If Rosemary had been gifted with second sight! She would have seen at the moment when she, in despair, turned to the great Healer for comfort, General Naniescu and his friend, M. de Kervoisin, enjoying their petit déjeuner in one of the palatial rooms of the Imreys' house in Cluj. M. de Kervoisin had arrived the night before. He was the guest of the general, and after a night's rest was enjoying the company of his host, as well as the luxury of these beautiful apartments so thoughtfully placed at the disposal of the military Governor of Transylvania by the Roumanian Government.
M. de Kervoisin was also enjoying the anxieties to which his friend was a prey in his capacity of Governor of this unruly country. There is something in a friend's troubles that is not altogether displeasing to a philosopher. And M. de Kervoisin was a philosopher. He had come over to give advice to his friend, and the rôle of adviser in a difficult situation was one which he knew how to fulfil with infinite discretion and supreme tact. Just now, while sipping a cup of most excellent café-au-lait, he listened with every mark of sympathy to Naniescu's account of the terrible trouble he was having with a certain obstinate lady journalist who would not do what he wanted.
"I have only asked her," he lamented, "for a few articles to be published in the Times which would put us right with the British and American public; but you know what women are. They never see further than their noses. And this one, damn her, is like a mule. So far I have not been able to move her."
He had finished his breakfast, and with a pungent Havana between his fingers, was waving his podgy, hairy hands to emphasise his words.
Kervoisin smiled. "And you want those newspaper articles?" he asked. "Seriously?"
"Seriously," Naniescu assented. "My Government has become suspicious. They are treating me very badly, you know. They began by giving me a free hand. 'No more plottings and counter-plottings in Transylvania,' they said to me when they sent me out here. 'It is your business to see that things work smoothly out there. How you do it is your affair.' Well," the general went on in an aggrieved tone, "you would construe that order into a free hand for me, would you not?"
M. de Kervoisin carefully spread butter on a piece of excellent fresh roll before he answered: "Yes, I think I should."
"Of course," Naniescu retorted; "so would anyone. And I was doing very well, too, until that young fool Imrey managed to send his newspaper articles over to England. And at once my Government got restive. You know those articles were pretty hot!"
"Yes, I know. But I always thought you attached too much importance to them. Mon Dieu! Confiscations, perquisitions, arrests and even executions, they are the inevitable consequences of foreign occupation." And M. de Kervoisin took a little honey with his bread and butter, and poured himself out another cup of coffee. "And you know," he went on with a shrug, "the British and American public are really very indifferent to what goes on out here. Cluj is such a long way from London or New York. For a time the public is interested, a few are indignant, one or two make a fuss and ask questions in their Parliament, but, after all, you are one of the Allies; you must not be too openly criticised. The man who asks uncomfortable questions in Parliament is rebuked: et puis voilà!"
"I know all that," Naniescu rejoined with some impatience, "but unfortunately my Government does not think as you do. Their vanity suffers when they are attacked in English newspapers, and then they vent their spleen on me."
M. de Kervoisin said nothing for a moment or two; then he remarked blandly: "I think I understand the position—now."
"There is a talk of my resignation," the general added curtly.
M. de Kervoisin smiled. "And you don't want to resign?" he asked.
"Of course not. Five thousand sterling a year: it is a fortune in this miserable country; and then there are perquisites."
M. de Kervoisin had finished his breakfast. He pushed his cup and plate on one side, and resting both his elbows on the table, he looked intently at his friend, while a sarcastic smile curled round his thin lips.
"So," he said, "you imagined this little scheme for putting yourself right before your Government—and before the world—by getting the beautiful Uno to write glowing accounts of your marvellous administration of Transylvania, for the benefit of English and American readers? Is that it?"
"Well, wouldn't you?" Naniescu retorted.
"Yes. But you are not succeeding, my friend," M. de Kervoisin added with the suspicion of a sneer. "What?"
"I shall succeed in the end," Naniescu rejoined. "With the help of my friend——" But at this point he was silenced by a peremptory gesture of his friend's hand.
"Sh!" de Kervoisin broke in quickly. "I shouldn't mention his name—not even here."
