent dinner to be had without frills, a lounge in a quiet room, or indeed a pair of pajamas and a bed if necessary. But since the desperate character of the war with Germany had been driven home into the hearts of the people of London, the change had taken place in the complexion of many private entertainments, and the same serious air, which was, to be noted, in the mean of well-informed people of all classes, upon the street, was reflected in the faces of her guests. Her scientists were engrossed with utilitarian problems. Her literary men were sending vivid word pictures and reams and louvain to their brothers across the Atlantic, and her cabinet ministers conversed less than usual, addressing themselves with greater particularity to her roasts or her spare bedrooms. Torn between many duties, as patroness to bazaars, as head of a variety of sewing-gills, as president of the new association for the training and equipment of nurses, Lady Heathcote herself showed signs of the wear and tear of an extraordinary situation, but she managed to meet it squarely by using every ounce of her abundant energy and every faculty of her resourceful mind. Many secrets were hers, both political and departmental, but she kept them nobly, aware that she lived in parlous times when an unconsidered word might do a damage irreparable. Agents of the enemy she knew had been discovered in every walk of life, and while she lived in London's innermost circle, she knew that even her own house might not have been immune from visitors whose secret motives were open to question. It was, therefore, with the desire to reassure herself as to the unadulterated loyalty of her intimates that she had carefully scrutinized her dinner lists, eliminating all and certain quantities through whom or by whom the unreserved character of the conversation across her board might in any way be jeopardized. So it was that tonight's dinner table had something of the complexion of a family party in which John Ritcio, the bright, particular star in London's firmament of art, was to lend his effulgence. John Ritcio, dean of collectors whose wonderful house in Berkeley Square rivaled the British Museum and the Wallace Collection combined. An Italian by birth, an Englishman by adoption, who because of his public benefactions had been offered a knighthood and had refused it, John Ritcio, who had been an intimate of King Edward, a friend of cabinet ministers, who knew as much about the inner workings of the government as majesty itself. Long a member of Lady Heathcote's circle, it had been her custom to give him a dinner on the anniversary of the day of the acquisition of the most famous picture in his collection, the Cannonsby Venus, which had before the death of the old Earl been the aim of collectors throughout the world. As usual, the selection of her guests had been left to Ritcio, whose variety of taste and friendships could have been no better shown than in the company which now graced Lady Heathcote's table, the Earl and Countess of Kipschaven, the one artistic, the other literary, their daughter, the honourable Jacqueline Morley, Captain Byfield, a retired cavalry officer now on special duty at the war-office, Lady Joyliff, who had lost her Earl at Mons, an interesting widow, the bud of whose new affections was already emerging from her weeds. John Sandys, Undersecretary for Foreign Affairs, the object of those affections. Miss Doris Mather, daughter of the American Cotton King, who was known for doing unusual things, not the least of which was her recent refusal of the hand of John Ritcio, one of London's catches, and the acceptance of that of the honourable Cyril Hammersley, the last to be mentioned member of this distinguished company, gentlemen sportsmen and man about town, who as everybody knew would never set the world afire. No one knew how this miracle had happened, for Doris Mather's brains were above the ordinary. She had a discriminating taste in books and a knowledge of pictures, and just before dinner upstairs in a burst of confidence she had given her surprised hostess an idea of what a man should be. He should be clever, Betty, she sighed. A worker, a dreamer of great dreams, a firebrand in every good cause, a patriot willing to fight to the last drop of his blood. Lady Betty's laughter disconcerted her and she paused. And that is why you chose the honourable Cyril. Miss Mather compressed her lips and frowned at her image in the mirror. Don't be nasty, Betty. Isn't Mary a man as old as John Ritcio? Lady Betty only laughed again. Forgive me, dear, but it really is most curious. I wouldn't laugh if you hadn't been so careful to describe to me all the virtues that Cyril hasn't. Doris powdered the end of her nose thoughtfully. I suppose they're all a myth. Men like that, they simply don't exist. That's all. Lady Betty pinned a final jewel on her bodice. I'm sure John Ritcio's flattered at your choice. Cyril is an old dear, but to Mary, I'd as soon take the automatic chess player. Why are you going to Mary's, Cyril, Doris? She asked. A long pause and more powder. I'm not sure that I am. I don't even know why I thought impossible. I think it's the feeling of the powder for his clay. Something might be made of him. He seems so helpless somehow. Men of his sort always are. I'd like to mother him. Besides, and she flashed around on her hostess brightly, he does sit a horse like a centaur. He's also an excellent shot. A good chauffeur, a tolerable dancer, and the best bat in England, all agreeable talents in a gentleman of fashion, but they're hardly. Lady Betty burst into laughter. Good Lord Doris, Cyril, a firebrand. Doris Mather eyed her hostess reproachfully and moved toward the door into the hallway. Come, Betty, she said with some dignity. Are you ready to go down? All of which goes to show that matches are not made in heaven and that the motives of young women in making important decisions are actuated by the most unimportant details. Hammersley's good fortune was still a secret to accept to Miss Mather's most intimate friends, but the conviction was slowly growing in the mind of the girl that unless Cyril stopped sitting around in tweeds when everybody else was getting into khaki, the engagement would never be announced. As the foreign situation had grown more serious, she had seen other men who weighed less than Cyril go off the boredom of their London habits and go soldiering into France. But the desperate need of his country for able-bodied men had apparently made no impression upon the placid mind of the honourable Cyril. It was as unruffled as a highland lake in mid-August. He had contributed liberally from his large means to Lady Heathcote's Ambulance Fund, but his manner had become, if anything, more bored than ever. Miss Mather entered the drawing room thoughtfully with the helpless feeling of one who, having made a mistake, pauses between the alternatives of tenacity and recantation. And yet, as soon as she saw him, a little trimmer of pleasure passed over her, in spite of his drooping pose, his vacant stare, his obvious inadequacy, she was sure there was something about Cyril Hammersley that made him beyond doubt the most distinguished looking person in the room, not even accepting Ritcio. He came over to her at once, the monocle dropping from his eye, awfully glad, jolly good to see you, my dear, handsome no end. He took her hand and bent over her fingers, such a broad back he had, such a finely shaped head, such shoulders, such strong hands that were capable of so much, but had achieved so little. And were these all that she could have seen in him? Reason told her that it was her mind that demanded a mate. Could it be that she was in love with a beautiful body? There was something pathetic in the way he looked at her. She felt very sorry for him. But Betty, Heathcote's laughter was still ringing in her ears. Thanks, Cyril, she said coolly. I've wanted to see you tonight, to tell you that, at last, I volunteered with the Red Cross. Hammersley peered at her blankly, and then with a contortion set his eyeglass. Red Cross? You? Oh, I see now, Doris, that's going it rather thick on a chap. It's true, father's fitting out an ambulance corps, and has promised to let me go. John Rizio, tall, urbane, dark, and cynical, who had joined them, heard her last words, and broke into a shrug. It's the khaki, Hammersley. The women will follow it to the ends of the earth. Broadcloth and tweeds are not the fashion. He ran his arm through Hammersley's. There's nothing for you and me but to volunteer. The honourable Cyril only stared at him blankly. Oh, he said, which as Lady Betty once expressed it, was half the note of a jackass. Here the kipshavens arrived, and their hostess signalled the advance upon the dinner table. One of the secrets of the success of