CHAPTER XXIX

The great stairway took a wide turn at a sort of landing about halfway down, from where the whole length of the hall could be seen, as well as the rooms opening upon the corridor above. Here Marie paused for a moment, and watched the light as it crossed the hallway.

On the left, the double doors of the great dining-room were slightly ajar, and through these it disappeared, leaving the hall in darkness save for the moonlight that came through the tall windows. Without further thought, she hurried down the stair and after the dark figure. As she reached the dining-room, the light had just disappeared through the green baize swinging-door that led into the butler's pantry, and holding her robe close about her, the girl followed.

The dining-room looked very cold and vast in the pale moonlight, the massive chairs and heavy carved table sending black shadows along the polished floor. From around the edges of the swinging-door came a faint light. Cautiously, she put her hand against the panel and pushed the door open the merest trifle. Through the crack she could see a man at the serving-table which stood against the wall. In the faint light of a candle which he had evidently just lit, she recognized Von Pfaffen.

In what fresh evil was he engaged? What was it he had taken from the General's room? She might be of use after all. Apparently satisfied that he was alone, he slipped a paper out of his pocket, and spreading it on the table began making a tracing.

She could not see what this was. She could only distinguish its blue cover and that it appeared to be some sort of a map.

He worked quickly, and with the ease born of long experience.

Wondering, she watched as he rolled the thin tissue paper copy he had made, in a tiny tube and thrust it into what appeared to be a quill. Then she saw him stoop and pick up a basket from the floor. Opening the wicket, he took out a gray pigeon, which fluttered for a moment in his hands. Carefully, he fastened the quill to its leg, his head bent low over the task.

She must see more. Cautiously her hand pressed the door, but the hinge creaked faintly under her light touch, and at the sound he hastily thrust the pigeon back into the basket, secured the wicket, and blew out the candle. Under cover of the darkness the girl pushed the door wide. This time the hinge made no sound, and after a tense moment, Von Pfaffen cautiously turned on his electric torch. The little stream of light struck full in her face.

"You!" he swore hoarsely.

"What are you doing?" she demanded.

He scowled at her. He had thought her safely out of the way for the night.

"My duty!" he said, between his teeth.

She took a step backward, but the man grasped her by the arm, and drew her into the little room. As the green baize door swung shut after them, with a quick movement, he latched it securely.

"You will be silent," he hissed.

She held away from him defiantly.

"Suppose I were to call the General?"

"He would have me shot!" his voice was coldly indifferent. "But before I died, by God, I'd tell a story that would send you into the streets to-night."

Marie gasped and he clutched her arm tighter.

"If you make a sound," he said, "I shall go to the General now, and tell him what you are."

For a moment, she had a wild thought of running swiftly back the way she had come, of awakening the General, of facing the consequences.

"But if I give the alarm?" she asked, almost under her breath.

He shot a quick look at her, sure of his quarry.

"I'm not afraid of that! You would not dare!" he said, looking at her evilly.

Marie subsided. She could not. He was right.

"Is--is it all so important?" she faltered.

Was the woman mad? Couldn't she be made to understand?

"Important?" His voice was hoarsely eager. "If I get this safely over, it will mean thousands, hundreds of thousands to me, it will mean the Cross, it will mean glory to my country. Why, the Fate of France might depend upon it!"

Marie stared at him, wide-eyed.

"The Fate of France," she echoed. The Fate of France was Gerome's fate, was hers! The Fate of France!

Von Pfaffen held up the long blue envelope.

"This must be returned," he said; "no one must suspect that it has been tampered with." A plan was forming itself in his mind. It was the inspiration of the moment, and his cruel nature gloated over it. He regarded her with a sardonic smile, as he relit the candle. "You have come upon me very opportunely," he said.

She did not hear him, she was staring into vacancy, his phrase, the "Fate of France," echoing over and over in her mind.

Von Pfaffen drew her eyes to his.

"I cannot take this back," he said. "If I were discovered, I could not complete my work here. You must do it," his words cut across her brain clearly, definitely. She shrank away from him, terrified.

"I!" she gasped.

"Yes, you," went on her tormentor, "at once. He sleeps soundly. On a chair by his bed, hangs his coat. You must slip this into the left inside pocket. Do this," there was a deep meaning in his voice, "and we are both safe!"

"My God," she whispered, "I can't do it. I, an alien here, under their roof for the first night! If he waked and found me, what could I say to clear myself? I can't!"

Von Pfaffen's eyes were almost hypnotic as they glittered in the dim light.

