"I went to the girl myself," she said, "and begged her to be more circumspect. But Madame would not listen to advice; Madame was doubtless sure of her position with our revered leader, and thought she could reject the friendly counsel of one old enough to be her mother. Behrend and Max and No. 13 there--all of us--are absolutely agreed that we are not going on with this sort of thing any longer. If you are to remain in charge of our organization, Mr. Mortimer, we want to know where you are to be found and how you spend your time. In short, we want to be sure that you are not playing a game that most of us have at different times played on subordinate agents... I mean, that when the crisis comes, we fall into the trap and you walk away. You had better realize once and for all that we are too old hands for that sort of trick."Here Max took up the thread. "Mrs. Malplaquet had put it very strite, so she 'ad, and wot he wanted to know was what Mortimer 'ad to siy?"Mortimer was very suave in his reply; a bad sign, thought Desmond, for it indicated that he was not sure of himself. He was rather vague, spoke about a vitally important mission that he had had to fulfil but which he had now brought to a successful conclusion, so that he was at length free to devote his whole attention once more to the great task in hand.
Behrend brought his fist crashing down on the arm of the settee.
"Words, words," he cried, "it won't do for me. Isn't there a man in the room besides me? You, Bellward, or you, Max, or you, No.13? Haven't you got any guts any of You? Are you going to sit here and listen to the soft soap of a fellow who has probably sent better men than himself to their death with tripe of this kind? It may do for you, but by the Lord, it won't do for me!"Mortimer cleared his throat uneasily.
"Our host is silent," said Mrs. Malplaquet, "what does Mr.
Bellward think about it?"
Desmond spoke up promptly.
"I think it would be very interesting to hear something further about this mission of Mortimer's," he observed:
Mortimer cast him a glance of bitter malice.
"Well," he said, after a pause, "you force my hand. I shall tell you of this mission of mine and. I shall show you the evidence, because it seems essential in the interests of our organization.
But I assure you I shall not forget this want of confidence you have shown in me; and I shall see that you don't forget it, either!"As he spoke, he glared fiercely at Desmond through his glasses.
"Let's hear about the precious mission," jeered Behrend, "let's see the evidence. The threats'll keep!"Then Mortimer told them of how the Star of Poland came into Nur-el-Din's possession, and of the Crown Prince's embarrassment when the German authorities claimed it for the regalia of the new Kingdom of Poland.
"The Crown Prince," he said, "summoned me to him in person and gave me the order to make my way to England immediately and recover the gem at all costs and by any means. Did I whine or snivel about being sent to my death as some of you were doing just now? No! That is not the way of the Prussian Guard..."The Prussian Guard?" cried No. 13 in an awed voice. "Are you also of the Prussian Guard, comrade?"He had risen from his seat and there was something almost of majesty about his thin, ungainly figure as he drew himself to his full height.
"Ay, comrade, I was," replied Mortimer.
"Then," cried No. 13, "you are..."
"No names, comrade," warned Mortimer, "no names, I beg!""No names, no names!" repeated the other and relapsed into his seat in a reverie.
"How I got to England," Mortimer continued, "matters nothing; how I fulfilled my mission is neither here nor there. But I recovered the gem and the proof..."He thrust a hand into the inner pocket of his coat and plucked out a white paper package sealed up with broad red seals.
Desmond held his breath. It was the white paper package, exactly as Barbara had described.
"Look at it well, Behrend," said Mortimer, holding it up for the young man to see, "it cost me a man's life to get that. If it had sent twenty men to their death, I should have had it just the same!"Mrs. Malplaquet clapped her hands, her eyes shining.
"Bravo, bravo!" she exclaimed, "that's the spirit! That's the way to talk, Mortimer!""Cut it out," snarled Behrend, "and let's see the goods!"All had left their seats and were gathered in a group about Mortimer as he began to break the gleaming red wag seals. One by one he burst them, the white paper slipped off and disclosed... a box of cigarettes.
Mortimer stood gazing in stupefaction at the gaudy green and gold lettering of the box. Then, running his thumb-nail swiftly along the edge of the box, he broke the paper wrapping, the box burst open and a shower of cigarettes fell to the ground.
"So that's your Star of Poland, is it?" cried Behrend in a mocking voice.
"Wot 'ave yer done wiv' the sparklers, eh?" demanded Max, catching Mortimer roughly by the arm.
But Mortimer stood, aimlessly shaking the empty box in front of him, as though to convince himself that the gem was not there.
Behrend fell on his knees and raked the pile of cigarettes over and over with his fingers.
"Nothing there!" he shouted angrily, springing to his feet. "It's all bluff! He's bluffing to the end! See, he doesn't even attempt to find his famous jewel! He knows it isn't there!"But Mortimer paid no heed. He was staring straight in front of him, a strangely woe-begone figure with his thatch of untidy hair and round goggle eyes. Then the cigarette box fell to the floor with a crash as Mortimer's hands dropped, with, a hopeless gesture, to his sides.
"Barbara Mackwayte!" he whispered in a low voice, not seeming to realize that he was speaking aloud, "so that's what she wanted with Nur-el-Din!"Desmond was standing at Mortimer's elbow and caught the whisper.
As he heard Mortimer speak Barbara's name, he had a sudden premonition that his own unmasking was imminent, though he understood as little of the purport of the other's remark as of the pile of cigarettes lying on the carpet. As Mortimer turned to look at him, Desmond nerved himself to meet the latter's gaze.
But Mortimer's face wore the look of a desperate man. There was no recognition in his eyes.
Not so with Desmond. Perhaps the bitterness of his disappointment had made Mortimer careless, perhaps the way in which he had pronounced Barbara's name struck a familiar chord in Desmond's memory. The unkempt hair brushed down across the forehead, the thick glasses, the heavy moustache still formed together an impenetrable mask which Desmond's eyes failed to pierce. But now he recalled the voice. As Mortimer looked at him, the truth dawned on Desmond and he knew that the man standing beside him was Maurice Strangwise, his comrade-in-arms in France.
At that very moment a loud crash rang through the room, a cold blast of damp air came rushing in and the lamp on the table flared up wildly, flickered an instant and went out, leaving the room in darkness save for the glow of the fire.
A deep voice cried:
"May I ask what you are all doing in my house?"The secret door of the bookshelves had swung back and there, framed in the gaping void, Desmond saw the dark figure of a man.