Lady Heathcote's dinners was the size and shape of her table, which seated no more than ten and was round. Her centerpieces were flat, and her candelabra low, so that any person at the table could see and converse with anyone else. It was thus possible, delicately, to remind those who insisted on completely appropriating their dinner partners that private matters could be much more safely discussed in the many corners of the house designed for the purpose. Doris set between Ritcio and Beifield. Hammersley with Lady Joyliff, just opposite, and when Ritcio announced the American girl's decision to go to France as soon as her training was completed, she became the immediate center of interest. That's neutrality of the right sort, said Kipshaven heartily. I wish all of your countrymen felt as you do. I think most of them do, replied Doris, smiling slowly. But you know, you haven't always been nice to us. There have been many times when we felt that, as an older brother, you treated us rather shabbily. I'm heaping coals of fire, you see. Toussé, said Ritcio, with a laugh. I bad my head, said the earl. Ashes to ashes from Lady Joyliff. Kipshaven smiled. Once in England grey hairs were venerated even among the frivolous. Now, he sighed, they are only a reproach. Peccavi, forgive me. I wish I could set the clock back. You'd go, asked Doris. Tomorrow, said the old earl with enthusiasm. Miss Mather glanced at Hammersley, who was enjoying his soup, a puree he liked particularly. But isn't there something you could do? Yes. Ride for America, for Italy, for Sweden and Holland, for Spain. It's something. But it isn't enough. My fingers are itching for a sword. The honourable sirl looked up. Penn might hear of an sword. He quoted vacuously, and went on with his soup. You don't really mean that, Hammersley, said Kipshaven amid smiles. Well, rather, draw the other. All silly rock fighting. What's the use? Spoil my boar shooting in his nassau. No season at Carlsbad. No season anywhere. Everything the same. Winter, summer. You wouldn't think so if you were in the trenches, my boy. Laughed byfield. Basically happy I'm not. Said Hammersley. Don't mind shooting pheasant or boar. Bedform, shooting men. Not the sporting thing, you know. Heard on the ground, specially Germans. Boshes, said the Lady Betty contemptuously. She was inclined to be intolerant, for her outshe had already been mentioned in dispatches. I don't understand you, sirl. Hammersley regarded her gravely while Constance Joyliff took up his cudgels. You forget sirl's four years at Heidelberg. No, I don't, said their hostess warmly. And I could almost believe sirl had German sympathies. I have, you know, said Hammersley calmly, sniffing at the rim of his wine-glass. This is hardly the time to confess it, said Kipschaven dryly. Doris said silent, aware of a deep humiliation which seemed to envelop them both. Ritzio laughed and produced a clipping from Punch. Hammersley is merely stoically peaceful. Listen, and he read, I was playing golf one day when the Germans landed. All our troops had run away, and all our ships were stranded. And the thought of England's shame nearly put me off my game. Amid the laughter, the honourable sirl straightened. Silly stuff that, he said quite seriously, to put a fellow off his game, and turning to Lady Joyliff, Punch, a bit brackish lately, what? Sirl, your insular, from Lady Heathcote. No, insulated, said Doris with a flash of the eyes. Ritzio laughed, highly potential, but not dangerous. Why should he be? He's your typical Britain, sport-loving, calm and nervous in the most exacting situations. I was at Lord's, you know, when Hammersley made that winning run for Marleybourne. Two minutes to play, every bowler they put up. It's hardly a time for bats, put in kip-shaven dryly. What we need is fast bowlers with rifles. The object of these remarks sat serenely, smiling blandly around the table, but made no reply. In the pause that followed Sandys was heard in a half-whisper to Byfield. What's this I hear of a leak at the war-office? Captain Byfield glanced down the table. Have you heard that? Yes, at the club. Captain Byfield touched the rim of his glass to his lips. I've heard nothing of it. What? From a chorus. Information is getting out somewhere. I violate no confidences in telling you. The war-office is patabd. How terrible, said Lady Joyliff, and don't they suspect? That's the worst of it. The Germans got wind of some of Lord Kitchener's plans and some of the admiralty's, which nobody knew but those very near the man at the top. A spy in that circle. Unbelievable, said Kipshaven. My authority is a man of importance. Fortunately, no damage has been done. The story goes that we're issuing false indictments in certain channels to mislead the enemy and find the culprit. But how does the news reach the Germans? No one knows by carrier to the coast and then by fast motorboat, perhaps, or by aeroplane. It's very mysterious. A huge taube, yellow in colour, flying over the North Sea between England and the continent, has been cited and reported by English vessels again and again, and each flight has coincided with some unexpected move on the part of the enemy, once it was signed just before the ride at Falmouth, again before the Zeppelin visit to Sangringham. A yellow dobe, said Lady Kipshaven, a bird of Hilloman, surely. But how could such an aeroplane leave the shores of England without being remarked? asked Kipshaven. Oh, laugh, Sandys. Answer me that, and we have the solution of the problem. A strict watch has been kept on the coasts and the government employees, postmen, police, secret service men of every town and village from here to the Shetlands are on the lookout. But now a glimpse have they had of him. Not a sign of his arrival or departure, but only last week he was reported by a destroyer flying toward the English coast. Most extraordinary from Lady Kipshaven. It's a large machine, asked Ritzio. Larger than any aeroplane ever built in Europe. They saw a Curtis, the American, was building a thousand-horsepower machine at Amonsport in the States. This one must be as large as that. But surely such a machine could not be hidden in England for any length of time without discovery? It would seem so. But there you are. The main point is that he hasn't been discovered and that its pilot is here in England, ready to fly across the sea with our military secrets when he gets them. And him, growled Kipshaven quite audibly, a sentiment which echoed so truly in the hearts of those present that it passed without comment. The captain of a merchant steamer who saw it quite blindly reported that the power of the machine was simply amazing, that it flew at about 6,000 feet and was lost to sight in an incredible brief time. In short, my friends, the yellow dove is one of the miracles of the day and its pilot one of its mysteries. But our aviation men, can they do nothing? What, chice-rimbos? Where shall their voyage begin and where end? He's over the North Sea one minute and in Belgium the next. Our troops in the trenches think he's a phantom. They sigh, even the bombs he drops are phantoms. They are heard to explode, but nobody has ever been hit by them. What will a war office do? Sandy shrugged expressively. What would you do? Shirt the beggar, said the honourable Cyril impassively. Show the moon, sir! roared the earl angrily. It's no time for idiotic remarks. If this story is true, a danger hangs over England. No wholesome Britain! Here he glanced again at Hammersley. What to go to sleep until this menace is discovered and destroyed? The yellow dove is a cult, said Sandy's, like a witch on a broomstick. A flying Dutchman, returned Lady Joyliff. There seems to be no joke about that, said the earl. End of chapter 1 Chapter 2 of The Yellow Dove by George Gibbs This LibriVox recording is in the public domain, recording by Tony Oliva. The undercurrent They were still discussing the strange story of Sandy's when Lady Heathcote signalled her feminine guess and they retired to the drawing room. Over the coffee, the interest persisted and Lord Kipschaven was not to be denied. If, as it seemed probable, this German spy was making frequent flights between England and the continent, he must have some landing field, a hangar, a machine shop with supplies of oil and fuel. Where, in this tight little island, could a German airman descend with a thousand-horsepower machine and not be discovered unless with the connivance of Englishmen? The thing looked bad. If there were Englishmen in high places in London who could be bought, there were others, many others, who helped to form the vicious chain which led to Germany. I tell you, I believe we're honeycombed with spies, he growled. For one that we've caught, and imprisoned or shot, there are dozens in the very midst