THE 100,000 KIT
It was a clear, crisp morning with a sparkle of frost on jetty and breakwater. The English Channel stretched flashing like a living sheet of glass to the filmy line marking the coast of France, as serene and beautiful in its calm as it is savage and cruel in its anger. It was high tide; but only a gentle murmur came from the little waves that idly beat upon the shore in front of the bungalow.
A girl lay in a deck chair on the verandah, well wrapped up against the eager air. But the fresh breeze would not be denied and, foiled by the nurse's vigilance of its intents against the patient, it revenged itself by blowing havoc among the soft brown curls which peeped out from under the girl's hat.
She turned to the man at her side.
"Look!" she said, and pointed seawards with her finger.
A convoy of vessels was standing out to sea framed in the smoke-blurs of the escorting destroyers. Ugly, weatherbeaten craft were the steamers with trails of smoke blown out in the breeze behind them. They rode the sea's highway with confidence, putting their trust in the unseen power that swept the road clear for them.
"Transports, aren't they?" asked the man.
But he scarcely looked at the transports. He was watching the gleam of the sun on the girl's brown hair and contrasting the deep gray of her eyes with the ever-changing hues of the sea.
"Yes," replied the girl. "It's the third day they've gone across!
By this time next week there'll be ten fresh divisions in France.
How secure they look steaming along! And to think they owe it all to you!"The man laughed and flushed up.
"From the strictly professional standpoint the less said about me the better," he said.
"What nonsense you talk!" cried the girl. "When the Chief was down to see me yesterday, he spoke of nothing but you. 'They beat him, but he won out!' he said, 'they shook him off but he went back and found 'em!' He told me it was a case of grit versus violence--and grit won. In all the time I've known the Chief, I've never heard him talk so much about one man before. Do you know," Barbara went on, looking up at Desmond, "I think you've made the Chief feel a little bit ashamed of himself. And that Imay tell you is a most extraordinary achievement!""Do you think you're strong enough to hear some news?" asked Desmond after a pause.
"Of course," replied the girl. "But I think I can guess it. It's about Strangwise, isn't it?"Desmond nodded.
"He was shot yesterday morning," he replied. "I'm glad they did it in France. I was terrified lest they should want me to go to it.""Why?" asked the girl with a suspicion of indignation in her voice, "he deserved no mercy.""No," replied Desmond slowly, "he was a bad fellow--a Prussian through and through. He murdered your poor father, he shot Rass, he instigated the killing of the maid, Marie, he was prepared to sacrifice his own wife even, to this Prussian God of militarism which takes the very soul out of a man's body and puts it into the hands of his superior officer. And yet, and yet, when one has soldiered with a man, Barbara, and roughed it with him and been shelled and shot at with him, there seems to be a bond of sympathy between you and him for ever after. And he was a brave man, Barbara, cruel and unscrupulous, I admit, but there was no fear in him, and I can't help admiring courage. I seem to think of him as two men--the man I soldiered with and the heartless brute who watched while that beast Bellward..."He broke off as a spasm of pain crossed the girl's face. "I shall remember the one and forget the other," he concluded simply.
"Tell me," said the girl suddenly, "who was Strangwise?""After he was arrested and just before they were going to take him off," Desmond said, "he asked to be allowed to say a word privately to the Chief. We were all sent away and he told the Chief his real name. He thought he was going to be hanged, you see, and while he never shrank from any crime in the fulfilment of his mission, he was terrified of a shameful death. He begged the Chief to see that his real name was not revealed for the disgrace that his execution would bring upon his family.
Curiously Prussian attitude of mind, isn't it?""And what did the Chief say?"
"I don't know; but he was mighty short with him, I expect.""And what was Strangwise's real name?"
"When he told us that Nur-el-Din was his wife, I knew at once who he was. His name is Hans von Schornbeek. He was in the Prussian Foot Guards, was turned out for some reason or other and went to America where, after a pretty rough time, he was taken on by the German secret service organization. He was working for them when he met Nur-el-Din. They were married out there and, realizing the possibilities of using her as a decoy in the secret service, he sent her to Brussels where the Huns were very busy getting ready for war. He treated her abominably; but the girl was fond of him in her way and even when she was in fear of her life from this man she never revealed to me the fact that he was Hans von Schornbeek and her husband."Barbara sat musing for a while, her eyes on the restless sea.
"How strange it is," she said, "to think that they are all dispersed now... and the transports are sailing securely to France. Two were killed at the Mill House, Behrend committed suicide in prison, Bellward died in hospital, Mrs. Malplaquet has disappeared, and now Strangwise has gone. There only remains..."She cast a quick glance at Desmond but he was gazing seaward at the smoke of the transports smudging the horizon.
