Chapter 1

D. APPLETON AND COMPANY
NEW YORK LONDON
1919

COPYRIGHT, 1916, BY
ROBERT W. CHAMBERS

1915, 1916, BY THE INTERNATIONAL MAGAZINE COMPANY

TO MY SON
BOBBY

*BOB AT SIXTEEN*

You can tell a better tale than I;
Trap and wing you shoot a better score;
You can cast a surer, lighter fly,
Catch as can, you'd put me on the floor;
Should I hoist a sail beneath the sky
Yours the race, away and back to shore.

You have mastered all my woodland lore,
In the saddle you can give me spades;
You have slain your first and mighty boar
In the classic Croyden Forest shades;
You have heard the Northern rivers roar,
You have seen the Southern Everglades.

You have creeled your Highland yellow trout
Where the Scottish moorlands call us back;
You have left me puzzled and in doubt
Over tropic specimens I lack--
Sphinxes that I know not, huge and stout;
Butterflies, un-named, in blue and black.

Well, we've had a jolly run, my son,
Through a sunny world has lain our trail
Trodden side by side with rod and gun
Under azure skies where white clouds sail;
--Send our journey is not nearly done!
Send the light has not begun to fail.

_Envoi_

Yet, that day you tread the trail alone,
With no slower comrade to escort
On the path of spring with blossoms sown,
You may deem me not so bad a sort,
Smile and think, as one who would condone,
"He was sure a perfectly good sport."

R. W. C.
Broadalbin; 1916.

*DOG-DAYS (1914)*

The mad dog of Europe
Yelped in the dog-days' heat;
To his sick legs he staggered up
Swaying on twitching feet;
Snarled when he saw the offered cup,
And started down the street.

All hell has set his brain aflame;
All Europe shrieks with dread;
All mothers call on Mary's name,
Praying by shrine and bed,
"For Jesus' sake!"--Yet all the same
Each sees her son lie dead.

"On Guard!" the Western bugles blow;
"Boom!" from the Western main;
The Brabant flail has struck its blow;
The mad dog howls with pain
But lurches on, uncertain, slow,
Growling amid his slain.

They beat and kick his dusty hide,
He bleeds from every vein;
On his red trail the Cossacks ride
Across the reeking plain
While gun-shots rip his bloody sides
From Courland to Champagne.

Under the weary moons and suns
With phantom eyes aglow,
Dog-trotting still the spectre runs
Yelping at every blow
'Til through its ribs the flashing guns
And stars begin to show.

The moon shines through its riven wrack;
On the bleached skull the suns
Have baked the crusted blood all black,
But still the spectre runs,
Jogging along its hell-ward track
Lined with the tombs of Huns.

Back to the grave from whence it came
To foul the world with red;
Back to its bed of ancient shame
In the Hunnish tomb it fled
Where God's own name is but a name
And souls that lived lie dead.

*THE GIRL PHILIPPA*

*FOREWORD*

On the twenty-eighth of June, 1914, the Archduke Francis Ferdinand, heir
to the Austrian throne, was murdered by a Serb in Serajevo, the capital
of Bosnia. The murder was the most momentous crime ever committed in
the world, for it altered the geography and the political and social
history of that planet, and changed the entire face of the civilized and
uncivilized globe. Generations unborn were to feel the consequences of
that murder.

Incidentally, it vitally affected the life and career of the girl
Philippa.

Before the press of the United States received the news, Sir Cecil
Spring-Rice, the British Ambassador, had been notified of the tragedy,
and a few minutes later he was in secret conference with the President.

The British Ambassador knew what he wanted, which was more than the
administration knew, and at this hasty and secret conference he bluntly
informed the President that, in his opinion, war before midsummer had
now become inevitable; that there was every probability of England being
drawn into a world-wide conflict; and that, therefore, an immediate
decision was necessary concerning certain pending negotiations.

The truth of this became apparent to the President. The State
Department's ominous information concerning a certain Asiatic Empire,
the amazing knowledge in regard to the secret military and political
activities of Germany in the United States, the crass stupidity of a
Congress which was no better than an uneducated nation deserved, the
intellectual tatterdemalions in whose care certain vitally important
departments had been confided--a momentary vision of what all this might
signify flickered fitfully in the presidential brain.

