journal spoke of an ultimatum, a word which evoked harsh denunciations of “British treachery” from the Germans. The comparative friendliness induced by Dalroy’s prevision as a caterer vanished at once. When the train rolled wearily across the Rhine into Cologne, ten hours late, both Dalroy and the girl were fully aware that their fellow-passengers regarded them as potential enemies.
It was then about six o’clock on the Tuesday evening, and a loud-voiced official announced that the train would not proceed to Aix-la-Chapelle until eight. The German officers went out, no doubt to seek a meal; but took the precaution of asking an officer in charge of some Bavarian troops on the platform to station a sentry at the carriage door. Probably they had no other intent, and merely wished to safeguard their places; but Dalroy realised now the imprudence of talking English, and signed to the girl that she was to come with him into the corridor on the opposite side of the carriage.
There they held counsel. Miss Beresford was firmly resolved to reach Brussels, and flinched from no difficulties. It must be remembered that war was not formally declared between Great Britain and Germany until that evening. Indeed, the tremendous decision was made while the pair so curiously allied by fate were discussing their programme. Had they even quitted the train at Cologne they had a fair prospect of reaching neutral territory by hook or by crook. But they knew nothing of Liège, and the imperishable laurels which that gallant city was about to gather. They elected to go on!
A station employé brought them some unpalatable food, which they made a pretence of eating. Irene Beresford’s Hanoverian German was perfect, so Dalroy did not air his less accurate accent, and the presence of the sentry was helpful at this crisis. Though sharp-eyed and rabbit-eared, the man was quite civil.
At last the Prussian officers returned. He who had been chatty overnight was now brusque, even overbearing. “You have no right here!” he vociferated at Dalroy. “Why should a damned Englishman travel with Germans? Your country is perfidious as ever. How do I know that you are not a spy?”
“Spies are not vouched for by Councillors of State,” was the calm reply. “I have in my pocket a letter from his Excellency Staatsrath von Auschenbaum authorising my journey, and you yourself must perceive that I am escorting a lady to her home.”
The other snorted, but subsided into his seat. Not yet had Teutonic hatred of all things British burst its barriers. But the pressure was increasing. Soon it would leap forth like the pent-up flood of some mighty reservoir whose retaining wall had crumbled into ruin.
“Is there any news?” went on Dalroy civilly. At any hazard, he was determined, for the sake of the girl, to maintain the semblance of good-fellowship. She, he saw, was cool and collected. Evidently, she had complete trust in him.
For a little while no one answered. Ultimately, the officer who regarded Liège as a joke said shortly, “Your Sir Grey has made some impudent suggestions. I suppose it is what the Americans call ‘bluff’; but bluffing Germany is a dangerous game.”
“Newspapers exaggerate such matters,” said Dalroy.
“It may be so. Still, you’ll be lucky if you get beyond Aachen,” was the ungracious retort. The speaker refused to give the town its French name.
An hour passed, the third in Cologne, before the train rumbled away into the darkness. The girl pretended to sleep. Indeed, she may have dozed fitfully. Dalroy did not attempt to engage her in talk. The Germans gossiped in low tones. They knew that their nation had spied on the whole world. Naturally, they held every foreigner in their midst as tainted in the same vile way.
From Cologne to Aix-la-Chapelle is only a two hours’ run. That night the journey consumed four. Dalroy no longer dared look out when the train stood in a siding. He knew by the sounds that all the dread paraphernalia of war was speeding toward the frontier; but any display of interest on his part would be positively dangerous now; so he, too, closed his eyes.
By this time he was well aware that his real trials would begin at Aix; but he had the philosopher’s temperament, and never leaped fences till he reached them.
At one in the morning they entered the station of the last important town in Germany. Holland lay barely three miles away, Belgium a little farther. The goal was near. Dalroy felt that by calmness and quiet determination he and his charming protégé might win through. He was very much taken by Irene Beresford. He had never met any girl who attracted him so strongly. He found himself wondering whether he might contrive to cultivate this strangely formed friendship when they reached England. In a word, the self-denying ordinance popularly attributed to Lord Kitchener was weakening in Captain Arthur Dalroy.
Then his sky dropped, dropped with a bang.
The train had not quite halted when the door was torn open, and a bespectacled, red-faced officer glared in.
“It is reported from Cologne that there are English in this carriage,” he shouted.
“Correct, my friend. There they are!” said the man who had snarled at Dalroy earlier.
“You must descend,” commanded the new-comer. “You are both under arrest.”
“On what charge?” inquired Dalroy, bitterly conscious of a gasp of terror which came involuntarily from the girl’s lips.
“You are spies. A sentry heard you talking English, and saw you examining troop-trains from the carriage window.”
So that Bavarian lout had listened to the Prussian officer’s taunt, and made a story of his discovery to prove his diligence.
“We are not spies, nor have we done anything to warrant suspicion,” said Dalroy quietly. “I have letters – ”
“No talk. Out you come!” and he was dragged forth by a bloated fellow whom he could have broken with his hands. It was folly to resist, so he merely contrived to keep on his feet, whereas the fat bully meant to trip him ignominiously on to the platform.
“Now you!” was the order to Irene, and she followed. Half-a-dozen soldiers closed around. There could be no doubting that preparations had been made for their reception.
“May I have my portmanteau?” said Dalroy. “You are acting in error, as I shall prove when given an opportunity.”
“Shut your mouth, you damned Englishman” – that was a favourite phrase on German lips apparently – “would you dare to argue with me? – Here, one of you, take his bag. Has the woman any baggage? No. Then march them to the – ”
A tall young lieutenant, in the uniform of the Prussian Imperial Guard, dashed up breathlessly.
“Ah, I was told the train had arrived!” he cried. “Yes, I am in search of those two – ”
“Thank goodness you are here, Von Halwig!” began Dalroy.
The Guardsman turned on him a face aflame with fury. “Silence!” he bellowed. “I’ll soon settle your affair. – Take his papers and money, and put him in a waiting-room till I return,” he added, speaking to the officer of reserves who had affected the arrest. “Place the lady in another waiting-room, and lock her in. I’ll see that she is not molested. As for this English schwein-hund, shoot him at the least sign of resistance.”
“But, Herr Lieutenant,” began the other, whose heavy paunch was a measure of his self-importance, “I have orders – ”
“Ach, was! I know! This Englishman is not an ordinary spy. He is a cavalry captain, and speaks our language fluently. Do as I tell you. I shall come back in half-an-hour. – Fräulein, you are in safer hands. You, I fancy, will be well treated.”
Dalroy said not a word. He saw at once that some virus had changed Von Halwig’s urbanity to bitter hatred. He was sure the Guardsman had been drinking, but that fact alone would not account for such an amazing volte-face. Could it be that Britain had thrown in her lot with France? In his heart of hearts he hoped passionately that the rumour was true. And he blazed, too, into a fierce if silent resentment of the Prussian’s satyr-like smile at Irene Beresford. But what could he do? Protest was worse than useless. He felt that he would be shot or bayoneted on the slightest pretext.
Von