of us. If this keeps up, will all of us be suspecting one another? How do I know that you, Sandys, you, Ritzio, Byfield, or even Hammersley, here, isn't a secret agent of the Germans? What dinner table in England is safe when spies are found in the official family of the war-office? Ritzio smiled. We who are about to die salute you, he said, raising his liquor-glass. And you, Lord Kipshaven, how can we be sure of you? By this token, said the old man, rising and putting his back to the fire, that if I even suspected, I'd shoot any one of you down here, now, with as little compunction as I'd kill a dog. I'll have my coffee first, laugh byfield, if you don't mind. Coffee, then coffin, said Ritzio. Jolly unpleasant conversation this, remarked Hammersley, makes a chap a bit fidgety. Fidgety roared the earl. We ought to be fidgety with the Germans winning east and west, and the finest flower of our service already killed in battle. We need men and still more men. Any able-bodied fellow under forty, who stays at home, any glance meaningly at the honourable Cyril, ought to be put to work mending roads. The object of these remarks turned the blank stare of his monocle, but made no reply. Yes, I mean you, Cyril, went on the earl steadily. Your mother was born a prussian. I knew her well, and I think she learned to thank God that Fortune had given her an Englishman for her husband. But the taint is in you. Your brother has been wounded at the front. His blood is glanced. But what of yours? You went to a German university with your prussian kinsmen, and now openly flaunt your sympathies at a dinner of British patriots. Speak up. How do you stand? Your friends demand it. Hammersley turned his cigarette carefully in its long amber holder. Oh, I see Lord Kipshaven. He said with a slow smile. You're not spoofing a chap, are you? I was never more earnest in my life. How do you stand? Ha! said Hammersley with obvious effort. In British, you know, and all that, saw a thing. How can an Englishman be anything else? Still you're all fighting. That's what I say. That's all I say. He finished looking calmly for approval from one to the other. Smiles from Sandys and Ritzio met this inadequacy. But the earl, after glaring at him moodily for a moment, uttered a smothered paw, and shrugging his shoulder turned to Ritzio and Sandys, who were discussing a recent submarine raid. Hammersley and Byfield sat near each other at the side of the table, away from the others. There was a moment of silence, which Hammersley improved by blowing smoke rings toward the ceiling. Captain Byfield watched him a moment, and then after a glance in the direction of the earl, leaned carelessly on an elbow toward Hammersley. Any shooting at the north, he asked. His monocle dropped, and the eyes of the two men met. Yes. I'm shooting the day after tomorrow, said Hammersley quietly. Byfield looked away, and another long moment of silence followed. Then the honorable Cyril, after a puff or two, took the long amber-holder from his mouth, removed the cigarette, and smudged the ash upon the receiver. Belly-headed cigarettes, these lulges, don't happen to have any backie and the papers. Aboutcha, do ya, Byfield? Well, rather, replied the captain, and he pushed a pouch and a package of cigarette papers along the tablecloth. It's a mix of my own. I hope you like it. Hammersley opened the bag, and sniffed at its contents. Good stuff there. Virginia, Perique, and a bit of Turkish war. Byfield nodded and watched Hammersley as he poured out the tobacco, rolled the paper, and lighted it at the candelabra, inhaling luxuriously. Thanks. He sighed, surely good of you, and he pushed the pouch back and filled along the table. You must come to Scotland some day, old chap, said the honourable Cyril carelessly. Delighted, when the war is over, returned Byfield quietly, not until the war is over, awfully glad to have you any time, ya know, awfully glad. In case of furlough, I'll look you up, too, said the honourable Cyril. Hammersley's rather bovine gaze passed slowly around the room, and just over Lord Kipshaven's head, in the mirror over the mantel, it met the dark gaze of John Rizio, the fraction of a second it paused there. And then he stretched his long legs, and rose, stifling a yawn. Let's go in. What? he said to Byfield. Byfield got up, and at the same time there was a movement at the mantel. Don't be too hard on the chap, Rizio was saying, in an undertone to Kipshaven, you're singing the husk a song. He's harmless, I tell you, positively harmless. And then, as the others moved toward the door, come, Lady Heathcourt won't mind our tobacco. Hammersley led the way with Byfield and Rizio at his heels. Jackwell and Morley had been trying to play the piano, but there was no heart in the music until she struck up tipperary, when there was a generous chorus in which the men joined. Hammersley found Doris with Constance Joyliff in the alcove. At his approach, Lady Joyliff retired. He murmured to her, as he sank beside her. Handsome is as handsome does Cyril, she said slowly. If you knew what I was thinking of you, you wouldn't be so generous. What? Just what everybody is thinking about you, that you've got to do something, enlist a fight, go to France, if only as a chauffeur. They'd let you do that tomorrow if you'd go. Shover? Me? Not really. Yes, that, or something else. Determinately. Why? She hesitated a moment and then went on distinctly. Because I could never marry a man people talked about as people are talking about you. Not Mary. The honourable Cyril's face for the first time that evening showed an expression of concern. Not Mary. Me? You can't mean that, Doris. I do mean it, Cyril. She said firmly, I can't marry you. Why? Because to me love is a sacrament. Love of woman, love of country. But the last is greater of the two. No man who isn't a patriot is fit to be a husband. Ah, patriot. She broke in before he could protest. Yes, a patriot. You're not a patriot. That is, if you're an Englishman, I don't know you, Cyril. You puzzle me. You're lukewarm. Day after day, you've seen your friends and mine go off in uniform. But it doesn't mean anything to you. It doesn't mean anything to you that England is in danger. And that she needs every man who can be spared at home to go to the front. You see them go and the only thing it means to you is that you're losing club mates and sport mates. Instead of taking the infection of further, you go to Scotland to shoot, not Germans, but deer, deer, she repeated scathingly. But there aren't any Germans in Scotland at least none that a chap could shoot, he said with a smile. Then go where there are Germans to shoot, she said impetuously. She put her face to her hands a moment. Oh, don't you understand? You've got to prove yourself. You've got to make people stop speaking of you as I've heard them speak of you tonight. Here you are in the midst of friends, people who know you and like you. But what must other people who don't know you so well or care so much as we what must they think and say of your indifference, of your openly expressed sympathy with England's enemies? Even Lady Betty, a kinswoman and one of your truest friends has lost patience with you. I had almost said lost confidence in you. Her voice trailed into silence. She was moving the toe of his varnished boot along the border of the Obusone rug. I'm sorry, he said slowly. Affle sorry. Sorry, are you? But what are you going to do about it? Do, he said vaguely. I don't know, I'm sure. I'm no balayous, you know. Wouldn't be any balayous over there. Make silly ass mistake probably. No end of trouble. All around. And you're willing to sacrifice the goodwill, the affection of your friends. The respect of the girl you say you love. Oh, I say Doris. Not that. Yes, I've got to tell you. I can't be unfair to myself. I can't respect a man who sees others cheerfully being his burdens doing his work, accepting his hardships in order that he may sleep soundly at home far away from the nightmare of shot and shell. You, Cyril, you. Is it that the love of ease or is it something else? Something to do with your German kinship, the memory of your mother. If you still want me, Cyril, it's my right to know. What is Doris? His voice went a little lower. Yes. I want you. You might know that. Then you must tell me. He hesitated and peered at the eyeglass in his fingers. I think it's because I... He paused and then crossed his hands and bowed his head with an elinquishment because I think I must be a... He almost whispered the word a coward. Doris Mather gazed at him a long moment of mingle dismay and incredulity. You, she whispered. The first sportsman of England, a... a coward. He gave a short, mirthless laugh. Queer, isn't it? A chap feels about such things. I always hated the idea of being mangled. Awfully