Роберт Чамберс - Who Goes There!

When he saw Guild and Karen coming he called out: "Your luggage is packed! Mrs. Courland and Valentine and their two maids are filling hampers with bed linen and knick–knacks. You've heard what's happened, of course?"

"Yes," said Guild. "I don't think you had better waste any more time packing. Let the ladies get into the car and start. Michaud and I can gather up what's left of their effects and send it after them in the last waggon! Where is Michaud?"

"Talking to Mrs. Courland inside. Here he comes, now!―"

The white–haired forester came out behind Mrs. Courland, caught sight of Guild, and made a slight gesture expressing infinite despair.

"I know," said Guild. "I'll talk it over with you after the household leaves." And to Mrs. Courland, who appeared calm but a trifle dazed: "Miss Girard offers you Quellenheim for the night, and for longer if you desire."

"Please," said Karen, coming forward—"it would be very gracious of you to come. Will you, Mrs. Courland?"

"Thank you, dear—yes—it will be the greatest convenience. I don't know when we should arrive at Luxembourg if we started now." She took one of Karen's hands and turned to Guild: "What a terrible thing our people have done! Michaud came to tell us; Harry started everybody packing up. You will come with us, of course?"

"Perhaps later, thank you." He turned to Valentine who was coming out in hat and coat, followed by a pale–faced maid carrying both arms full of wraps.

"Please don't lose any time," said Guild, selecting wraps for Mrs. Courland and for Karen. "Are your servants ready?"

"Nobody is ready," said Valentine, "but everybody is here or in the hall, I think."

Guild gave his arm to Mrs. Courland and helped that active young matron spring into the touring car. Karen went next. Valentine and two maids followed; Guild slammed the door.

"All right!" he said curtly to the chauffeur, then, hat in hand, he said gaily: "Au revoir! A happy reunion for us all!"

As the car rolled out into the shining path of its own lamps Karen turned and looked back at him. And as long as he could see her she was looking back.

After the car followed two of the forest waggons, one filled with servants, the other loaded with luggage. Darrel came out of the house with the last odds and ends of property belonging to the Courlands and flung it pell–mell into the last waggon.

"Come on," he said briskly to Guild.

"No, go ahead, Harry. I'm stopping to talk with Michaud―"

"Well how are you going to get to Quellenheim?"

"When I'm ready to go I'll get there."

"You're not coming?"

"Not now."

Darrel came over and said, dropping his voice: "After this murdering business it won't do for you to be caught here."

"I don't mean to be caught here. Don't worry—and get a move on!"

"What are you intending to do?"

"I don't know yet. Come, Harry, start that waggon!"

Darrel shrugged his shoulders, mounted the seat beside the driver, and the forest waggon rolled away into the darkness.

Guild was still looking after it, listening to Michaud's report of the sniping affair near Trois Fontaines, when he saw the figure of a man walking back from the direction the waggon had taken. The man walked with a visible limp.

"You idiot!" said Guild sharply as Darrel strolled up, his features blandly defiant.

"Go on with what you were saying to Michaud," insisted Darrel, unruffled by his reception.

"Come, Harry—this is downright damn foolishness. If you've let the waggon go on, you'll have to foot it to Quellenheim. You can't stay here!"

"Why?"

"Because, you infernal butter–in, you'll get mixed up in a particularly nasty mess. And it doesn't concern Yankees, this mess we're in, Michaud and I."

"Oh hell!" said Darrel; "go on and talk, Michaud!"

"Are you going to poke your nose into this?" demanded Guild.

"It's in now."

"See here, Harry! Your sticking by me is gratuitously silly and it annoys me. You don't have to. This isn't any of your business, this mess."

Darrel lighted a cigarette and sat down on the terrace steps. Guild glared at him.

"Will you go to the devil!" he snapped out.

"No, I won't."

Michaud, perplexed, had remained silent.

"If things go wrong they'll make a clean sweep of us all, I tell you," said Guild. "Once more, Harry, will you mind your own business?"

"No," said Darrel, blandly.

Guild turned to Michaud: "What were you saying?"

The forester, controlling his anger and emotion, continued the story of the sniper near Trois Fontaines. Then he outlined the miserable affair of the hill pasture.

"There remains for us now only two courses," he ended. "Either we turn franc–tireur and make our bivouac yonder in the forest, or we gather our people at The Pulpit, lie there tonight, and at daylight strike out for the Dutch frontier."

Guild nodded.

"There is a little hole in the rocks at The Pulpit—scarce large enough to be called a cave. Since the war came upon us, foreseeing necessity, my men have carried arms and provisions to The Pulpit—well hidden, Monsieur. I think, now, that it is a better refuge than this house."

The three men looked up at the house. Michaud made a hopeless gesture: "I suppose they will destroy it, now. God knows. But if Monsieur Paillard be truly dead as we now believe, and his poor body lies rotting under the ruins of Wiltz–la–Vallée, then there is nobody to mourn this house excepting the old forester, Michaud…. And I think he has lived on earth too long."

He went slowly toward the house, entered it. One by one all the lighted windows grew dark. Presently he reappeared drawing the door–key from his pocket. Very deliberately he locked the door from the outside, looked in silence at the darkened house, and, facing it, quietly removed his hat.

The silent salute lasted but a moment; he put on his grey hat with the pheasant's feather sticking up behind, picked up his fowling–piece and hung it over one shoulder, his big, weather–browned hand resting on the sling.

"Eh bien, Messieurs?" he inquired calmly.

"Bring in your men, Michaud," said Guild. "I know where The Pulpit is, but I couldn't find it at night. I'll wait at the carrefour for you." And, to Darrel: "What did you do with my luggage?"

"Sent it to Quellenheim."

" That rücksack, too? "

"Yes."

"Damnation," said Guild very calmly; "it had papers in it which are enough to hang anybody!"

"You'd better go and get it, then."

"I'll have to, that's all."

They walked across the lawn and out along the dark drive in silence. Where the ride crossed at the carrefour they halted. There was a dilapidated shrine there to Our Lady of Lesse. They seated themselves on the stone base.

"Harry," said Guild, "how long do you intend to follow me about in this absurd way?"

"I'd like to see you safe across the Dutch frontier."

"Thanks," said Guild drily.

"Don't mention it. I really can reconcile myself to your having your bally head knocked off in uniform, but this sort of thing seems rather ghastly."

"It is. Won't you go on to Quellenheim to oblige me?"

"I'll wait till tomorrow morning," replied Darrel pleasantly.

Guild was silent. They sat there for an hour or more scarcely exchanging a word. Then somebody whistled, cautiously, very near them, and another carefully modulated whistle answered.

"Who goes there!" came a challenging voice.

"Yslemont!"

"Our men," said Guild, rising.

Michaud came up in the darkness. "The shepherd, Jean Pascal, and Schultz, and the men of Yslemont are out there yet. Nothing I say affects them. They say that they need another Uhlan to bleed. Imbeciles!"

"Won't they obey you?"

"No, by God! The two sheep dogs of Jean are there, grave and wise as two big–eared devils squatting. And the half–crazed lad is teaching them to track Uhlans—making them sniff the bloody schapskas like a hunter who trains pups with a dead hare!"