Chapter VI: The House of Suspicion

In Earl’s Court Road, at the corner of Longridge Road, a tall, fair-haired man, with a hard, clean-shaven face, and wearing a shabby, soft felt hat, idled, as though awaiting a friend.

It was half-past eleven o’clock in the morning, dull and rainy, and tradesmen’s boys were hurrying to and fro on cycles up and down the quiet, respectable Kensington thoroughfare. In the Earl’s Court Road passed to and fro the usual procession of motor buses, with all their vibration and racket, while Longridge Road remained quiet, being just off the main road.

Ever and anon the shabby, fair-haired man glanced down the thoroughfare of dull respectability, most of the houses of which were gray and of uniform architecture, each having its view of “over the way.”

Sandy Paton of the Special Branch--for it was he--was keeping keen surveillance upon one of those high, inartistic houses with deep basements. He had strolled along there at ten o’clock, and was still waiting there in patience, pretending, however, to be quite uninterested in his surroundings. He lit a cigarette, and pulled a picture paper from the pocket of his faded overcoat. His appearance was that of an unemployed lounger--a man who took his dole, and spent it mainly upon drink. Now and then he moved a little way along the Earl’s Court Road, so as not to remain in the same spot sufficiently long to attract attention, but, whenever he did so, his place was taken by a clean-shaven, thickset man in a seedy khaki-colored raincoat and golf cap. It was Seton Darville. The pair were acting together upon a very curious and interesting errand.

They assisted each other in keeping surveillance upon the house in question until noon, when suddenly Paton saw the door open, and a well-dressed, elderly man of military appearance, with a close-clipped, gray mustache, descended the steps, and, having glanced quickly up and down the road, started to walk in his direction. The man wore a hard felt hat, a smart dark-blue overcoat, and well-polished, brown shoes. His somewhat sinister face was furrowed, speaking mutely of hardships, endured probably in hot climates abroad, though the truth was that he had recently been released from a long period of imprisonment in the French convict prison at Toulon.

As soon as he appeared, Paton drew back, and mingled with a small crowd waiting for a motor bus, while Darville, realizing the truth from his friend’s quick movement, turned upon his heel and hurried away. Paton, having watched the occupant of the house of suspicion turn the corner and walk up the Earl’s Court Road in the direction of Kensington High Street, hurried round to an unfrequented by-street, where, in a mews, stood the delivery-van of a well-known firm of parcel agents, the horse being in charge of one of the uniformed servants. Entering the van, Paton found a coat and cap of the same uniform, which he assumed, and then, tying on an old apron made of sacking, he took from a shelf in the van a small brown-paper parcel, heavily sealed, and with many labels upon it, together with a number of yellow forms upon which the receivers of parcels scribbled their receipts.

“Come on,” he said to the driver. “Let’s go round there. I want to get rid of this as soon as possible,” he added, indicating the parcel.

His disguise as a delivery-man was, indeed, perfect. He presented a type of the hard-worked man who spends his life going from door to door with parcels large and small for which he collects money and signatures.

In a few minutes the van drew up before the door of the house in question, and Paton descended with the parcel, leaving the other man to sit with the reins.

When a red-haired maid opened the door in response to his ring, he asked:

“Is Mrs. Caborn at home? I’ve got a parcel here for her.”

“She don’t live here,” was the maid’s prompt reply. “I don’t know the name.”

“But the parcel is addressed care of Mr. Peke O’Brien,” Paton said, glancing at the label. “He lives here, don’t he?”

“Yes. If it’s for him, I’ll take it.”

“I’m very sorry, miss,” Paton replied. “But it contains jewelry, and is insured for four hundred pounds. When will Mr. O’Brien be back?”

“Not till this evening. He’s generally home about eight o’clock. But can’t you leave the parcel?” asked the girl.

“Sorry, I can’t,” was the firm answer. “But will you tell Mr. O’Brien when he comes in that I’ve got a parcel of jewelry for Mrs. Caborn, and that I’ll call at eight to-night?”

“All right,” said the good-looking maid. “I’ll tell him,” and she closed the door, whereupon Paton mounted into the van and drove away.

Back again in the mews the inspector of the Special Branch divested himself of the apron, coat, and cap, and resumed his coat and overcoat. Then, after wrapping the valuable parcel in a piece of brown paper, he said good-by to the driver, and, descending, soon joined Darville in the bustle of the Earl’s Court Road.

In a few brief sentences he described what had happened.

“Exactly as it should be,” laughed Darville. “The jewelry worth four hundred pounds will certainly arouse O’Brien’s interest. But he’ll be a tough nut to crack--that’s my opinion.”

“When I see him at eight I’ll be very diplomatic, you bet,” said Paton. “I wonder who he really is?”