And, before Sir Cecil left, it was understood that certain secret
negotiations should be immediately resumed and concluded as soon as
possible--among other matters the question of the Harkness shell.

About the middle of July the two governments had arrived at an
understanding concerning the Harkness shell. The basis of this
transaction involved the following principles, proposed and mutually
accepted:

1st. The Government of the United States agreed to disclose to the
British Government, and to no other government, the secret of the
Harkness shell, known to ordnance experts as "the candle shell."

2nd. The British Government agreed to disclose to the United States
Government, and to no other government, the secrets of its new submarine
seaplane, known as "the flying fish," the inventor of which was one
Pillsbury, a Yankee, who had offered it in vain to his own country
before selling it to England.

3rd. Both Governments solemnly engaged not to employ either of these
devices against each other in the event of war.

4th. The British Government further pledged itself to restrain from
violence a certain warlike and Asiatic nation until the Government of
the United States could discover some method of placating that nation.

But other and even more important negotiations, based upon the principle
that the United States should insure its people and its wealth by
maintaining an army and a navy commensurate with its population, its
importance, and its international obligations, fell through owing to
presidential indifference, congressional ignorance, the historic
imbecility of a political party, and the smug vanity of a vast and
half-educated nation, among whose employees were numbered several of the
most perfect demagogues that the purlieus of politics had ever
germinated.

This, then, was the condition of affairs in the United States when, on
the nineteenth of July, the British Ambassador was informed that through
the treachery of certain employees the plans and formula for the
Harkness shell had been abstracted.

But the British Embassy had learned of this catastrophe through certain
occult channels even before it was reported to the United States
Government; and five hours after the information had reached Sir Cecil
Spring-Rice, two young men stepped aboard the Antwerp liner _Zeeduyne_ a
few seconds before the gangway was pulled up.

With the first turn of the steamer's screws the wheel of fate also began
to revolve, spinning out the web of destiny so swiftly that already its
meshes had fallen over an obscure little town thousands of miles
distant, and its net already held a victim so obscure that few except
the French Government had ever heard of the girl Philippa.

The two young men who had come aboard at the last moment were
nice-looking young men. They carried tennis bats, among other frivolous
hand luggage, and it was rumored very quickly on board that they were
two celebrated New Zealand tennis champions on their way to the
international tournament at Ostend.

It was the Captain who first seemed interested in the rumor and who
appeared to know all about the famous New Zealand players, Halkett and
Gray.

And this was odd, because when Halkett and Gray came aboard their names
did not figure on the passenger list, no stateroom had been engaged for
them, and the Captain of the _Zeeduyne_ had never before laid eyes on
either of them.

But he may have heard of them, for that morning the British Embassy had
called him on the telephone, had talked for twenty minutes to him, and
had arranged for him to hold his steamer if necessary. But it had been
necessary for the Captain to hold the _Zeeduyne_ for ten minutes only.

The voyage of the _Zeeduyne_ was calm, agreeable, and superficially
uneventful. There was much dancing aboard. Halkett and Gray danced
well. They had come aboard knowing nobody; in a day or two they seemed
to have met everybody. Which urbanity is not at all characteristic of
Englishmen. New Zealanders, it seemed, were quite different.

The ocean being on its best behavior nearly everybody appeared
triumphantly on deck. There were, however, several passengers who
maintained exclusiveness in their staterooms; and among these were two
German gentlemen who preferred the stateroom they shared in common.
However, they took the air sometimes, and always rather late at night.

Evidently they were commercial gentlemen, for they sent several wireless
messages to Cologne during the voyage, using a code of their own which
seemed to concern perfumes and cosmetics and, in particular, a toilet
soap known as Calypso soap.

In return they received several wireless messages, also apparently in
some commercial code, and all mentioning perfumes and Calypso soap.

And a copy of every code message which they dispatched or received was
sent to the Captain of the _Zeeduyne_, and that affable and
weather-reddened Belgian always handed these copies to the tennis
champions of New Zealand, who spent considerable time poring over them
in the only spot on the steamer which was absolutely safe from
intrusion--the Captain's private quarters.

