Роберт Чамберс - Who Goes There!

"Yes. Go while you can. Go—go—dear."

"I'll be back in a moment, Karen," he said, coolly took the satchel from the porter, turned with it toward the gang–plank.

The official raised his eyes from the passport he was scanning.

"One moment, sir," he said.

"I'll be back directly," returned Guild, continuing on his way.

"Where are you going, Mr. Guild?"

"To a chemist's."

"Be kind enough to leave that satchel and remain here until I have finished," said the official coldly. And to Karen: "Mrs. Guild, will you kindly open that bag?"

"Certainly. I have the key somewhere"—searching in her reticule. And as she searched she lifted her eyes to Guild. Her face was dead white.

"Dearest," she said in a steady voice, "will you go to the chemist's while I am opening my bag. I must have something for this headache."

Her agonized eyes said: "Save yourself while you can; I am caught!"

But Guild turned and came back to her, close, standing beside her.

"I'll open the luggage," he said quietly. "You had better step ashore and get what you need." And, in a whisper: "Go straight to the American Ambassador and tell him everything."

She whispered: "No; I beg of you go. I beg of you, Kervyn."

He shook his head and they stood there together; he grave and silent, assailed by a terrible premonition; she white as death, mechanically fumbling in her reticule with slim, childish fingers.

The official was deeply immersed in the passports and continued so even when Karen's tremulous fingers held the key. "Give it to me," whispered Guild.

"No—" She beckoned the porter, took the satchel, and at the same moment the official looked up at her, then holding both passports, came over to where they were standing.

"Your papers are in order, Mr. Guild," he said. "Now, Mrs. Guild, if you will open your satchel―"

"I'll attend to that, Holden," broke in a careless voice, and the satchel was taken out of Karen's hands by a short, dark young man in uniform. "I want you to go forward and look at a gentleman for The Hague who has no papers. He's listed as Begley. Do you mind?"

"Right," said Holden. "Here, Mitchell, these papers are satisfactory. Look over Mr. Guild's luggage and come forward when you're finished. What's his name? Begley?"

"Yes, American. I'll be with you in a moment."

Holden hastened forward; Mitchell looked after him for a moment, then calmly handed back the unopened satchel to Karen and while she held it he made a mark on it with a bit of chalk.

"I pass your luggage," he said in a low voice, stooping and marking the suit–case and Guild's sack. "You have nothing to fear at Amsterdam, but there are spies on this steamer. Best go to your cabin and stay there until the boat docks."

The girl bent her little head in silence; the porter resumed the luggage and piloted them aft through an ill–lighted corridor. When he came to the door of their cabin he called a steward, took his tip from Guild, touched his cap and went away.

The steward opened the stateroom door for them, set the luggage on the lounge, asked if there was anything more he could do, was told that there was not, and took himself off.

Guild locked the door after him, turned and looked down at the girl, who had sunk trembling upon the lounge.

"What is there in that satchel?" he asked coldly.

"I don't know."

" What! " he said in a contemptuous voice.

"Kervyn—my friend—I do not know," she stammered.

"You must know! You packed it!"

"Yes. But I do not know. Can't you believe me?"

"How can I? You know what you put into that satchel, don't you?"

"I—put in toilet articles—night clothes—money."

"What else? You put in something else, didn't you? Something that has made you horribly afraid!"

"Yes."

"What is it?"

"Kervyn—I don't know what it is. I must not know. It is a matter of honour."

"If you don't know what it is you carry in that satchel you evidently suspect what it might prove to be."

"Yes."

"You have very strong suspicions?"

"Yes, I have."

"Why did you take such a thing?"

"I promised."

"Whom?"

"I can't tell you. It is a matter of honour. I—I didn't want to involve you if things turned badly. I asked you to leave me…. Even at the last moment I tried to give you a chance to go ashore and escape. Kervyn, I've tried to be honourable and to be loyal to you at the same time. I've tried—I've tried—" Her childish voice faltered, almost broke, and she turned her head sharply away from him.

He dropped onto the lounge beside her, sick with anxiety, and laid his hand over hers where it lay in her lap.

"I'm afraid that you have papers in that satchel which might mean the end of the world for you," he said under his breath. "God alone knows why you carry them if you suspect their contents…. Well, I won't ask you anything more at present…. If your conscience acquits you, I do. I do anyway. You have given me plenty of chances to escape. You have been very plucky, very generous to me, Karen."

"I have tried to be," she said unsteadily. "You have been far too kind to me, Kervyn…. I—I don't mean to tremble so. I think I am, feeling the—the reaction."

"Lie down. I am afraid I'll have to stay here―"

"Yes; don't go out on deck. Don't take any more risks…. I'll lie down if I may." She rose, looked around with eyes still darkly dilated by fear:

"Oh!" she breathed—"if we were only out of British waters!"

He looked at his watch, and at the same moment a deep blast from the steamer vibrated through the cabin.

"They've cast off," he said calmly.

The girl had flung herself on the bed and buried her face in the pillow. Her brown velvet hat had fallen to the floor, her thick brown hair clustered in glossy disorder over neck and cheek. One slim hand clutched convulsively a tiny handkerchief crushed into a ball.

"We have every chance now," he said very gently, bending over the pillow—"barring a wireless to some British guard–ship. Don't give way yet, Karen." He laid a cool, firm hand over hers and tried to speak jestingly. "Wait until there's no danger at all before you go all to pieces," he whispered.

As he bent above her, he became conscious of the warm fragrance of tears. But no sound came, not a quiver. And after a while he went over to the sofa and sat down, staring at the locked satchel on the floor, vaguely aware that the boat was in steady motion.

"Karen," he said after a moment.

"Yes—dear."

"You know," he said, forcing a laugh, "you needn't say it when we're alone—except for practice."

"Yes, dear, I know."

"May I ask you something?"

"Yes, please."

"Did you know that official named Mitchell?"

"Yes."

"Who was he?"

"Mr. Grätz."

The funnel smoke blew low, burying the afterdecks, and a hurricane of scud and spindrift swept everything forward, drenching the plunging steamer to the bridge. Stanchions, davits, hatches were all a–dip, decks a–wash, and the Dutch ensign whipping aloft in a thick grey sky that seemed to speed astern as though in chase of the heaving grey waste of waters that fled away beneath.

Here and there a trawler tossed and rocked; lean, melancholy wanderers on the face of the waters; twice the raking stacks of destroyers, smothered in foam, dashed eastward running full speed on some occult trail twixt sky and sea.

The grey world grew duller, duller; one by one the blinding searchlights on coast–guard ships broke out, sweeping sky and ocean as though in desperate appeal to the God above and in menacing warning to the devils that lurked below.

For they said the North Sea was full of them; legions of them tossed broadcast from the black hell of some human mind. And beneath them, deeper, lying as still as death on the Channel's floor, waited the human submarines in unseen watery depths—motionless, patient, awaiting the moment to strike.