unpleasant idea that. Especially in the tummy. In India once I saw a chap. You, a coward. Doris repeated why died. I don't believe you. He bent his head again. I... I'm afraid you're better. He said uncertainly. Doris still looking at him incredulously. Another doubt. A more dreadful one. Winging its flight to and fro across her inner vision. Come, she said in a tone she hardly recognized as her own. Come, let us join the others. He stood uncertainly. And as she started to go He'll let me take you home, Doris. He asked. She bent her head and without replying made her way to the group beyond the alcove. Hammersley stood a moment watching her diminishing back and then a curious expression half of trouble, half of resolution came into his eyes. Then after a quick glance around the curtain he suddenly reached into his trousers pocket. Took something out and scrutinized it carefully by the light of the lamp. He put it back quickly in a conical, sauntered forth into the room. As he moved to join the group at the piano, John Rizzio met him in the middle of the room. Could I have a word with you, Hammersley? He asked. Happy, said the honorable Cyril, here in the smoking room. If you don't mind. Hammersley hesitated a moment and then swung on his heels and led the way from the hallway. Rizzio paused. Then quietly drew the heavy curtains behind them. Hammersley, standing by the table, followed this action with a kind of bored curiosity aware that Rizzio's dark gaze had never once left him since they had entered the room. Slowly Hammersley took his hands from his pockets, reached into his waistcoat for his cigarette case opened and offered it to him. Smoke? He asked carelessly. I don't mind if I do, but I've taken a curious liking for the ruled cigarettes. Ah, I thought so. He opened the tobacco jar and sniffed at it, searched around the articles on the table. Then how disappointing! Nothing but algae's dreadful pipes. You don't happen to have any rice papers, do you? Hammersley was lighting his own cigarette at the brazier. No, sorry. He replied leconically. Rizzio leaned beside him against the edge of the table. Strange. I thought I saw you making a cigarette in the dining room. Hammersley's face brightened. Ah, yes. Boyfield. Boyfield has the rice papers. I'd rather have yours. He said quietly. The honourable Cyril looked up. My no chap! I thought I told you I hadn't any. Rizzio smiled amiably. Then I must have misunderstood you. He said politely. Yes, said Hammersley and sank into an armchair. Rizzio did not move and the honourable Cyril his head back was already blowing smoke rings. Rizzio suddenly relaxed with a laugh and put his legs over a small chair near Hammersley's and folded his arms along its back. Do you know Hammersley? He said with a laugh. I sometimes think that as I grow older my hearing is not as good as it used to be. Perhaps you'll say that I cling to my vanishing youth with a fatuous desperation. I do. Rather silly, isn't it? Because I'm quite forty-five. But I've a curiosity even in so small a matter to learn whether things are as bad with me as I think they are. Now, unless you're going to add a few more grey hairs to my head by telling me that I'm losing my sight as well as my hearing you'll gratify my curiosity and idle curiosity if you like but still strangely important to my peace of mind. He paused a moment and looked at Cyril who was examining him with frank bewilderment. I don't think I understand said Hammersley politely. I'll try to make it clear something has happened tonight that makes me think that I'm getting either blind or deaf or both to begin with. I thought you said you had no cigarette papers if I heard you wrong then the burden of proof rests upon my ears. If my eyes are at fault it's high time I consulted a specialist because you know at the table in the dining room when you were sitting with Byfield quite distinctly I saw you put a package of Rhys Lacroix into your right hand trousers pocket the colour as you know is yellow a colour to which my optic nerve is peculiarly sensitive. He laughed again I know you'd hardly go out of your way to make a misstatement on so small a matter and if you don't mind satisfying a foyable of my vanity I wish you'd tell me whether or not I'm mistaken. He stopped and looked at Hammersley who was regarding him with polite if puzzled tolerance then as if realising that something was required of him Hammersley leaned forward a serizio what the deuce is it all about? I'm sorry you're getting old and all that sort of thing but I can't help it now can I old chap Rizio's smile slowly faded and his gaze passed Hammersley and rested on the brass vinder of the fireplace you don't care to tell me he asked what about that package of rice papers but I feel it has them not that package put in Rizio with a wave of a hand and then leaning forward in a low tone the other Hammersley set upright a moment his hands on the chair arms and then sank back in his chair with a laugh I see I can take a joke as well as a next but what's the answer? Rizio rose his graceful figure dominant I don't think that sort of thing will do Hammersley his demeanor was perfectly correct his hand wave easy and a well-bred smile flickered at his lips but his tone masked a mystery Hammersley rose removing his cigarette with great deliberateness from its holder and throwing it into the fire if there isn't anything else you want to see me about it took a step in the direction of the door one moment please Hammersley paused I think we'd better drop subterfuge I know why you were here tonight why Byfield was here and perhaps you know now why I am here can't imagine I'm sure said Cyril perhaps you can guess this party was of my own choosing that my plans were made with a view to arranging your meeting with Captain Byfield in a place known to be above suspicion I have been empowered to relieve you of any further responsibility in a matter in question in short of the papers themselves oh I see vanished youth papers and all that you're going a bit thick Ritzio oh boy Ritzio put a hand into the inside pocket of his evening coat and drew out a card case which he opened under Hammersley's eyes look Hammersley he whispered Maxwell gave me this perhaps you understand now the honorable Cyril fixed his eyeglass carefully and stared at the card case by Jove he muttered with sudden interest now you understand said Ritzio yo whispered Hammersley looking at him the langer of a moment before had fallen from him with his dropping monocle yes I now quick the papers muttered Ritzio putting the card case in his pocket someone may come at any moment in the face of time Hammersley stood uncertainly peering down at the pattern in the rug then he straightened and crossing the room put his back to the fireplace there may be a mistake he said firmly Ritzio stood for a moment staring at him as though he had not heard correctly then he crossed over and faced the other man you mean that what are you going to do what I've been told to do my orders supersede yours I'm not sure you can't doubt my credentials hardly that I think I know best that's all Ritzio took a pace or two before the fireplace in front of him his brows tangled his fingers twitching behind his back then he stopped with the air of a man who has reached a decision you understand what this refusal means Hammersley shrugged you realize that it makes you an object of suspicion asked the other how? and doing what was expected of me said Hammersley easily you are expected to give those papers to me a card Ritzio's fine face had gone a shade paler under the glossy black of his hair and his eyes gleamed dangerously under his shaggy brows he measured the honourable Cyril's six feet two against his own and then turned away I think I understand he said slowly your action leaves me no other alternative Hammersley his hands still deep in his pockets seem to be thinking deeply oh I wouldn't say that each man according to his lights you have your orders I have mine they seem to conflict I'm going to carry mine out if that interferes with carrying out yours I'm not to blame it's what happens in the end that matters he finished significantly Ritzio thought deeply for a moment you all at least let me see them no, I can't why? I have my own reasons another pause in which Ritzio gave every appearance of a baffled man you realize that if I gave the alarm and those papers were found on you you wouldn't do that why not? because of your card case that signifies nothing to anyone but you and me Hammersley smiled I'll take the risk Ritzio he said finally the two men had been so absorbed in their conversation that they had not heard the drawing of the curtains of the door but a sound made them turn and there stood Doris Mather End of Chapter 2 Chapter 3 of The Yellow Dove by George