Then, in their turn, as the steamer drew nearer to the Belgian coast,
they sent a number of wireless messages in private code. Some of these
messages were directed to the British Consul at Maastricht, some to the
British Ambassador at Brussels, some to private individuals in Antwerp.

But these details did not interfere with the young men's social
activities on board, or with their popularity. Wherever Halkett and
Gray walked, they walked surrounded by maidens and pursued by approving
glances of relatives and parents.

But the two German gentlemen who kept their cabin by day and prowled
sometimes by night were like Mr. Kipling's cat; when they walked they
walked by their wild lone. Only the chaste moon was supposed to notice
them. But always either Halkett or Gray was watching them, sometimes
dressed in the jaunty uniform of a deck steward, or in the clothing of a
common sailor, or in the gorgeous raiment of a ship's officer. The two
Germans never noticed them as they walked in the dark by their wild
lone.

And always while one of the young men watched on deck, the other
ransacked the stateroom and luggage of the gentlemen from Germany--but
ransacked in vain.

As the _Zeeduyne_ steamed into the Scheldt, several thousand miles away,
in the city of Washington, the French Ambassador telegraphed in cipher
to his Government that the secret plans and formula for the Harkness
shell, which had been acquired by England from the United States
Government, had been stolen on the eve of delivery to the British
Ambassador; that French secret agents were to inspect the arrival of all
Dutch, Belgian, and German steamers; that all agents in the French
service resident or stationed near the north or northeastern frontier of
France were to watch the arrival of all strangers from Holland or
Belgium, and, if possible, follow and observe any individual who might
be likely to have been involved in such a robbery.

Immediately, from the Military Intelligence Department in Paris orders
were telegraphed and letters sent to thousands of individuals of every
description and station in life, to be on the alert.

Among others who received such letters was a denationalized individual
named Wildresse, who kept a cabaret in the little town of Ausone.

The cabaret was called the Cafe de Biribi. Wildresse insisted that the
name had been his own choice. But it was at the request of the
Government that his cabaret bore the ominous title as an ever-present
reminder to Wildresse that his personal liberty and the liberty of his
worthless son and heir depended on his good behavior and his alacrity in
furnishing the French Government with whatever information it demanded.

The letter sent to Monsieur Wildresse read as follows:

MONSIEUR:

Undescribed individuals carrying important document stolen from the
United States Government may appear in your vicinity.

Observe diligently, but with discretion, the arrival of any strangers at
your cafe. If suspicions warrant, lay a complaint before local police
authorities. Use every caution. The fugitives probably are German, but
may be American. Inform the girl Philippa of what is required. And
remember that Biribi is preferable to Noumea.

When Wildresse received this letter he went into the bedroom of the girl
Philippa, who was standing before her looking glass busily rouging her
cheeks and painting her lips. She wore no corset, her immature figure
requiring none.

"If they come our way, Philippa," growled Wildresse, "play the baby--do
you hear? Eyes wide and artless, virginal candor alternating with
indifference. In other words, be yourself."

"That is not difficult," said the girl Philippa, powdering her nose.
"When I lose my innocence then it will mean real acting."

Wildresse glared at her out of his little black eyes.

"_When_ you lose it, eh?" he repeated. "Well, when you do, I'll break
your neck. Do you understand that?"

The girl continued to powder her nose.

"Who would marry me?" she remarked indifferently. "Also, now it is too
late for me to become a religieuse like--"

"You'll carry on the business!" he growled. "That's what you'll do--with
Jacques, when the Sbirs de Biribi let him loose. As for marrying, you
can think it over when you are thirty. You'll have a dot by that time,
if the damned Government lets me alone. And a woman with a dot need not
worry about marriage."

The girl was now busy with her beautiful chestnut hair; Wildresse's
pock-marked features softened.

"_Allons_," he said in his harsh voice, "lilies grow prettiest on
dunghills. Also, you are like me--serious, not silly. I have no fears.
Besides, you are where I have my eye on you."

"If I am what I am it is because I prefer it, not on account of your
eye," she said listlessly.

"Is that so!" he roared. "All the same, continue to prefer virtue and
good conduct, and I'll continue to use my two eyes, nom de Dieu! And if
any strangers who look like Germans come into the cafe--any strangers at
all, no matter what they look like--keep your eyes on them, do you
hear?"