“Ah! That we don’t know yet. He may be a perfectly honest person, but, on the other hand, he may be a crook--like his friends, eh?” Darville remarked. “In any case the attempt is worth while, and you look a perfect parcel-delivery man,” he added, with a laugh of triumph.

“Well, I’ll have to play the game again to-night, sir,” Sandy answered, “and let’s hope we have luck.”

Then they parted, having made an appointment to meet that evening.

The ruse to obtain Joan Caborn’s address was the outcome of Seton Darville’s ingenuity. His inventiveness was inexhaustible. It was he who had discovered a means of secret writing which was alone the secret of his confidential department; a secret which Britain’s enemies would have given many thousands to learn, and which was closely guarded by the few persons to whom he had entrusted it. To his own ingenuity were due the many clever subterfuges by which his shrewd and clever agents of both sexes collected information from various sources abroad, to be used by the Foreign Office in their delicate diplomacy with the Powers, or by the departments responsible for the defense of the nation. His brain was ever active to devise ways and means for seeking the truth of the juggling of foreign diplomats, or thwarting the many enemy conspiracies against Britain’s power and prestige.

Bold, audacious, fearless, he pursued his great and important work in silence, and without any thought of monetary gain. Though handling large sums of public money, all he did was done voluntarily, and without payment. He paid all his own expenses, often very heavy, because no one would be able to call him a spy. Indeed, he spent most of the royalties earned by his books upon the great department the operations of which he directed, and few knew the truth beyond the members of the Cabinet, his only reward being a gracious letter of thanks now and then in the handwriting of the Prime Minister, and the offer of an honor at the hands of the Sovereign.

This he had twice declined. He had reasons, strong reasons, which he had never divulged to a living soul. Several Cabinet Ministers, who knew that the honor had been offered and declined, dubbed him a fool, when so many men were elbowing their way into notoriety by the unseemly scrambling for knighthoods. Still, he only smiled in that sphinx-like manner which he adopted when he held a secret and refused to divulge it even to his best friend.

All the morning he had been thinking of Edris Temperley, and, as the taxi carried him up Kensington Road to Knightsbridge, and then along Piccadilly towards his rooms, he was still reflecting--wondering whether or not he dare go to Wengen and enter that merry winter sports crowd who each year divert themselves in the Alpine snows. Edris would be there. She had begged him to go also. But he hesitated--just as he had hesitated for a whole year past. She had invited him to her home in Leicestershire half a dozen times, but as many times he had made excuses, until he could invent no more. She must have seen that he was avoiding her, he thought. What would she think?

On reëntering his rooms the faithful Drew came forward, and said:

“Mr. Bennett has been on the ’phone, sir. Will you please ring him up?”

Without taking off his overcoat, Darville went to the instrument, when his secretary asked him if it was convenient to come round to the office, as there were some urgent matters awaiting his attention.

Seton Darville heaved a sigh, and replied that he would come almost immediately. The complications and responsibilities of one of the most important government departments, of which he was the unpaid head, were sufficient to turn gray the hair of any man. To the very few people who knew of Darville’s connection with the Secret Service he used to laughingly tell that he had long ago grown feathers, and that all his troubles ran off him like water off a duck’s back.

Half an hour later he ascended to the first floor of a dingy block of offices close to Trafalgar Square, and with a Yale key let himself into a big suite of rooms by a private door. Upon the public door was marked the name of a Spanish mining company, which, in reality, did not exist. The offices were believed by all those busy people who hurried up and down the broad, stone staircase to be the London offices of the corporation which had its headquarters in Madrid.

The room he entered was a cozy, comfortable one, more like a bachelor’s sitting-room than an office. A cheerful fire was burning, and upon a side table stood a tall vase filled with great yellow chrysanthemums.

He glanced at them and smiled. He threw off his coat, drew off his gloves, and seated himself at the big writing-table set near the window, which gave a fine view across Trafalgar Square, at that hour crowded with traffic. He glanced around the book-lined room, with its somber decorations and its thick Turkey carpet. He only came to that secret headquarters on infrequent occasions, as he preferred to remain away lest he should be followed by some agent of the enemy, and the truth thus become revealed. To only the staff, the members of the Cabinet, and the highest officials at the Admiralty and the War Office was its existence known.

When Bennett entered in response to his bell, he asked quickly:

“Well, what’s the latest trouble?”

“Lola is here, and asks to see you,” replied the good-looking ex-naval man, placing on the table a _dossier_ of papers in an orange cover. “Here are her reports.”

“Good. I’ll glance at them. Bring her in when I ring,” Darville replied abruptly; and then asked, “Who had made my room a conservatory?”