"You will take the paper back!" he repeated distinctly.

"I cannot!"

"You must!" his face was very close to hers in the little pool of yellow light.

She wrung her hands. In her fancy, she seemed like the gray pigeon she had seen fluttering in his grasp. She was just as helpless.

"What shall I do? What can I do?" she kept repeating over and over.

Von Pfaffen kept his eyes on hers.

"Do what I say," he answered; "and to-morrow, after you have given me the information that will cap this, I have sworn to you, and I shall keep my word, I go out of your life forever!"

She was groping desperately in her mind for some way out of it, something she could do to save the "Fate of France."

Von Pfaffen turned and went back to the table.

"I'll arrange this again carefully," he said, "no one must suspect."

As he bent over his task, Marie's eyes fell on the wicker basket in the shadow. Through the bars, protruded the edge of the little tube fastened to the bird's leg. She looked at it fascinated, a daring possibility shaping itself in her mind. The Fate of France! She glanced swiftly from the basket to the man silhouetted against the light, her heart beating wildly.

It was the work of an instant to insert her hand in the basket, extract the tracing from the quill and hide it in her bosom.

The next moment, he had finished his work, and was examining it critically before the light.

"There," he said, as he turned to her again, "I think now, even to the eyes of the old fox, it will seem untampered with."

She held out a trembling hand.

"Give it to me," she cried hurriedly. "Give it to me."

"You have grown most anxious suddenly!" Von Pfaffen eyed her suspiciously.

The girl bit her lip. She was in an agony of suspense lest he should discover the absence of the tracing before she could have time to return the original.

"I want to get it over with," she said desperately.

"If you play me false now," his face was terrifying, "I swear that there will be nothing I won't do to make you suffer!"

"Give me the paper," she begged.

Von Pfaffen slipped it into his pocket with a mocking smile. He thought he understood her sudden eagerness.

"It won't do to run any risk. First my copy must be off!"

"But every moment is precious," pleaded Marie, fearful of discovery, "some one may waken."

The man stooped and picked up the basket.

"You are right," he agreed. "Do you know what this paper is? It is the exact location of their batteries. Our aviators have searched and searched, but they have masked them so damn well, we couldn't find them. But I've got it!" In his triumph, his voice rose and his eyes sparkled wildly.

Would he never have done? She felt that her nerves would snap under the strain.

"Oh, hurry, hurry," she breathed.

Von Pfaffen went to the door and opened it softly. She followed close at his heels as he went noiselessly out through the long dining-room and across the hall. Carefully he opened the great door, and, seizing her hand, led her out onto the terrace. Then he opened the little wicket and lifted the cage above his head.

For a moment they waited. There was a faint rustle. The bird had sensed its freedom. It stood poised a moment at the opened cage door, then with a swift whirr, it was out, soaring upward and away through the moonlight.

Von Pfaffen, his square shoulders straight, his lean face lifted to watch the flight, raised his hand in a military salute.

"Take my greetings to the Fatherland," he cried softly, and Marie, her hands pressed tightly against her bosom, where the paper lay hidden, breathed a prayer for France.

When the bird had disappeared, he turned and led her back into the hall, softly closing the door after them.

"Now your work," he said as he handed her the blue envelope, "here is the paper. Remember to put it in the left inside pocket, and for God's sake, be careful!"

She took it eagerly and started toward the stair.

Von Pfaffen handed her the little torch.

"Take this," he said, and with the light held in her hand, she went up the broad stair.

He stood below watching her until she disappeared into the General's room. After what seemed an age to the man below, she came out again noiselessly and closed the door after her. Her bare feet made no sound on the thick carpet. Breathlessly, she leaned against the railing. Up through the darkness, came Von Pfaffen's hoarse whisper.

"All right?"

Her answer floated down to him, "yes!"

With a muttered exclamation, he turned and left the hall. Quiet settled down once more over the house.

Marie crept softly into her own room, and lit one of the tall candles. Then she locked and barred the door and stood motionless, listening, before the great walnut dresser. She fumbled in the bosom of her robe and brought out the little tracing. Her lips were dry, her eyes dilated, her cheeks scorching. Dimly in the mirror she could see herself outlined partly by the faint moonlight, partly by the flickering candle.

With a strangled sob, she held the paper to the flame. It coiled quickly into a tiny black ribbon and lay a pinch of ashes in her hand, then she blew out the candle and crept into the great bed under the shadow of the heavy blue curtain.