Роберт Чамберс - Who Goes There!

"Yes."

"Do you mind?"

"I mind a little—yes. But I'll do what is necessary," she said, confused.

"I think it is necessary. This man Grätz who seems to know more about my business than I do, tells me so. I believe he is right."

She raised her tragic eyes to his but said nothing.

He leaned nearer to her and spoke in a low voice:

"I've been trying to reason it out," he said, "and I'll tell you what my conclusion is: A German automobile took me to the British lines under a white flag. No doubt Government agents had been informed by telegraph and they followed me as soon as I landed on English soil.

"At the Berkeley Hotel I felt very sure that I was being watched. Now, it appears, that this maid of yours has been arrested, and, from what I suspect in regard to the Edmeston Agency—the agency to which your father directed me—I feel very certain that somehow your maid has been involved in the espionage maintained here by the German Government.

"That chauffeur in front of us is from the Edmeston garage; you see what he did to those two detectives! It's very plain to me now that, innocent as you are, you never will be permitted to leave England, even if they don't arrest you, unless you can get out today with me.

"And if you don't leave England it means for me something very serious. It means that I shall have to keep my word and go back alone."

"I know," she nodded, looking up at him very earnestly.

He said without the slightest dramatic emphasis: "It really does mean my death, Miss Girard. I think, knowing your father, that there could be no possible hope for me if I go back there without you…. And so, knowing that, I am naturally most anxious to clear out of England while I can do so—get away from here with you—if I can take you with a clear conscience. And"—he looked at her, "I feel that I can do that because you have told me that you have gathered no information for the enemies of England. And"—he smiled—"to look into your face, Miss Girard, is to believe you."

Some of the pretty color faded from her cheeks; she said: "You asked me if I were a spy. I am not. You asked me if, knowingly, I carry any military information which might aid the enemies of England. And I answered you that, knowingly, I do not carry any such information."

"That is sufficient," he concluded, smilingly.

"No, it is not sufficient," she said. "I wish to say a little more. Let me go to Trois Fontaines alone. I am accustomed to travel. There is no need to involve you. As long as I arrive there what difference does it make whether or not you accompany me?"

"I promised to accompany you."

"You promised that I should arrive safely at Trois Fontaines. It doesn't matter whether you accompany me. Please—please don't. I had rather you did not go."

He said, gravely: "I know how you must feel about travelling as my wife―"

"It isn't that."

"What is it then?" he asked, surprised.

"I don't wish you to take the risk of travelling with me."

"What risk? The worst that could happen to you would be your arrest and detention. If you are not a spy, you can not be proven one."

Her blue eyes gazed absently out across the sunny landscape through which they were speeding.

"You are not a spy," he replied; "what risk do you run—or I?"

She said, still gazing into the sunlit distance: "What is done to spies—if they are caught?"

"It usually means death, Miss Girard."

"I have—" she swallowed, caught her breath, breathed deeply; then—"I have heard so…. It is possible that I might be suspected and detained…. I had rather you did not attempt to go with me…. Because—I do not wish you to get into any difficulty—on my—account."

"Nothing serious could happen to either you or me through anything that you have done."

"I am not sure."

"I am," he said. And added in a lower voice: "It is very generous of you—very kind."

Her own voice was lower still: "Please don't go with me, Mr. Guild. Let me go to the wharf alone. Let me take my chances alone. If there is any difficulty they will arrest you, too. And if I—were convicted―"

"You could not be. That is utterly impossible. Don't think of such things, Miss Girard."

"I must think of them. Will you tell me something?" She turned and looked at him curiously, almost wistfully.

"I want to ask you something. You—you said to me that if you thought me a spy, you would not help me to escape from England. You said so, didn't you?"

"Yes."

"You mean it, don't you?"

"I am afraid I do."

"Why? You are not English. You are an American. America is neutral. Why are you an enemy to Germany?"

"I can't tell you why," he said.

" Are you an enemy to Germany?"

"Yes—a bitter one."

"And if I were a spy, trying to escape from England—trying to escape—death—you would refuse to help me?"

She had turned entirely toward him on the seat beside him; her child–like hands clasped on the robe over her knees, her child–like face, pale, sweet, wistful, turned to his.

"Would you abandon me?" she asked.

"The situation is impossible―"

"Yes, but tell me."

"I don't care to think of such a―"

"Please answer me. Is your partisanship so bitter that you would wash your hands of me—let me go to my death?—go to your own, too, rather than help me?"

"Miss Girard, you are losing your composure―"

"No; I am perfectly composed. But I should like to know what you would do under such circumstances with a girl nineteen years old who stood in danger of death."

"I can't tell you," he said, perplexed and impatient. "I can't tell now what I might do."

"Would you denounce me?"

"No, of course not."

"Would you feel—sorry?"

"Sorry!" He looked at her; "I should think I would!"

"Sorry enough for me to help me get away?"

"Yes."

"Even if I carried military information to Germany?"

He looked into her eyes searchingly for a moment. "Yes," he said; "I'd do what I could for you to get you out of England."

"Even if I had lied to you?"

"You couldn't lie to anybody."

"But if I could? If I have lied and you found it out, would you still try to help me to get away?"

"You are asking something that―"

"Yes, you can answer it. You can think a while first and then answer. I want you to answer. I want to know what you'd do with me."

"You make it a personal matter?"

"Yes. I don't want to know what you'd do in theory; I wish you to tell me what you, personally, would do with me, Karen Girard, if you believed me to be a spy, and if you came to the conclusion that I had lied to you."

"Why do you ask all this? You are over–wrought, unstrung―"

"I am absolutely mistress of myself. And I wish to know what you would do with me ? Would you let me die?"

"No."

"You'd stand by me still?"

"Yes. There's no use mincing matters. Yes, I would."

"You'd help me to leave England?"

"Yes."

"Why?"

There fell a silence between them, and his face slowly reddened.

"I am not sure why," he said slowly.

"I am. Shall I tell you?"

"Yes, tell me," he said, forcing himself to meet her clear gaze.

"Very well, I'll tell you. It is because we are friends. And that is the real truth. I realize it. From the very beginning it was a friendship, without effort, instantly and mutually understood. Is it not true?"

"Yes."

"And that—the instant liking—was the basis for our confidence in each other. Was it not?"

"It must have been. I trusted you without hesitation."

"And I you…. And I did tell you the truth…. But not all of it."

"What have you left untold?" he asked.

"Enough to—to frighten me—a little. I am beginning to be afraid—just enough afraid to feel troubled—rather deeply troubled about—you."