"I hear," said the girl Philippa.

The web of fate had settled over her at last.

About that time the steamer _Zeeduyne_ was docking at Antwerp.

Two hours later two German gentlemen in a hurry registered at the Hotel
St. Antoine in the Place Verte, and were informed that they were
expected immediately in room 23.

A page conducted them to the corridor and indicated the room; they
thanked him and sent him back for their luggage which he had, it seemed,
neglected to bring from the lobby.

Then both German gentlemen went to the door of room 23, knocked, and
were admitted; and the door was rather violently closed and locked.

The next instant there came a crash, a heavy fall, dull sounds of feet
scuffling behind the locked door, a series of jarring, creaking noises,
then silence.

A chambermaid came into the corridor to listen, but the silence was
profound, and presently she went away.

When the boy came back with the hand luggage and knocked at 23, Halkett
opened the door a little way and, tipping the lad with a five-franc
piece, bade him leave the luggage outside the door for the present.

Later, Gray cautiously opened the door and drew in the luggage.

Ten minutes later both young men came leisurely out of the room, locking
the door on the outside. They each carried hand luggage. Halkett
lighted a cigarette.

At the desk Gray requested that the gentlemen in No. 23 should not be
disturbed that night, as they were lying down and in need of repose.
Which was true.

Then both young men departed in a cab. At the railroad station,
however, an unusually generous stranger offered Gray a motor cycle for
nothing. So he strapped his bag to it, nodded a smiling adieu to
Halkett, and departed.

Halkett bought a ticket to Maastricht, Holland, which he had no idea of
using, and presently came out of the station and walked eastward rather
rapidly. A man who also had bought a ticket for Maastricht rose from
his seat in the waiting room and walked stealthily after him, making a
signal to another man.

This second man immediately stepped into a station telephone booth and
called up room 23 at the Hotel St. Antoine, where two German gentlemen,
badly battered, were now conferring with a third German gentleman who
had paid no attention to instructions from the hotel office but had gone
to room 23, knocked until out of patience, and had then summoned the
_maitre d'hotel_, who unlocked the door with a master-key.

Which operation revealed two Teutons flat on their backs, very carefully
tied up with rope and artistically gagged.

This unbattered gentleman now conversed over the telephone with the man
at the railroad station.

A few moments later he and the two battered ones left the hotel hastily
in a taxicab, joined the man at the railroad station, and drove rapidly
eastward.

And before forty-eight hours had elapsed, each one of these four men
operating in pairs, had attempted to kill the young man named Halkett.
Twice he got away. The third time two of them succeeded in locating him
in the little town of Diekirch, a town which Halkett was becoming more
and more anxious to leave, as he finally began to realize what a
hornet's nest he and his friend Gray had succeeded in stirring up.

And all the while the invisible net of destiny in which he now found
himself entangled was every minute enmeshing in its widening spread new
people whose fate was to be linked with his, and who had never even
heard of him. Among them was the girl Philippa.

*PROLOGUE*

A narrow-gauge railroad track runs through the woods from Diekirch,
connecting the two main lines; and on the deserted wooden platform
beside this track stood Halkett, his suitcase in one hand, the other
hand in his side pocket, awaiting the shuttle train with an impatience
born of deepest anxiety.

The young man's anxiety was presently justified, for, as he sauntered to
and fro, uneasily scanning the track and the unbroken woods around him,
always keeping his right hand in his coat pocket, two men crept out from
behind separate trees in the forest directly behind the platform, and he
turned around only in time to obtain a foreshortened and disquieting
view of the muzzle of a revolver.

"Hands up--" began the man behind the weapon; but as he was in the very
act of saying it, a jet of ammonia entered his mouth through the second
button of Halkett's waistcoat, and he reeled backward off the platform,
his revolver exploding toward the sky, and fell into the grass, jerking
and kicking about like an unhealthy cat in a spasm.

Already Halkett and the other man had clinched; the former raining blows
on the latter's Teutonic countenance, which proceeding so dazed,
diverted, and bewildered him that he could not seem to find the revolver
bulging in his side pocket.

It was an automatic, and Halkett finally got hold of it and hurled it
into the woods.

Then he continued the terrible beating which he was administering.