Gibbs this LibriVox recording is in the public domain recording by Tony Oliva Rice Papers Doris looked from the man whose hand she had accepted to the one she had refused their attitudes were eloquent of concealment and the few phrases which had reached her ears as she paused outside the curtain did nothing to relieve the sudden tension of her fears she hesitated for a moment as Ritzio recovered himself with an effort do come indoors he said with a smile Hammersley and I were uh discussing the scrap of paper I'm sure of it she said coolly nothing is so fruitful of argument I shouldn't have intruded but Cyril was to take me home a look passed between the men by Jove of course said Cyril with a glance at his watch if you'll excuse me Ritzio Betty is going to Scotland tomorrow early and I think she wants to go to bed Ritzio laughed the wall has made us vacuous eleven o'clock we're losing our beauty sleep he followed them to the door but pleading a desire for a nightcap remained in the smoking room I promise that you should take me home said the girl to Hammersley as they passed along the hall but I'm sorry if I interrupted awfully glad he murmured nothing important you know club matter personal Doris stopped just outside the drawing room door and searched his face keenly while she whispered and the threats of exposure why her that? I couldn't help it Cyril he glanced down at her quickly Hush Doris something she saw in his expression changed her resolution to question him the mystery which she had felt to hang about him since he had said he was a coward had deepened something told her that she had been treading on the ground and that in obeying him she served his interests best so she led the way into the drawing room where they made their adieu Bifield had already gone and Sandys and Lady Joyliff were just getting into their wraps you'll meet me here at ten their hostess was asking of Constance Joyliff if I'm not demolished by a zeppelin in the meanwhile laugh the widow or the yellow dove said Jackwell and Morley I'm sure he alights on the roofs of the parliament houses you'll be safe in Scotland at any rate Constance we're quite too unimportant up there to be visited by engines of destruction she laughed meaningly that is always except in Jack Sandys Sandys looked self-conscious but Lady Joyliff merely seemed benignly it would be quite restful I'm sure she said easily is Syrah going to be at Benakilt Hammersley awoke from a fit of abstraction great possible he murmured getting to be a bit of a hermit lately like it though rather Syrah hasn't anyone to play with said Betty Heathcote so he is taken to building chicken houses working him out on a plan of my own you see going in for hens today two eggs a day and then to Kippshaven so the submarines can't start of the cell you know he explained I don't think you need to worry about that said the Earl Dryley moving toward the door Doris Mather went upstairs for her wraps and when she came down she found Hammersley and his top coat awaiting her as they went down the steps into the waiting limousine her companion offered her his arm was it only fancy that gave her the impression that his glance was searching the darkness of the park beyond the lights of the waiting cars with a keenness which seemed uncalled for on so prosaic an occasion he helped her in and gave her attention to the chauffeur a schwater park striker by way of Hempstead and Harry she heard him say which was surprising since the nearer way lay through Harlanden and Harrow on Hill the orders to hurry too save in the stress of need were under the circumstances hardly flattering to her self-esteem but she remembered the urgent look in his eyes in the hall when he had silenced her questions and sank back in the seat her gaze fixed on the gloom of Hyde Park to their left waiting for him to speak he sat rigidly beside her his hands clasped about his stick his eyes peering straight before him at the back of striker's head she felt his restraint and a little bitterly remembered the cause of it buoyed by a hope that since he had thought it fit to enact a lie the whole tissue of doubts which assailed her might be based on misconception also that he was no coward she knew more than one instance of his physical courage came back to her incidents of his life before fortune had thrown them together and she only too well remembered the time when he had jumped from her car in front of a runaway horse saving the necks of the occupants of the vehicle he had lied to her but why? why? she closed her eyes trying to shut out the darkness and seek the sanctuary of some inner light but she failed to find it it seemed as though the gloom which spread over London had fallen over her spirit a pretty dreadful night she murmured at last I can't ever seem to get used to it she heard his light laugh and the sound of it comforted her jolly murky isn't it I miss that fireworks Johnny pouring whiskey over by Waterloo bridge and Big Ben doesn't seem like London all wrought anyway you don't think there's danger she asked cautiously he hesitated a moment before replying and then no he said not now silence fell over them again it was as though a shape set between a phantom of her dead hopes and his something so cold and tangible that she drew away in her own corner and looked out at the meaningless blur of the sleeping city her lips were tightly closed she had given him his chance to speak but he had not spoken and every foot of road that they traversed seemed to carry them further apart the end of their journey was it to be the end of everything between them after a while that seemed interminable she heard his voice again what else do you think of an awful rater she turned her head and tried to read his face but he kept it away from her toward the opposite window the feeling that she had voiced to Betty Heathcote of wanting to mother him came over her in a warm effusion nothing that you can say to me will make me think you one Cyril she said gently he murmured and after a pause I am though, you know she leaned forward impulsively and laid a hand on his knee no, you're acting strangely but I know that there's a reason for it as for your being a coward she laughed softly it's impossible quite impossible to make me believe that he laid his fingers over hers for a moment but to have confidence in a chap and all that but appearances are against me that's the difficulty why are they against you why should they be against you because you she stopped for here she felt that she was approaching dangerous ground instead of parleying longer she used her woman's weapons frankly and leaning toward him put an arm around his neck and held him to turn his face to hers oh Cyril won't you tell me what this mystery is that is coming between us won't you let me help you I want to be in the sunlight with you again it can't go on this way one of us in the dark and the other in the light I have felt it for weeks when I spoke to you tonight about going to France it was in the hope that you might give me some explanation don't embarrass me my heart is wrapped up in the cause of England but if the German blood in you is calling you away from your duties as an Englishman tell me frankly and I will try to forgive you but don't let the shadow stay over us any longer Cyril I must know the truth what is the mystery that hangs over you and makes mystery he put in quickly CD Doris thinking too much about the war nothing mysterious about me he turned his head away from her again people don't like my sitting tight here in England he said more slowly when all the chaps I know are off to the front I can't help it that's all but it's so unlike you she pleaded it's the sporting thing Cyril I want you to believe he put in slowly it isn't the kind of sport I care for I won't believe it I can't, I know you better than that that's the trouble he insisted I'm afraid you don't know me at all I don't know you tonight she said sadly it almost seems as though you were trying to get rid of me he asked her tightly in his arms and kissed her gently God forbid he muttered then tell me what it is that is worrying you she whispered not a living soul shall ever know what were the threats of exposure that pass between you and Ritcio he can't bear you any ill will because I chose you instead of him I didn't mean to listen I'm innocent his tone to you what is the danger that hangs over you that puts you in his power it's my right to know tell me Cyril, tell me she felt the pressure of the arm around her relax and the sudden rigidity of his whole body as he drew away I think you must have been mistaken in what you say you heard he said evenly I told you the club matter in which you couldn't possibly be interested they were speaking formally now almost as strangers she felt the indifference in his tone