"Oh, we are safe enough."
"Walls have ears, my friend," the other riposted, "even in this perfectly administered land. And our friend's work would be futile if his identity was suspected. I introduced him to you as Number Ten. Number Ten let him remain."
"I suppose I can trust him," Naniescu mused. "You assured me that I could. But, bah!" he added with a contemptuous shrug. "Can one trust those English?"
"You can trust this one," Kervoisin retorted curtly. "He was the best spy we had during the war."
"During the war—yes! The man might think he was serving the entire Allied cause by serving you. But now! And here! Frankly, I don't understand the man's motive. He is rich, well born, and he is playing a terribly risky game for us, who are nothing to him."
"He is not running terrible risks for you, my friend, don't you worry," de Kervoisin retorted with a mocking smile. "Though he may have reasons which we don't know for hating the Hungarians, he certainly has none for loving you; and you are one of the Allies, and to a large section of the British public his work would not be called very heinous, seeing that it is in your service and directed against ex-enemies. However, let that pass. I attribute to Number Ten a very different motive for his actions than the mere desire of serving you."
"And what is that?"
"Money, for one thing. He is not as rich as you think, and has extravagant tastes. But that is not all. I know the English better than you do, my friend, and I can tell you that Number Ten would just call his work sport; and for sport, adventure—what?—a certain type of Englishman will do anything, dare anything, risk everything. A hundred and fifty years ago they had their Scarlet Pimpernel, who gave the Revolutionary Government of France a deal of trouble at the time. Now they have their Number Ten. The same spirit animates this man that animated the other—one for good, the other, perhaps, for evil. Just the spirit of adventure. A cycle of years has woven a halo of romance round the personality of the Scarlet Pimpernel, and to us Number Ten still appears as sordid, just a miserable paid spy in the service of an alien Government. But believe me that many Englishmen and even women will forgive him when they know him for what he is, because they will put it down to a love of adventure—to sport, which is the only motive the English appreciate."
He took his cigarette-case out of his pocket, carefully selected a cigarette, thrust it between his lips and lighted it. All the while Naniescu had remained thoughtful. "You may be right," he said finally. His was not an analytical mind; he was quite content to accept de Kervoisin's explanation of the mystery that had vaguely puzzled him; and, anyway, he did not care. Whatever motive animated the mysterious spy, the man was very useful, and in the matter of Philip Imrey and Anna Heves and of the obstinate lady journalist he had had one or two brilliant ideas.
De Kervoisin smoked on in silence for awhile, then he said:
"Our friend does not seem to be coming. I hope there has been no hitch."
"There could be no hitch," Naniescu asserted. "But it is a two hours' drive to Kis-Imre and two hours back here. Will you wait a moment?" he went on, and rose to his feet. "I'll see if they've any news downstairs in the office. I told Number Ten to telephone from Kis-Imre when he got there."
Downstairs in the office they had nothing definite to report. No message had come through from Kis-Imre. But even whilst Naniescu was storming and fuming, blaming his subordinates, who obviously were not responsible for the delay, a man wrapped, despite the heat, in a huge stained and worn military coat, and wearing a soiled képi, crossed the courtyard from the direction of the entrance gates towards the principal staircase of the house. Naniescu saw him from the window and ran out into the hall. He met the man just as he was entering the house, and at once greeted him with the greatest effusion.
"Is everything all right?" he asked hurriedly.
"All right," the man answered curtly. "Of course."
"Kervoisin is upstairs," Naniescu went on. "Come and tell us all about it."
He ran upstairs two at a time; the man in the military coat followed more slowly.
"Here is Number Ten," Naniescu announced, as he ushered the man into the room where Kervoisin was patiently waiting and smoking cigarettes. Kervoisin rose at once, a word of welcome on his lips. But at sight of the man he paused and frowned, obviously mystified, until gradually his face cleared and he exclaimed:
"Bon Dieu! I should never have known you."
"I do look a disgusting object, don't I?" the man retorted. He shook hands cordially with Kervoisin; then he threw off his heavy coat and sank, obviously exhausted, into a chair.