"Get out!" he said in German to the battered man, still battering him.
"Get out, or I'll kill you!"

He hit him another cracking blow, turned and wrested the other pistol
from the writhing man on the grass, whirled around, and went at the
battered one again.

"I've had enough of this!" he breathed, heavily. "I tell you I'll kill
you if you bother me again! I could do it now--but it's too much like
murder if you're not in uniform!"

The man on the grass had managed to evade suffocation; he got up now and
staggered off toward the woods, and Halkett drove his companion after
him at the point of his own revolver.

"Keep clear of me!" he said. "If you do any more telephoning or
telegraphing it will end in murder. I've had just about enough, and if
any more of your friends continue to push this matter after I enter
France, just as surely as I warn you now, I'll defend my own life by
taking theirs. You can telephone that to them if you want to!"

As he stood on the edge of the wooden platform, revolver lifted, facing
the woods where his two assailants had already disappeared, the toy-like
whistle of an approaching train broke the hot, July stillness.

Before it stopped, he hurled the remaining revolver into the woods
across the track, then, as the train drew up and a guard descended to
open a compartment door for him, he cast a last keen glance at the
forest behind him.

Nothing stirred there, not even a leaf.

But before the train had been under way five minutes a bullet shattered
the glass of the window beside which he had been seated; and he spent
the remainder of the journey flat on his back smoking cigarettes and
wondering whether he was going to win through to the French frontier, to
Paris, to Calais, to London, or whether they'd get him at last and, what
was of infinitely greater importance, a long, thin envelope which he
carried stitched inside his undershirt.

That was really what mattered, not what might become of a stray
Englishman. He knew it; he realized it without any illusion whatever.
It was the contents of this envelope that mattered, not his life.

Yet, so far, he had managed to avoid taking life in defense of his
envelope. In fact, he traveled unarmed. Now, if matters continued
during his journey through France as they had begun and continued while
he was crossing Holland and the Grand Duchy of Luxembourg, he would be
obliged to take life or lose his own.

And yet, if he did kill somebody, that meant arrest and investigation by
the police of France. And such an investigation might be fatal to the
success of his undertaking--quite as fatal, in fact, as though he
himself were killed.

The main thing was to get that envelope and its contents to London.

His instructions were not to mail it, but to take it in person, or to
send it, if necessary, by another messenger through other channels.

One thing became more and more evident to him; the time had now arrived
when certain people unknown to him by sight had decided to kill him as
the only way out of the affair.

Would they actually go so far as to kill him in France, with the chance
of the French police seizing that envelope before they could seize it
and clear out with it to Berlin? Would they hazard the risk of France
obtaining cognizance of a matter which so vitally concerned Germany,
rather than permit that information to reach England?

Halkett lay on his back and smoked and did not know.

But he was slowly coming to the conclusion that one thing was now
imperative: the envelope must not be found upon his person if he were
killed.

But what on earth to do with it until it could be safely transferred to
the proper person he had not the slightest idea.

That evening, as he changed trains at the frontier, in the lamp-lit
dimness of the station platform he was fired at twice, and not hit.

A loud outcry naturally ensued; a stampede of passengers who tried to
escape, a rush of others who desired to see what had happened--much
hubbub and confusion, much shouting in several languages.

But nobody could be found who had fired two shots from a revolver, and
nobody admitted that they had been shot at.

And so, as nobody had been hit, the gendarmes, guards, and railway
officials were in a quandary.

And the train rolled out of the station with Halkett aboard, a prey to
deepest anxiety concerning his long thin envelope.

*CHAPTER I*

Somebody at Warner's elbow spoke to him in French. He turned his head
leisurely: a well-dressed young fellow, evidently an Englishman, was
striving to maintain a place beside him in the noisy, market day crowd.

"Pardon, Monsieur, are you English?"

"American," replied Warner briefly, and without enthusiasm.

"My name is Halkett," said the other, with a quick smile. "I'm English,
and I'm in trouble. Could you spare me a moment?"

To Warner the man did not look the typical British dead-beat, nor had he
any of the earmarks and mannerisms of the Continental beach-comber. Yet
he was, probably, some species or other of that wearisome and itinerant
genus.

"I'm listening," said the young American resignedly. "Continue your
story."