and couldn't restrain the bitterness that rose in hers one gentleman doesn't threaten a clubmate with exposure in a club matter unless and less he's done something discreditable something dishonorable the honorable Cyril bent his head you have guessed he said he is jealous he wants to you milliate me she laughed miserably then why did you threaten him I had to defend myself you dishonorable I'll have to have proofs of that what are the papers you have that he wants then what is there incriminating in Ritcio's card case you see I heard everything what else did you hear he asked quickly she drew away from him and sank back heavily in her corner nothing she muttered isn't that enough it seemed to the girl as though her companions figure relaxed a little and he turned toward her gently don't bother about me I'm not worth bothering about the worst of it is I can't make any explanation at least any that will satisfy you all that I ask is that you have patience with me if you can trust me if you can and try to forget try to forget what you have heard if you should mention my conversation with Ritcio it might lead to grave consequences for him for me it seemed as though in a nightmare the suspicions that had been slowly gathering in her brain throughout the evening now focusing upon him from every incident with a persistence that was not to be denied the shape sat between them again more tangible more cold and cruel than before all his excuses all his explanations gave it substance and reality of their dead hopes it had been before now it was something more sinister something that put all thoughts of the Cyril she knew from her mind the shade of Judas fawning for his pieces of silver a pale Judas in a monocle she closed her eyes again and tried to think Cyril it was unbelievable and a moment ago he had kissed her again the touch of his lips on her forehead it seemed as though she too were being betrayed you ask something very difficult of me she stammered chokingly I can only ask he said and only hope that you take my word for its importance she shivered in her corner the sound of his voice was so impersonal so different from the easy bantering tone to which she was accustomed that it seemed that what he had said was true that she did not know him another surprise awaited her for he leaned forward peering into the mirror beside the windshield in front of Stryker and turned and looked quickly out of the rear window of the car then she heard his voice in quick peremptory notes through the speaking tube there's a car behind us the driver touched his cap and she felt the machine leap forward the thin stream of light played on the grey road and danced on the dimfassads of unlighted houses which emerged from the obscurity slid by and were lost again as the car twisted and turned rocking from side to side moving ever more rapidly toward the open country to the north the dark corners of cross streets menaced for a moment and were gone a reflector gleamed from one but they went by it without slowing the signal shrieking a flash full upon them a sound of voices cursing in the darkness and the danger was passed at the end of a long piece of straight road Cyril turned again and reached for the speaking tube but his voice was quite cool they're coming on faster striker and faster they went they had reached the region of semi-detached villas and the going was good the road was a narrow ribbon of light reeling in upon its spool with frightful rapidity the machine was a fine one and its usual well-ordered per had grown into a roar threatened immediate disruption Doris sat rigidly clutching at the door sill and seat trying to adjust her braced muscles to the task of keeping upright but a jolt of the car tore her grass loose and threw her into Cyril's arms and there he held her steadily she was too disturbed to resist and lay quietly conscious of the strength of the long arms that enfolded her aware in spite of herself of a sense of exhilaration and triumph triumph with Cyril what triumph over whom it didn't seem to matter just then whom he was trying to escape she seemed very safe in his arms and very contented though the car rocked ominously while its headlight whirled drunkenly in a wild orbit of tossed shadows the sportswoman in her responded to the call of speed the chance of accident the danger of capture for she felt sure now that there was a danger to Cyril over her shoulder she saw the lights of the pursuing machine glowing unblinkingly as though endowed with a persistence which couldn't know failure under the light of an incandescent she saw that its lines were those of a touring car and realized the handicap of the heavy car with its limousine body but striker was doing his best running with a wide throttle picking his road with a skill which would have done credit to Cyril himself the heath was already behind them at hendon having gained a little striker put out his lights and turned into a by-road hoping to slip away in the darkness but as luck would have it the moon was bright and in a moment they saw the long spoke of light swinging behind them good driver that Johnny she heard her companion say in a note of admiration to striker have to run for it again the road was not so good here and they lost time without the search lights so striker turned them on again this evasion of the straight issue of speed had been a confession of weakness and the other car seemed to realize it for it came on at increased speed which shortened the distance so that the figures of the occupants of the other were plainly discernible five men in all huddled low a good piece of road widened the distance the limousine now thoroughly warmed was doing the best that she was capable of and the tires Cyril told her were all new her questions seemed to give him an idea for he reached for the flower vase and thrusting out a hand jerked it back into the road the torn tire might help a little he said but the fellow behind swerved and came faster it was now a test of metal their pursuer lagged a little on the levels not them on the grades and barring an accident it was doubtful whether they would reach the gates of ashwater parks safely she heard a reflection of this in Cyril's voice as he shouted through the open front window how far by the road striker flag miles I'd say sir give her all she can take striker nodded and from a hill crest they seemed to soar into space the car shivered and groaned like a stricken thing but kept on down the hill without the touch of a break they crossed a bridge rattled from side to side Cyril steadied the girl in his arms and held her tight are you frightened he asked her no but what is it all about her companion glanced back to where the long beams of light were searching their dust when he turned toward her to leave he held her closely for a moment peering into her eyes will you help Midoris she heard him say but how what can I do Cyril he hesitated again glancing over his shoulder valley nuisance to have to drive you like this wouldn't do it if it wasn't most important yes they want something I've got you'll laugh when I tell you most amusing cigarette papers cigarette that's all, I give you my word here they are and reaching down into his trousers pocket he produced a little yellow packet cigarette papers that's all these chaps must be perishing for a smoke what? he laughed but I don't understand it isn't necessary that you should take my word for it won't you it's what they want and I'm jolly determined they're not going to get it you want me to help you how? he looked back again and the lights behind them found a reflection in his eyes if earlier in the evening she had hoped to see him fully awake she had her wish now he was quite cool and ready to take an amused view of things but in his coolness she felt a new power an inventiveness a readiness to resort to extremes to baffle his pursuers her apprehension had grown with the moments who were these men in the touring car special agents of Scotland Yard she had never been so doubtful nor so proud of him weighed in the balance of emotion the woman in her decided it caught at his hand impulsively yes, I'll help if I can, whatever comes he raised her fingers to his lips and kissed them gently thank God he muttered, I knew you would he looked over his shoulder and then peered out in search of familiar landmarks they had passed Cannon's Hill and swung into the main road to Watford if they reached there safely they'd get to Ashwater Park which was but a short distance beyond she heard him speaking again and felt something thrust into the palm of her hand take this, he said it's what they want they mustn't get it but who are they I don't know except that they've been sent by Ritzio Ritzio yes, he's not with them this sort of game requires chats of a different type you mean that