"A cup of coffee?" Naniescu suggested.
"Thanks!" the other replied.
He drank the coffee, then took a cigarette from the case which de Kervoisin offered him. He looked a regular vagrant, with face and neck stained both with grease paint and with grime, his hands were soiled with motor grease, and his hair hung lank and matted into his eyes. He had what looked like a two weeks' growth of beard on his chin and upper lip, and his clothes—if indeed what he wore could be called clothes—were a mere bundle of rags.
"Number Ten," de Kervoisin said with conviction, "you are an artist. I have seen our friend here," he went on, turning to Naniescu, "in any number of disguises, but never two alike, and every new one a surprise!"
"You flatter me, sir," Number Ten said with an almost imperceptible sneer.
"But I am afraid you must be very tired," de Kervoisin resumed affably. "I told the general last night that he might just as well have sent one of his subordinates on this errand."
"I like to finish my work myself," Number Ten rejoined curtly.
Whereupon Naniescu threw up his hairy, fat hands and exclaimed in wonderment:
"Ils sont impayables, ces Anglais!"
"Then we may take it," de Kervoisin went on, "that the work is finished?"
"Yes, finished," Number Ten replied. "We spotted the car on the road about five kilomètres from Cluj. The patrol summoned the driver to stop, but the man had obviously had his orders; he swerved sharply to the right and put on speed to try and rush through. So I shot him."
"Ah! these English," Naniescu exclaimed complacently; "they are wonderful!"
But de Kervoisin only expressed the mildest possible surprise by a very slight lifting of his eyebrows.
"Yourself?" was all he said.
"Yes," the other replied. "The patrol was on the other side of the road, but I guessed what would happen, so I had brought my horse to a halt about two hundred metres higher up."
"And," Naniescu asked blandly, "you killed the chauffeur?"
"Of course," the other sneered. "I was not likely to miss him, was I?"
But Naniescu could only smile, and sigh, and murmur: "Oh, those English! Voyez-moi ça!"
"There were two men in the body of the car," Number Ten continued coolly, "they were dead drunk. Philip Imrey and the girl were on the front seats. I gave my horse in charge of the patrol and took the wheel. We were in Cluj outside the gaol soon after two o'clock. I saw the chief superintendent and gave the three men and the girl in his charge."
"Yes! Yes!" Naniescu broke in glibly, and turned to de Kervoisin, "he had all instructions. Everything was ready. I have seen them since. Philip Imrey and Anna Heves are in separate cells, and the two drunken oafs he dispatched by train to Hódmezö. They did not seem to know what had happened, and it was no use detaining them."
"None whatever," Number Ten said dryly. "They were just drunken oafs, as you say. With the miller and his two sons you will have to deal presently—that is, if your second patrol succeeded in capturing the sons. I couldn't be in two places at once, and they may have crossed the frontier. Anyway, that's your affair. Not mine."
"Of course, of course," Naniescu said airily. And de Kervoisin put in rather impatiently:
"What about the car and the dead chauffeur?"
"I drove both out to Kis-Imre," Number Ten replied deliberately. "The best way to let people there know what had happened. The general agreed to it."
"Was that your brilliant idea?"
"Mine!" Number Ten replied curtly.
And suddenly through the paint and the grime a look of almost inhuman cruelty distorted his face: the thin lips drew back tight above the red gums, and the sharp teeth gleamed white like those of a wolf. It was the recollection of a note which Naniescu had scribbled at his dictation, and which he, Number Ten, had thrust into the hand of the dead chauffeur for the perusal of an obstinate woman, that brought that wolf-like look into his face. His eyes almost disappeared beneath the strand of false eyebrows and the thick layers of paint upon the lids, and his hands opened out and were clutched again like the talons of a bird of prey.
For the space of a second or two Number Ten looked hideous. De Kervoisin, who was watching him, was conscious of an uncomfortable shudder: Naniescu fortunately was looking another way, and the whole episode was over in a moment; the next, Number Ten was once more leaning back in his chair, looking weary, grimy and ill-tempered, but there was nothing supernatural about him, except perhaps his amazing change from one personality to another.