“Lola brought them for you this morning.”

“Kind of her,” the other grunted, and at once applied himself to reading a long document in which there was reported the result of certain secret investigations she had made regarding the German naval activity at Kiel and at Hamburg, all facts of supreme interest to him.

Those reports contained secrets of war preparations which Germany had kept closely, but which had been unearthed by Lola Price, one of the cleverest and most astute of Britain’s female agents.

He rang his bell, and a few moments later there entered a rather tall, dark-haired, very attractive young woman, extremely smartly-dressed, who crossed to the table and shook his hand.

“Well, Lola!” he exclaimed with a smile of welcome. “You’re back again safely, eh? Let’s see, you’ve been away four months, haven’t you?”

“It’s over five months since you transferred me from Vienna to Berlin, Mr. Darville,” replied the pretty, smiling girl, as she took a seat in the chair before him and unloosened her rich furs.

“Ah!” he exclaimed, as though suddenly remembering. “You’ve been in Berlin, haven’t you? I’ve just read your reports. They do you great credit, and are just what we wanted. You’re very clever, Lola--you never miss one single point.”

“Thanks to your very definite instructions,” replied the female secret agent. “It was all very difficult, but I was successful at last.”

“How did you manage to get the true facts out of Goltmann?”

The girl--for she did not appear to be more than about twenty-three--smiled mysteriously, and replied, with a shrug of the shoulders:

“Oh--well--by pretending love--as usual.”

They both laughed.

“Yes, Lola. You can make love very prettily, I know,” he said. “And you always keep a level head.”

“I’m compelled to,” she admitted. “My various missions have taught me wisdom. Whatever chances I take--and often they are pretty hazardous--I always leave a way open for escape.”

“That’s why you are always so successful,” said the man who moved his secret agents about Europe like pawns upon a chess-board. “By the way, thanks for those beautiful flowers.”

The pretty girl smiled. Then she ventured to approach the question which she had come there to put to him.

“I want you to do me a great favor, Mr. Darville,” she said suddenly, her splendid eyes fixed upon his broad, clean-shaven face. “May I go to Brussels?”

“Why Brussels?” he asked in surprise. “There’s nothing for you to do there.”

She was silent for a few seconds.

“Except--well, I might help Mr. Piper with the reports which come through from Germany,” she suggested.

Darville suddenly remembered a rumor he had heard through his secretary, Bennett.

“Is that the only reason you make this request, Lola?” he asked of the smartly-dressed girl in a low, serious tone, looking straight at her. “I was about to send you over to Washington.”

“I want particularly to go to Brussels,” the girl said persuasively.

“And the reason is quite plain to me. You are in love with Piper. I know it. Naturally you want to be near him,” Darville said, with a kind smile. “Very well, Lola. You shall go there for three months. After that you must travel again. Your pay will be the same that you had in Germany, together with your special allowances.”

“Ah! You always are such a dear!” cried the girl, jumping up joyfully and clutching Darville’s hand.

“I suppose you are really in love now, Lola? No pretence, eh?” he asked, with a good-humored laugh.

“I admit I am really in love. And it is so very good of you to be so kind to us. I’ll wire to Harry at once, and go over by Antwerp to-night.”

For a few moments Seton Darville reflected. Then suddenly exclaimed:

“By the way, when you were in Berlin did you ever meet a man named Karl Weiss?”

“Karl Weiss?” she repeated. “Yes. I knew him quite well.”

“What kind of man was he?”

“Oh--well--rather a lady-killer. He boasted to me of his _amours_, and one night introduced me to a rich German girl of whom he was particularly fond. It was said that he intended to marry her for her money, but I don’t know how true it was.”

“Tell me all you know about the man. I’m interested,” Darville urged.

“I don’t know much more, except that he seemed to lead a very gay life, a fact which was remarked by other members of the staff,” was Lola’s reply, as she readjusted her fur coat prior to leaving.

“You imply that he was unreliable.”

“Yes. That’s how I should describe him. And--well--if you are thinking of employing him, I should--I should hesitate.”

“Oh! What more do you know?” asked Darville, regarding her sharply.

“Only that I don’t think he is either very discreet or very serious--factors so highly necessary in our difficult work,” replied the girl who was so highly paid for her bravery, astuteness, and marvelous tact and cunning.

Darville thanked her, and she rose and left, laughing and happy.

The moment the door had closed and he was alone, he exclaimed aloud to himself.

“I suppose they’ve done quite right in retiring Karl, yet it seems very hard, poor fellow--very!”

And at that moment Bennett reëntered the room to discuss two important telegrams which had arrived in cipher from abroad and had been decoded by the night staff, for that office was ever open, day and night.

Darville’s secret department never slept.