they don't be alarmed they won't hurt me and of course they won't hurt you I'm going to get you out of the way with this my success depends on you we'll drive past the park entrance close to the Wicked Gate in the hedge near the house just as we stop, jump out run through and hide among the shrubbery the fog is dark they won't see you when they're gone make your way to the house it's a chance but I've got to take it and you she faltered I'll get away don't worry but the packet whatever happens don't let them get the packet no it's quite unimportant to anybody but me he laughed that is anybody but Ritzio she stared straight in front of her trying to think but thought seemed impossible the speed had gotten into her blood and she was mastered by a spirit stronger than her own he held her in his arms again and she gloried in the thought that she could help him whatever his cause her heart and soul were in it they roared into Watford and turning sharp to the left took the road to Croxley Green the machine hadn't missed a spark but the touring car was creeping up was so close that its lights were blinding them Hammersley leaned forward and gave a hurried order to strike her they passed the park gates at full speed the gate was a quarter of a mile beyond would they make it the touring car was roaring up alongside but striker jockeyed it into the gutter voices were shouting and Doris got the gleam of something in the hand of a tall figure standing up in the other car there followed shots four of them and an ominous sound came from somewhere underneath as the limousine limped forward real tire said striker have we a spare wheel she heard Cyril say yes sir when we stop put it on as quick as you can a hundred yards easy so and were there striker now all to the left and give them the road quick now stop the other machine came alongside at their right and the men jumped down just as Cyril threw open the left-hand door and Doris leaped out and went through the gate in the hedge end of chapter three chapter four of the yellow dove by George Gibbs this LibriVox recording is in the public domain recording by Tony Oliva dangerous secrets once within the borders of her father's estate hidden in a clump of bushes near the hedge all idea of flight left Doris's head she was home and the familiar scene gave her confidence from the middle of her clump of bushes grew a spruce tree and into it she quickly climbed until she reached a point where she could see the figures in the road beside the quivering machines she had not been followed the five men were gathered around Cyril who was protesting violently at the outrage they had not missed her yet striker was on his knees beside the stricken wheel calm now she heard the leader saying you're not to be hurt if you'll give them up well chap you're mad Cyril was saying coolly I was thinking you wanted my watch you chased me 20 miles in the dead of night and then asked me for cigarette papers you're a chaffin you'll find out soon enough said the tall man gruffly off with his coat gem now searching Cyril made no resistance Doris could see his face quite plainly he was smiling rum go this he said with a puzzled air I only smoke meds cigarettes you know but they searched him thoroughly even taking off his shoes I see stop it she heard him laugh you're a ticklin shut up den you said the tall man with a scowl right oh said Cyril cheerfully but you're wasting time they found that out in a while and the leader of the men straightened suddenly he gave a sound of triumph that girl he cried and rushing to the limousine threw open the door gone he shouted excitedly she can't be far find her he rushed around the rear wheels of the limousine and for the first time spied the gate in the hedge tricked boy god in after some of you it won't do a bit of good remark Cyril in the middle of the road near the front wheels of the machines she doesn't smoke old chap bad taste I call it got no lady mixed up in a hunt for cigarettes besides she's almost home by this house isn't far she lives there you know in her tree Doris trembled she was well screened by the branches and she heard the crackle of footsteps dry leaves as the searchers beat the bushes below her but they passed on following the path toward the house as the sounds diminished in the distance she saw Cyril still seated on the ground leaning against the front wheels of the touring car while he argued and cajoled the men nearest him helping himself by a wheel as he arose he faced the tall man who had come up waving his revolver and uttering wild threats it won't help matters call him in by a lot of names said Cyril brushing the dust from his clothes you want something I haven't got that's flat I hope you're satisfied not yet they'll bring the girl in a minute she can't have gone far Cyril glanced around him carelessly and brushed his clothes again he had discovered that Stryker had put on the spare wheel and was parling with one of their captors oh very well have your way what more can I do for you if you don't mind I'd like to be going on you'll wait for the girl here Doris watched Stryker skulking along in the shadow of the limousine she saw him reach his seat heard a grinding of the clutches and a confused scuffle out of which his blonde hair disheveled his shoulders coteless Cyril emerged and leaped for the running board of the moving machine you forgot to search the limousine she heard him shout the tall man scrambled to his knees and fired at the retreating machine while the others jumped for the touring car it had no sooner begun to move than there was a sound of escaping air and an oaf from the chauffeur a poncha! someone said and Doris heard a volley of curses which spoke eloquently of the sharpness of Cyril's pocket knife Doris in her hiding place breathed a sigh of relief Cyril had gotten safely off and his last words had created a diversion in the camp of the enemy they were working furiously at the tire but she knew that the chance of coming up with Cyril again that night was gone now that the affair had resulted so favorably to Cyril she began to regret her imprudence in remaining to see the adventure to its end Cyril had played for time and if she had followed his instructions she could have gotten far enough away to have eluded her pursuers by this time the probability she would have been safe beneath the parental roof the worst of it was that Cyril thought her safe the packet in her glove burned in her hand beneath her somewhere between her refuge and the house were two men and how to pass them with her precious possession became now the sole object of her thoughts Cyril had told her it must under no circumstances fall into the hands of their pursuers and the desperateness of his efforts to elude them gave her a renewed sense of her importance as an instrument for good or ill in Cyril's cause whatever it might be now that Cyril had gone she felt singularly helpless and small in the face of such odds the packet in the crotch of one of the branches where she might come and reclaim it at her leisure and go down and run the chance of being taken without it but the unpleasantness which might result from such an encounter deterred her and so she sat her chilly ankles depending awaiting she knew not what she had almost reconciled herself to the thought of spending hours in this uncomfortable position when the tall man in the road blew a blast on a sporting whistle and soon the passing of footsteps through the gate advised her that the men inside the grounds had returned this was her opportunity and without waiting to listen she dropped quietly down on the side of the tree away from the gate and stealing furtively long in the shadow of the hedge made her way as quickly as possible in the direction of the house out of breath with exercise and excitement when she reached a patch of trees at the edge of the lawn she stopped and looked behind her then she blessed her luck in coming down when she did for she saw the thin ray of a pocket light gleaming like a will of the wisp and knew that the search for her was still on fear lent her caution she skirted the edge of the wide lawn in the shadow of the trees running like a deer across the moonlit spaces always keeping the masses of evergreens between her and the wicked gate until she reached the flower garden where she paused a moment to get her breath a patch of moonlight lay between her and the entrance and the hedge was impenetrable there was no other way she bent low and hurried forward trusting to the good fortune that had so far aided her halfway across the open she heard a shout and knew that she had been seen there was nothing for it but to run straight for the house so catching her skirts up above her knees and scorning the garden path in her a longer way she made straight for the terrace the main