"How did you get back here?" Kervoisin asked after a moment's pause.
"I have a car which our friend, the general, has placed at my disposal, with a soldier-driver. I ordered him to follow me to within half a kilomètre of Kis-Imre."
"No one stopped you?"
"No one."
"I suppose you got to Kis-Imre before anyone was astir?"
"I won't say that. The ladies at the château were astir."
"And they saw you?"
"No. I had reached my own car, and was on the point of driving off when I saw them coming through the gates of the château."
"You would not have liked them to have seen you, I imagine," Naniescu put in with a chuckle.
"They wouldn't have known me," Number Ten retorted quietly.
"Heu! heu!" the general rejoined with a shrug. "There are certain eyes that are reported to be very sharp."
"Anyway," Number Ten broke in coolly, "no one saw me except an oaf from the village, so why discuss the point?"
And strangely enough General Naniescu, usually so dictatorial and so arrogant, did not seem to resent the gruffness of this man who was in his pay. On the contrary, he laughed good-humouredly and rested his fat hand with a gesture of almost affection on the shoulder of the spy.
"Ah, ces chers Anglais!" he sighed fatuously, whilst de Kervoisin turned quite politely to Number Ten with the bland question: "And what is your next move, my dear friend?"
"To get those articles out of the fair Uno," Naniescu interposed hurriedly before the other had time to reply. "That point must not be lost sight of."
"I am not likely to lose sight of it," the other riposted dryly, "seeing that I am to get ten thousand pounds sterling for them. I suppose you think they are worth it?" he added, turning with his habitual sneer to Naniescu.
"I think," the general replied slowly, "that with the arrest of Philip Imrey and Anna Heves, which, when it becomes known, will deter other young fools from playing the same game—with that, I say, as a make-weight, I think the articles will be worth the money—to my Government and to me."
"Well," Number Ten rejoined coolly, "I shouldn't have done your dirty work for less."
And Naniescu once more gave a fatuous sigh and murmured:
"Ils sont impayables ces Anglais!" whilst de Kervoisin smiled as a philosopher smiles on follies and stupidities with which he has no concern. Then he asked Number Ten: "And when do you return to civilisation, my friend—to decent clothes and a bath?"
"At once," the other replied, "unless I am wanted for something else."
"No, no, my dear man," the general rejoined, with perfect affability. "I am quite content to leave everything in your hands."
"And when do you want those articles?"
"Shall we say within the week?"
"You shall have them," Number Ten said coolly as he rose from his chair. He nodded to Kervoisin, who responded cordially: "A bientôt, mon ami!" Then he turned to go; but already Naniescu was on his feet.
"I'll escort you," he said hospitably, "in case you meet anyone on the stairs. In your present get-up," he added with his oily, guttural laugh, "it might be awkward."
"Thank you," the other assented coolly, and, gathering up the dirty old military coat, he strode to the door. Naniescu was already there, holding it open for him.
"You will stay and have lunch with M. de Kervoisin and me, I hope," he said.
"I think not, thank you," the other replied.
"Ah! You are going to Hódmezö, perhaps—or to Kis-Imre?"
And Number Ten replied, with his habitual curtness:
"That is my affair."
De Kervoisin, who still sat smoking, chuckled at this. A scene such as this was part of a philosopher's enjoyment. Naniescu threw him a look, and shrugged his shoulders. De Kervoisin could almost hear him reiterating his stock phrase: "Ils sont impayables, ces Anglais!"
After that the two men went out of the room and de Kervoisin remained, sitting and smoking, with a thin smile on his colourless lips—the smile of a philosopher who sees the humour of a situation which to a less keen mind would only appear obscure and topsy-turvy, and after a while he murmured softly to himself:
"They certainly are remarkable, these English!"
Memory had brought back to his mind that cruel, wolf-like look which for one unguarded moment had distorted the features of the spy. There was, then, some motive other than greed or love of sport, that had pushed the Englishman into doing this dirty work. Hatred? Love? Perhaps. Passion? Certainly.
"I wonder now!" mused M. de Kervoisin.
And being a Frenchman as well as a philosopher he was deeply interested in this new problem.