"There's such a row going on here--couldn't we find a quieter place?"

"I can hear you perfectly well, I tell you!"

Halkett said:

"If I try to talk to you here I'll be overheard, and that won't do. I'm
very sorry to inconvenience you, but really I'm in a fix. What a noise
these people are making! Do you mind coming somewhere else?"

"Say what you desire to say here," returned Warner bluntly. "And
perhaps it might save time if you begin with the last chapter; I think I
can guess the rest of the story."

The features of the American expressed boredom to the point of
unfriendly indifference. The Englishman looked at him, perplexed for a
moment, then his sun-bronzed face lighted up with another quick smile.

"You're quite mistaken," he said. "I don't expect the classic
remittance from England, and I don't require the celebrated twenty-franc
loan until it arrives. You take me for that sort, I see, but I'm not.
I don't need money. May I tell you what I do need--rather desperately?"

"Yes, if you choose."

"I need a friend."

"Money is easier to pick up," remarked Warner drily.

"I know that. May I ask my favor of you all the same?"

"Go ahead."

"Thanks, I will. But can't we get out of this crowd? What is going on
in this town anyway?"

"Market day. It's like this once a month in Ausone. Otherwise the town
is as dead as any other French provincial town."

Shoulder to shoulder they threaded their way through the crowded market
square, amid the clatter of sabots, the lowing of cattle, the incessant
bleating of sheep. Ducks quacked from crates in wagons, geese craned
white necks and hissed above the heads of the moving throngs; hogs
squealed and grunted; fowls hanging by their legs from the red fists of
sturdy peasant women squawked and flapped.

Cheap-Jack shows of all sorts encumbered the square and adjacent streets
and alleys--gingerbread booths, shooting ranges, photograph galleries,
moving-picture shows, theaters for ten sous. Through the lowing,
bleating, and cockcrowing, the drumming and squeaking of Punch and Judy,
and the brassy dissonance of half a dozen bands, mournful and incessant
strains from several merry-go-rounds continued audible.

But the steady clatter of sabots on stony pavements, and the ceaseless
undertone of voices, swelling, subsiding, dominated the uproar,
softening the complaint of kine and feathered fowl to a softly cheerful
harmony suggestive of summer breezes and green fields.

On the dusty Boulevard d'Athos--the typical solitary promenade of such
provincial towns--there were, as usual, very few people--the inevitable
nurses here and there, wheeling prams; a discouraged, red-trousered and
sou-less soldier or two sprawling on benches under the chestnut trees;
rarely a passing pedestrian, more often a prowling dog.

At the head of the Boulevard d'Athos, where the rue d'Auros crosses,
Warner halted under the shade of the chestnuts, for the July sun was
very hot. His unconvinced grey eyes now rested inquiringly on the young
Englishman who had called himself Halkett. He said:

"What species of trouble are you in?"

Halkett shook his head.

"I can't tell you what the trouble is; I may only ask you to help me a
bit--" The quick smile characteristic of him glimmered in his eyes
again--a winning smile, hinting of latent recklessness. "I have my
nerve with me, you see--as you Americans have it," he added. "You're
thinking something of that sort, I fancy."

Warner smiled too, rather faintly, but remained silent.

"This is what I want you to do," continued Halkett. "I've a long thin
envelope in my pocket. I'd like to have you take it from me and slip it
into your breast pocket and then button your coat. Is that too much to
ask?"

"_What!_"

"That's all I want you to do. Then if you wouldn't mind giving me your
name and address? And that is really all I ask."

Said the American, amused and surprised:

"That airy request of yours requires a trifle more explanation than you
seem inclined to offer."

"I know it does. I can't offer it. Only--you won't get into trouble if
you keep that envelope buttoned tightly under your coat until I come for
it again."

"But I'm not going to do that!"

"Why?"

"Why the devil should I? I don't propose to wander about France
carrying papers concerning which I know nothing--to oblige a young man
about whom I know even less."

"I quite see that," admitted Halkett seriously. "I shouldn't feel
inclined to do such a thing either."

"Can't you tell me what is the nature of these papers?--Or
something--some explanation----"

"I'm sorry."

"And why do you propose to trust me with them?" continued Warner,
curiously. "How do you know I am honest?