door of which she knew had been left open for her return across the wide lawn in the bright moonlight she ran her heart throbbing madly the precious yellow packet clutched tightly against her palm out of the tail of her eye she saw dark forms emerge from the bushes and run diagonally for the terrace steps intercepting her but she was fast and she blessed her tennis for the wind and muscle to stand the strain she was much nearer her goal than her pursuers but they came rapidly their bulk looming larger every moment she saw the lights and knew that servants were at hand her father too was in the library for she saw the glow of his reading lamp she had only to shout for help someone would hear her she tried to but not a sound came from her parching throat with a last effort she raced up the terrace steps pushed open the heavy door and shut and bolted it quickly behind her then sank into the nearest piece of furniture in a state of physical collapse Doris Mather did not faint an act which might readily have been forgiven her under the circumstances her nerves were shaken by the violence of her exercise and the narrowness of her escape and it was some moments before she could reply to the anxious questions that were put to her then she answered evasively peering through the windows at the moonlit lawn and seeing no sign of her pursuers in a few moments she drank a glass of water and took the arm of Wilson her maid up the stairway to her rooms after giving orders to the servants that her father was not to be told anything except that she had come in very tired and had gone directly to bed for the present at least Cyril's packet was safe in her dressing room Wilson took off her cloak and helped her into bedroom slippers not however without a comment on the bedraggled state of her dinner dress and the shocking condition of her slippers but Doris explained with some care that Mr. Hammersley's machine had had a blow out near the wicked gate that she had become frightened and had run all the way across the lawn all of which was true it didn't explain Mr. Hammersley's deficiencies as an escort but Wilson was too well trained to presume further a little sherry and a biscuit and Doris revived rapidly while the maid drew her bath she locked Cyril's cigarette papers in the drawer of the desk in her bedroom and when she was bathed and ready for the night she dismissed Wilson to her dressing room to wait within call until she had gone to bed along with her thoughts her first act was to turn out her lights and kneel in the window where she could peer out through the hangings it was inconceivable that her pursuers would dare to make any attempt upon the house but even now she wondered whether it would not have been wiser if she had taken her father into her confidence and had the gardeners out to keep an eye open for suspicious characters but the motives that had kept her silent downstairs in the hall were even stronger with her now she could not have borne to discuss with her father who had an extraordinary talent for getting at the root of difficulties the subject of Cyril's questionable packet of cigarette papers she was quite sure from the adventure which had befallen them tonight and the mystery with which Cyril had chosen to invest the article committed to her care that Cyril himself would not have approved of any course which would have brought the packet or his own actions into the light of publicity the packet of cigarette papers with the last scrutiny of the landscape she pulled the shades and hangings so that no ray of light could reach the outside of the house then groped her way across the room and a ray of light beneath the door of her dressing room showed that Wilson was still there so she took the precaution of locking that door as well as the others leading to the upstairs hall then went to her desk and turned on her lamp she unlocked the drawer of the desk and taking the small object gingerly in her fingers scrutinized it carefully it was yellow in color bound with a small rubber band a very prosaic a very harmless looking object to have caused so much excitement and trouble to all who had been concerned about it she turned it over and stretched its rubber band snapping it thoughtfully two or three times now for the first time since Cyril had given it to her did she permit herself to think of the hidden meanings the thing might possess in the machine during the chase Cyril had won her unreservedly to his side as against the mysterious men of John Rizio Cyril's cause had been the only one to be considered she had been carried off her feet and there hadn't been time to think of anything but the real necessity of aceding to Cyril's wishes in getting the small object to a place of safety then it had only been a packet of cigarette papers a mere package of riz la quoi which everybody for some reason or other seemed to want now weighed lightly in her hand the seclusion of her room gave it a different character she recalled Cyril's bantering tone at having been chased miles for a cigarette but his attitude deceived Doris no more than it had his pursuers there was material here for something more deadly than cigarettes she took the yellow packet in both hands and pressed it to her temples as though by this act she could pass its secrets into her own brain in spite of herself she was frightfully curious and frightfully afraid she got up and paced the floor rapidly no it couldn't go on she must know the truth as the key of the one unopened room fascinated Bluebeard's wife as the box fascinated Pandora so this unopened yellow packet plagued and fascinated Doris Mather she hesitated another long moment and then slipped off the rubber band and opened it trembling so that the first leaf of paper came out in her fingers and fell to the floor she picked the paper up and examined it minutely holding it up to the light there was nothing unusual about it no mark no sign of any kind that might indicate a secret mission leaf by leaf slowly at first and then more rapidly she went through the leaves examining each page back and front without success it was not until she was almost half through it that she came upon the writing four pages written lengthways in ink with a line too fine almost for legibility she put the packet down for a moment her heart throbbing with excitement and incredulity too apprehensive to read in mortal dread of a revelation which was to change the whole course of her life and Cyril's there was still time to close the book and go to bed why did she sit there holding the thing open stupidly gazing at nothing if Cyril yes if Cyril was the unspeakable thing of her doubts it was time that she knew it and no compunctions of honor should hold her with such a man besides she had promised him nothing hesitating no longer she held the leaves under the light of her lamp and slowly deciphered the thin script at first she could make little of it it seemed to consist of numerals which she couldn't understand here and there she made out the names of towns the names of regiments familiar to her and a series of dates beginning in March and ending in May as the meaning of the writing grew clearer to her she read on her eyes distended with horror even a child could have seen that this was a list of the British forces under arms she composed dates for the completion of their equipment training and departure for France when she had finished reading the written pages her inert fingers slowly turned the blank papers over to the end there was nothing more God knows it was enough Cyril the honorable Cyril a spy of the Germans she sank low in her armchair her senses came from the horror of the revelation her thoughts became confused like those of a sick person awaking from a nightmare to a half-consciousness peopled with strange beautiful images doing dark things of dreams Cyril her Cyril a spy what would happen now and which way did duty lie toward England she sat crouched on the floor in an agony of misery at the thought of Cyril's baseness the package of paper clenched in her hand trying to think clearly for England for Cyril for herself but the longer she battled the deeper became her desperation and despair the world seemed to be slipping away from her the orderly arrangement of her thoughts was twisted and distorted so that the wrong had become right and the right wrong she had lost her standard of judgment she did not know which way to turn so she bent her head forward into her hands and silently prayed there seemed to be nothing else to do for a long while she remained prostrate by the window her brain tortured her body stiff with weariness until she could think no more then slowly and painfully she rose and still clutching the yellow packet groped her weight to bed into which she fell exhausted in mind and body End of chapter 4